This life my sins with wretchedness make rife, Physicians by their art prolong this life. Is this to live long time? I hear one sigh; This is but fearing a long time to die. Thy leaves, Physician blest, medicines contain E'en for our medicines poor, our chiefest bane. This is to escape death well--in death to lie; And this is to live long--quickly to die. R. WI. XL. _Tollat crucem suam, &c._ Matt. xxvii. 32. Ergo tuam pone; ut nobis sit sumere nostram: Si nostram vis nos sumere, pone tuam. Illa, illa, ingenti quae te trabe duplicat, illa Vel nostra est, nostras vel tulit illa cruces. _He bears His own cross, &c._ Wherefore Thy cross, O Lord, lay down, That we our own may make it: If ours Thou willest us to own, Thine, Lord, lay down; we'll take it: That, that, I say, with its huge beam, Which Thy prest body doubles; That cross, e'en that, our own we deem, For it has borne our troubles. Our sin Thy burden sendeth; Thy cross our crosses blendeth. G. XLI. _In cygneam D. Jesu cantionem._ Joan. xvii. Quae mella, ô quot, Christe, favos in carmina fundis! Dulcis et, ah furias! ah, moribundus olor! Parce tamen, minus hae si sunt mea gaudia voces: Voce quidem dulci, sed moriente canis. _Upon our Lord's last comfortable discourse with His disciples._ All Hybla's honey, all that sweetnesse can, Flowes in Thy song, O faire, O dying Swan! Yet is the joy I take in't small or none; It is too sweet to be a long-liv'd one. CR. ANOTHER VERSION. _On the swan-song of our Lord Jesus._ What songs, like honeycomb, your tongue employ, Sweet Swan! but ah, Thou waitest for Death's call. O cease; these sounds are but a doubtful joy; 'Tis a sweet voice, but has a dying fall. G. XLII. _Et conspuebant illum._ Marc. xiv. 65. Quid non tam foede saevi maris audeat ira? Conspuit ecce oculos, sydera nostra, tuos. Forsan et hic aliquis sputo te excaecat, Jesu, Qui debet sputo, quod videt ipse, tuo. _And they spat upon Him._ What will Wrath's sea, so foully fierce, not dare? It spits upon our stars, Thy eyes so fair. Perchance e'en here some one now spits on Thee Who to Thy spittle owes it, he doth see. G. XLIII. _Rogavit eum, ut descenderet et sanaret filium suum._ Joan. iv. 47. Ille ut eat tecum, in natique tuique salutem? Qui petis; ah nescis, credo, quod ales Amor. Ille ut eat tecum? quam se tua vota morantur! Ille ut eat? tanto serius esset ibi. Ne tardus veniat, Christus tecum ire recusat: Christi nempe ipsum hoc ire moratur iter. Christi nempe viis perit hoc quodcunque meatur: Christi nempe viis vel properare mora est. Hic est, cui tu vota facis tua, Christus: at idem, Crede mihi, dabit haec qui rata, Christus ibi est.