(untitled)

COme forth, come forth, ye blest triumphing Bands,
Faire Citizens of that immortall Town,
Come see that King which all this All commands,
Now (overcharg'd with Love) die for his own;
Look on those Nailes which pierce his Feet and Hands,
What a sharpe Diadem his Brows doth crown?
Behold his pallid Face, his heavy frown,
And what a throng of Thieves him mocking stands,
Come forth ye Empyrean Troupes, come forth,
Preserve this sacred Bloud that Earth adornes,
Gather those liquid Roses off his Thornes,
O! to be lost they be of too much worth:
For Streams1, Juice2, Balm3 they are, which quench1, kills2, charmes3
Of God1, Death2, Hell3, the wrath1, the life2, the harmes3.