Poem by Henry Constable

To God the Father

Greate God: within whose symple essence, wee
nothyng but that, which ys thy self can fynde:
when on thyself thou dydd'st reflect thy mynde,
thy thought was God, which tooke the forme of thee:

And when this God thus borne, thou lov'st, & hee
lov'd thee agayne, with passion of lyke kynde,
(as lovers syghes, which meete, become one wynde,)
both breath'd one spryght of aequall deitye.

Aeternall father, whence theis twoe do come
and wil'st the tytle of my father have,
and heavenly knowledge in my mynde engrave,

That yt thy sonnes true Image may become;
and sence my hart, with syghes of holy Love,
that yt the temple of the Spright may prove.

1. Of the Nativity of the Lady Rich's Daughter
2. To the Marquess of Piscat's Soul
3. H.C. to the Gentleman Reader
4. To the Blessed Sacrament
5. My Lady’s Presence Makes the Roses Red

Katherine Mansfield To God the Father ("To the little, pitiful God I make my prayer")

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