The soules heavenly exercise set downe in diuerse godly meditations, both prose and verse, by Nicholas Breton gent

Emmanuell.

COme liue with mee, and be my loue, My loue, my life, my King my God, And let mee now thy mercy prooue, That long haue felt thy heauie rodde.

Thy heauie rodde, ah woe is me, A rodde of rushes, tis no more, Who highly for offending thee, Might haue beene shutte from mercies dore.

But thou art hee, whose glorious eye Beholdes the sorrow, not the sinne Of him who doth for mercie cry

While teares of faith doe fauour winne.

Thou dost not wish a sinners death. To liue, and loue is thy delight: While in the blessing of thy breath, Is euer day, and neuer night.

Oh thou more faire then fairenesse is, More sweete, then

sweetenesse can be thought, More kinde then louers, when they kisse, That with thy death, thy loue hast bought.

Oh truth of trueth, and yet more true, Then time can try, or tongue can tell, Whose grace and glorie still renewe In heauenly praise, in spight of hell.

Oh power of powers, aboue all power, Oh constant faith for euer fast: Oh onely sweete without all sower, Oh endlesse ioyes that eue••last.

In thee my loue, and but in thee, Doe euer spring, that euer were, And at thine only pleasure, bee

To bee disposed euery where.

Oh, thou that werte, before what was, In essence of all excellence, And in thy wisdome dost surpasse The reach of knowledge quintessence▪

Who all of nothing didst create, But by thy worde,

and to thy will: And so didst order euery state, As shewes thy high supernall skill:

Who, hauing all thinges set in frame, Didst shewe what loue to man thou hadst, To giue him power each thing to name, And make him Lord of all thou mad'st.

And more then that, to shewe thy loue, Thou mad'st him like vnto thy selfe: Till Iack an Apes of hell did prooue To make a Monkie breede an elf.

Oh God, had that sweete grace of thine, In Adam, neuer beene abused, Our nature then, in him diuine,

The diuels apple had refused.

But ease begat such idlenesse, And idle ease such wantonnesse, And wantonnesse such wickednesse, As wrought in him our wretchednesse.

Hee did forget thy goodnesse first, Wee follow him,

and fly from thee: Hee for his folly was accurst, And so (in iustice) Lord are wee. But hee with shame beheld his sinne, And flewe to mercie for reliefe: Whose woefull state all wee are in, That to thy mercie shewe our griefe.

Hee stucke vnto

rocke of strength, That after labour gaue him ease: And wee in loue doe hope at length That sorrowes teares will wrath appease.

Oh God, thou knowest that only knowest What knowledge is, and what to knowe, And by thy mercie onely showest, What only pleaseth

the to showe,

That as of dust, wee came at furst, Vnto the dust we shall againe: The belly of the world shall burst, When sinne, and sorrow shall be slaine.

A time will be when that all time Shall see his longest thread will breake:

When gratious loue, in praises prime, Shall only of thy glory speake:

When graues shall ope and bodies rise, And hell shall shake, and fiendes shall roare, And soules ascende vnto the skies, To sing thy glory euermore.

And oh, that that

sweete time were come, That Saints and Aungels might accord, While earth and hell are striken dumbe, To sing thine onely glory, Lord.

For here, alas, While here wee liue, Or rather die by hurt of sinne, The pleasures that The world doth giue, Doe but the way

to hell beginne:

Where, by abundance growes excesse, And so forgetfulnesse of grace, Or else by want, so great distresse, As brings the soule in desperate case.

Which, while the heart tormented stands, In helpelesse cares calamitie,

Helde all too harde in sorrowes hands, Doth long to be at libertie:

That by the blessing of thy grace, Deliuered from this earthly hell, It may beholde thy blessed face: Where all contentments euer dwell.

For truely loue

in only thee, Doth liue all comfort, ioy and blisse, And where thou art not, what can bee, But shewes what shame and sorrowe is?

And since in thee, doth only liue The ground of the eternall good, And thou alone canst only giue The faithfull soule

her heauenly foode:

Vouchsafe me leaue to thee to cry, Oh let my teares thy mercie moue, Who for thy loue, would gladly die: Come liue with mee, and be my loue.

But I am vile, and foule, and blacke, Vnworthy obiect for thine eyes,

Yea worthy to be beaten backe, Euen from the blessing of the skies.

But thou canst make mee white as snowe, By one pure droppe of thy deare sonne: And being purified so, Thou wilt forget what I haue done.

Had I a heauen

to entertaine Thy holy presence, it were thine: But thou a king, and I a swaine, Take pittie on this loue of mine.

Thy greatnesse was in goodnesse such, As did the poorest loue embrace: And is not thy worde true in tutch,

That humble loue gets heauenly grace▪

Wherefore on knees of humble heart, Let mee thy gratious mercie moue, Put all my sinfull shame apart, And liue with mee and be my loue.

For thou art wise, though I am fond, And thou canst make

mee wise in thee, And thou art free, though I am bond, And thou alone canst make me free.

Thou art all good, and I so ill, I know not how to come to thee: But worke mee wholly to thy will, Then be my loue, and liue with mee▪