Line 2. 1646 and 1670 read

'Yee simpering ...'

So the SANCROFT MS.

Line 3, ib. 'fertile' for 'fruitfull.'

Line 4, ib. 'What hath our world that can entice.' So the SANCROFT MS.

Lines 5 and 6, ib.

'what is't can borrow You from her eyes, swolne wombes of sorrow.'

So the SANCROFT MS.

St. x.x.xi. line 2. 1646 and 1670 read

'O whither? for the _s.l.u.ttish_ Earth:'

and I accept 's.l.u.ttish' for 'sordid,' which is also confirmed by SANCROFT MS.

Line 4, ib. 'your' for 'their;' and as this is also the reading of 1648 and SANCROFT MS., I have accepted it.

Line 5. 1646 and 1670 omit 'Sweet.'

Line 6, ib. read 'yee' for 'you.'

St. x.x.xii. and x.x.xiii. In 1646 and 1670 these two stanzas are thrown into one, viz. 23 (there), which consists of the first four lines of x.x.xii. and the two closing lines of x.x.xiii. as follows,

'No such thing; we goe to meet A worthier object, our Lords feet.'

In the SANCROFT MS. also, and reads as last line 'A worthy object, our Lord Jesus feet.' On the closing lines of st. x.x.xii. cf. Sospetto d'Herode, st. xlviii.

I have not thought it needful, either in these Notes or hereafter, to record the somewhat arbitrary variations of mere orthography in the different editions, as 'haile' for 'hail,' 'syluer' for 'silver,' 'hee'

for 'he,' and the like. But I trust it will be found that no different wording has escaped record. G.

SANCTA MARIA DOLORVM, OR THE MOTHER OF SORROWS

_A patheticall Descant vpon the deuout Plainsong of Stabat Mater Dolorosa._[23]

I.

In shade of Death's sad tree Stood dolefull shee.

Ah she! now by none other Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother.

Before her eyes, 5 Her's, and the whole World's ioyes, Hanging all torn she sees; and in His woes And paines, her pangs and throes: Each wound of His, from euery part, All, more at home in her one heart. 10

II.

What kind of marble, than, Is that cold man Who can look on and see, Nor keep such n.o.ble sorrowes company?

Sure eu'en from you 15 (My flints) some drops are due, To see so many unkind swords contest So fast for one soft brest: While with a faithfull, mutuall floud, Her eyes bleed teares, His wounds weep blood. 20

III.

O costly intercourse Of deaths, and worse-- Diuided loues. While Son and mother Discourse alternate wounds to one another, Quick deaths that grow 25 And gather, as they come and goe: His nailes write swords in her, which soon her heart Payes back, with more then their own smart.

Her swords, still growing with His pain, Turn speares, and straight come home again. 30

IV.

She sees her Son, her G.o.d, Bow with a load Of borrow'd sins; and swimme In woes that were not made for Him.

Ah! hard command 35 Of loue! Here must she stand, Charg'd to look on, and with a stedfast ey See her life dy: Leauing her only so much breath As serues to keep aliue her death. 40

V.

O mother turtle-doue!

Soft sourse of loue!

That these dry lidds might borrow Somthing from thy full seas of sorrow!

O in that brest 45 Of thine (the n.o.blest nest Both of Loue's fires and flouds) might I recline This hard, cold heart of mine!

The chill lump would relent, and proue Soft subject for the seige of Loue. 50

VI.

O teach those wounds to bleed In me; me, so to read This book of loues, thus writ In lines of death, my life may coppy it With loyall cares. 55 O let me, here, claim shares!

Yeild somthing in thy sad praerogatiue (Great queen of greifes), and giue Me, too, my teares; who, though all stone, Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone. 60

VII.

Yea, let my life and me Fix here with thee, And at the humble foot Of this fair tree, take our eternall root.

That so we may 65 At least be in Loue's way; And in these chast warres, while the wing'd wounds flee So fast 'twixt Him and thee, My brest may catch the kisse of some kind dart, Though as at second hand, from either heart. 70

VIII.

O you, your own best darts, Dear, dolefull hearts!

Hail! and strike home, and make me see That wounded bosomes their own weapons be.

Come wounds! come darts! 75 Nail'd hands! and peirced hearts!

Come your whole selues, Sorrow's great Son and mother!

Nor grudge a yonger brother Of greifes his portion, who (had all their due) One single wound should not haue left for you. 80