The Penitent Sonnes Teares, for His Murdered Mother

He that has taught ten thousand tongues to speake
That horrid sinne, that his sad heart doth breake,
Now scarce can speake himselfe; for Woe denyes
A begging Voyce, and giues me begging Eyes.
Me thinkes the Shaddow of this reall thing
That wretched Mee into this World did bring,
Stands poynting now, (my guilty Soule to shake)
To th' bloudy wound, this bloudy hand did make,
That wound's a Mouth; her dead dry bloud, a Tongue,
That sayes, 'mongst all, the most-forsaken throng,
That haue their liues branded with bloud and shame,
J stand the formost; haue the foulest name.
Mee thinkes, I heare her tell mee, those pale Hands
Haue gently lapt mee in my swathing bands;
Haue dandled mee; and, when I learn'd to goe,
Haue propt mee, weake, till I too-strong did grow.
Me thinkes I see Her poynt vpon her brest,
And tell me, there, I haue bin vs'd to feast;
Thence oft haue fetcht my liuing; from her bloud,
By Heau'n conuerted to my wholesome food.
And last, me thinkes, Shee poynts vpon that place,
Where all my parts had their due forme and grace,
With these sad words; Behold th' vnhappy wombe,
Which I could wish, Heauen once had made thy Tombe.
A heauy wish; yet such a wish indeed,
As I my selfe now, (with a Heart doth bleed)
Could sadly breathe; 'cause that vntimely birth
Brought not a Man, but Monster to the Earth.
From that deepe Dungeon, where, in bands I lye,
And from a depth, more deepe, I call and cry:
The depth of anguish; which thy sight most pure;
Can onely looke on; and thy mercies, cure.
O cure my soule; 'tis that great worke, I know,
For which (so High) thou didst descend so low:
Then, great Phisician, Helpe mee; Heale my wound;
Great Shepheard, Seeke mee; Let my Soule be found.
That heauenly inuitation, made to those,
Whose many sinnes load them with many woes,
Is made to mee: For onely sinne doth griue mee,
And not my death; Then (blessed Lord) relieue mee.
Lord, let my teares be, to my leprous sinne
As Iordan was, to Naamans leprous skinne;
And wash it cleane: But, ô! so great a good
Ne'r came by Water, 'tis a worke of Bloud.
A worke of Bloud: the bloud of that pure Lambe,
That to purge sinne, and saue poore sinners came;
That precious Bloud: O Lord, that Bloud of thine,
Apply to mee, to purge this bloud of mine.
So, as of GOD I begge, I begge of Men,
Their zealous prayers t'assist mee: And agen,
To quit that Goodnesse, this Reward I'le giue,
I'le pray, my Death may teach all them to Liue.

Come, tender Mothers, see a Mothers feares;
Sinnes Palsie, shake mee; and my Floud of teares:
Come heare my sighs, and penitentiall prayers;
Deaths shade's my Mansion; my Companion, Cares.
O! how much worse than any sauage Beare,
She-Wolfe, or Tygresse, must I now appeare?
Since they, their young, with such respect doe cherish;
And mine, by Mee, doth thus vntimely perish.
For, wretched J, (when fruitlesse cares tooke place;
And cloudy passion, hid the light of gr ce)
More fell than these are, my poore Childe forgot,
And child-bed pangs, (the Mothers painefull lot)
Forgot thou wert my Flesh; Forgot how oft
I kist thee; blest thee; and, to slumbers soft,
Within these armes haue lull'd thee: And againe,
How oft my pitties haue bemon'd thy paine.
Forgot how oft vpon my tender brest
Thou hast bin fed; how often taine thy rest;
Forgot a Mothers nine yeeres cares and cost;
All which, with thee, are in thy murder, lost.
All these forgot. When wee our GOD forget,
Then Satan comes, and in our Eye doth set
His poysoned baites; which, 'cause I not withstood,
Mine Eye drops Water; But, my Heart drops Blood.
For Death (alas) I care not: Could I summe
As many liues, as I haue houres to come;
I'de spend them all; And, with a smiling Face,
Meet all those Deaths, to giue thy sweet life, place.
But wishes (deare CLEMENTIA) are but vaine;
I drown'd thee (little Angell;) And againe
Should drowne thy Body, (wer't before my feares,)
In this New Riuer, of mine owne warme Teares.
These Teares, that euer from mine Eyes shall flow;
This lauish Floud of penitentiall woe;
This Wine of Angels, so the Fathers call
Those drops Repentance lets so freely fall.
With Paul, with Peter Dauid; and that sonne,
The maze of Ryot, and hot lust did runne;
And with the Woman, washt her Sauiours feet,
Let my poore Soule that balme of mercy meet.
Thou' cam'st not (Lord) the iust and pure to call,
But impure sinners; Nor do'st ioy their fall,
But their conuersion: And, when Grace doth bring
One soule to thee, all the blest Angels sing.
I know, 'tis late (O Lord) yet know thy power;
Know that's as much, in mans departing houre,
As in a rathe beginning; for my griefe
Has learnt the Lesson of that penitent Thiefe.
Like his, let mine, thy Mercies-Seat ascend,
And purchase there, 'gainst this sad life shall end:
That life, to death, shall neuer more giue way;
So, while I weepe, helpe my poore Soule to pray.