Keach and poetics (pt. 2)

Hofgarten, Munich

1. His Beauty is so much desirable,
No souls that see it any ways are able
For to withstand the influ’nce of the same;
They’re so enamour’d with it, they proclaim
There’s none like him in Earth, nor Heav’n above;
It draws their hearts, and makes them fall in love
Immediately, so that they cannot stay
From following him one minute of a day.
The flock is left, the Herd, and fishing Net,
As soon as e’er the Soul its Eye doth set
Upon his face, or of it takes a view,
They’ll cleave to him, whatever doth insue.

(The Glorious Lover, II.iii.37-48)

In the sections following his "prologue" to beauty, Keach outlines eight ways his revision of the epic/romance genre baptizes literary art. The beauty of Christ does not simply transcend earthly beauty; it transforms it into something like itself.

The first in the list is the desirability of Christ's beauty. Keach seems to be especially interested in connecting this trait with a broader theology of effectual calling that recurs throughout the poem. Divine calling of a sinner to salvation, in this light, is so attractive that the subject finds it irresistible. Keach goes out of his way to subtly underline the sinner's ability to even apprehend or conceive of such beauty; the credit does not lie in our capacity to recognize divine desirability, but rather in its "influence" that - though we try to "withstand" it - must necessarily overpower us. It's very reminiscent of the final talking point of Luther's Heidelberg Disputation: 

"The love of God does not find, but creates, that which is pleasing to it. The love of man comes into being through that which is pleasing to it."

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Additionally, from a literary standpoint, it's interesting to see how Keach features sight as a motif in this section. One way he develops this theme is by exploring a sense of double blindness. The pre-conversion sinner is totally blind to the spiritual reality surrounding him: she cannot recognize or even see the beauty of Christ, much less appreciate it or take hold of it for herself. She is utterly disabled. However, the post-conversion Christian also experiences a type of blindness, but this time, it is toward the things of the world. This, combined with lines 40-41, suggest an allusion to Psalm 73:

Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (vv. 25-26)

Just a glimpse of Christ is enough for the Christian to leave behind all secular concerns and gaze on Him - a gaze so strong that Keach considers it a kind of "cleaving." This focus on Christ effectively blinds the Christian to the doubts and material threats that accompany a relationship with God, because the Christian's eyes are "enamoured" with the greater spiritual reality now visible to her.

Keach's use of the word "enamour" here is interesting, given the Renaissance literary background The Glorious Lover emerges from in England. Spenser, Sidney, and Shakespeare often connect the experience of being in love with sickness and sorcery (the connection between the latter two would be familiar to readers because of the Greek term, "pharmakeia"). When Titania recovers from her love potion in A Midsummer Night's Dream, she exclaims:

My Oberon, what visions have I seen!
Methought I was enamored of an ass. (IV.i.77-78)

To be "enamoured" was an inherently visual experience, as Shakespeare's Titania conceives of her love as a type of vision. Similarly, in his old Arcadia, Sidney utilizes the term in conjunction with the devious acts of Cupid (who is known for his arrows that, when striking someone, cause the victim to fall in love with the first person they see):

But whom to send for their search she knew not, when Cupid (I think for some greater mischief) offered this Plangus unto her, who from the day of her first imprisonment was so extremely enamoured of her that he had sought all means how to deliver her. (54)

Thus, to be enamoured is to be enchanted. Though he dispenses with the sinister undertones of the term present in mainstream literature, Keach remains very interested in its magical connotations. The Calvinism undergirding Keach's theology underscores the supernatural nature of conversion, and the notes of magic in his language reinforce both the spirituality as well as powerful intervention in natural affairs that is taking place.

Keach is not the first devotional poet to be drawn to the spiritual sight/blindness motif. There's a parallel moment in The Temple, in which Herbert frames conversion in language of sight and restoration:

 Our eies shall see thee, which before saw dust;
       Dust blown by wit, till that they both were blinde:
       Thou shalt recover all thy goods in kinde,
Who wert disseized by usurping lust:

       All knees shall bow to thee; all wits shall rise,
       And praise him who did make and mend our eies. ("Love II")

It isn't surprising that Keach is drawn to the sight motif in order to carry his point, given his extensive work on Scriptural metaphors and the prevalence of the trope in biblical literature. In Tropologia, Keach's introduction to the segment of metaphors pertaining to the word of God includes a lengthy discussion of light and sight. He writes:

As light is Glorious because it is the most Excellent Rayes, Resplendency and Shinings forth of the Sun; so is the Gospel, because 'tis the glorious shining forth and resplendency of Jesus Christ the Sun of Righteousness.

The light of the Gospel - contained in the words of Scripture - awakens faith in the sinner, enabling her eyes to see the glory and beauty of Christ.

-----

The overall tone of this passage is one of the spiritual transcending, intervening in, or overriding the carnal. The supernatural nature of the Gospel miraculously restores spiritual sight to blind eyes while simultaneously blinding them to the distractions of the world. Conceptions of beauty and ugliness become fluid in the accompanying reversal of values. This primacy of the spiritual echoes Keach's apology for his work, in which he condemns worldly versions of the romance genre and reinvents these forms for his spiritual task:

How many do their precious time abuse
On cursed products of a wanton Muse;
On trifling Fables, and Romances vain,
The poisoned froth of some infected Brain? (43-46)

Here’s no such danger, but all pure and chast;
A Love most fit by Saints to be embrac’d:
A Love ‘bove that of Women... (51-53)

Spiritually-enlightened poetry, which demonstrates the desirability of Christ by highlighting His beauty, redeems the romance genre from its corrupt uses in the secular realm. Enlightenment is a key theme in Keach's poetry, something he reinforces by baptizing the very genre itself.

[Part One]

The beauty of impassibility

James Dolezal:

God need not experience changes of relation in order to meaningfully relate Himself to His creatures. He need only ordain a change in the revelation of His unchanging being in accordance with His wisdom and the needs and requirements or the creature in time. In this way, it is not God who changes but rather the manifestations of God, which are perfectly suited to the needs and circumstances of His creatures - whether according to wrath or according to mercy - at any given moment of their lives. It seems audacious to conclude that this unique manner of God's care for His creatures is somehow impersonal and lacking vibrancy. Why must God be personal and related to others in the same way as finite persons are? Why must He undergo change in order for His love or opposition to sin to be regarded as genuine? Indeed, it would seem that the One who is unchanging, simple, and purely actual in all that He is - which is exactly what classical theism claims about God - is the One who is most profoundly vibrant and powerful in relating Himself to others. Such a God may appear strange and unlike us in many significant respects. Nevertheless, one thing is clear: classical theism is not in need of a replacement model, as all other models must fall short of the true confession of God's infinite fullness of being - the confession that all that is in God is God. 

(All That Is in God, pp. 136-137)

Sacramental history

 

"We must be consumed either by the anger of the storm god or by the love of the living God. There is no way around life and its sufferings. Our only choice is will we be consumed by the fire of our own heedless fears and passions or allow God to refine us in his fire and to shape us into a fitting instrument for his revelation, as he did Moses. We need not fear God as we fear all other suffering, which burns and maims and kills. For God's fire, though it will perfect us, will not destroy, for 'the bush was not consumed.' 

This insight into God is the unearthly illumination that will light up all the greatest works of subsequent Western literature. From the psalms of David and the prophecies of Isaiah to the visions of Dante and the dreams of Dostoevsky, the bush will burn but will not be consumed. As Allen Ginsberg will one day write, 'The only poetic tradition is the voice calling out of the burning bush.'"

Thomas Cahill, The Gifts of the Jews, 164.

I've been drawn to this quote for several years now. It brings to mind recurring themes of fortitude and hope that I never seem to stray very far from in my reading. Cahill's statements are reminiscent of Peter Leithart’s notion of “deep comedy,” which, in a literary context, is analogous to Shakespeare's genre of the tragicomedy. Although I’ve previously written on the reassuring nature of a “literary” reading of history, I hadn’t thought till now of this as also being an eminently sacramental practice as well (You can probably blame my recent medievalist joyride for this one).

A sacramentalist conception  of history is one with a high view of providence.

A high, sacramental view of providence offers an alternative perspective to the conventional idea of history as a series of events carried out by us. We do not create history - it is something we receive. This is not to mitigate our role as agents in the plan of God’s providence. We receive, but we are not passive. When engaging in baptism or the Lord’s supper, we are active participants - there isn’t a supernatural tsunami of water that envelops us, nor are we force-fed the elements. However, even though we truly partake in the sacraments, the focus is not on our actions as such, but on what God does for us through them. It’s the same in history. To view it primarily as a transcript of human actions can only lead to despair; it is an endless, steadily-escalating spiral of self-destruction. However, if we consider it a record of God’s gracious intervention in this cycle, drawing our attention by types and shadows to a promised restoration, it is great cause for hope.

Not only does a sacramental view of history consider providence as something we receive, it is also an emphatic belief that we will be helped by what we experience in life. If the sacraments are not meant to be seen as things we do, they must be something more than mere memorials; rather, they are the means of grace by which God strengthens our faith. To see history sacramentally, we stand confident that God will use these events both for his glory and our benefit. It’s easy for me to assent to this claim when I can see the direct connection between what I’m going through and a positive trajectory in my spiritual life; when I’m encouraged by fellowship with other Christians or witness new converts join the church, I have no problem believing that I will benefit from what I see. It’s much more difficult to trust this when providence pushes me to rely on God’s promises. The times when God seems to be working against his revealed will, when a hopeful explanation for what is happening to me is impossible to recognize, when people go through apparently senseless suffering - these are the moments that force us to live in faith. We must look back in history, not only to times when good this came out of evil, but also to God’s promises that, though there might never be a satisfying explanation in this life, all will be made well in the one to come. It is both forward and backward thinking.

I find that in my life, viewing history sacramentally means that I must be stubbornly submissive to God’s will. Trusting him doesn’t always make sense, and it often feels more terrifying than comforting in the moment. It requires me to go against all of my fallen instincts. Sometimes the only thing keeping me going is stubbornness (which itself is a divine intervention in my life). But it is the only way we can view history as a deep comedy, as an experience in which God sacramentally draws us closer to himself. Suffering is an inevitability in a fallen world, and as Cahill writes, we can either entrust ourselves to God’s hand or else plunge ourselves deeper into destruction. Grace may be painful, but that is not a fault on the part of God; it is ours for distorting it in our perception. Gracious fire perfects rather than destroys.

In which I take shots at my own kind

There's a rather ubiquitous piece of advice from Luther that amounts to this: if you want to be a good Christian cobbler, don't make mediocre shoes with crosses on them; make good shoes. This might be the best way to explain my dislike for the growing number of movements trying to get women into theology. I know this sounds like I've lost my mind, but hear me out.

In theory, the idea is great. There's still a disheartening lack of interest in knowing God in the female demographics of the church. Nobody would ever admit it when phrased this way; instead, it's the dismissive comments about how men split hairs over doctrine or the need to make bible/book studies "fun." We're still plagued by the myth that there is no real benefit to such abstract study. So yes, there's still a long way to go.

What I find to be deeply problematic is the difficult time these movements have in getting around to discussing actual theology.

There's one popular site that brands itself as a hard-hitting community of doctrinally-minded women responding to issues in the culture at large. Lots of aggressive socio-political commentary, but I have yet to find a post dedicated to any theological topic. I find this particularly destructive, not only because of the way it promotes a belligerent brand of Christianity, but also in the way it turns the purported study of divinity into something very human-focused. It's culture wars masquerading as theology.

Another, related, mistake I often see is the conflation of theology proper and Christian living. Aspiring to be a virtuous student/employee/wife/mother is commendable, but that discussion is not theology. We apply our theology to such situations, yes, but the actions that follow are the result of what we believe about God; they are not the beliefs themselves.

Finally, these movements have a tendency to create a very gendered version of theology. Very often, books marketed for women suffer from poor doctrine and a domestic model of femininity. But, beyond these issues - why do we need to write theology books for women? Why can't we read Owen and Turretin along with the men? Why can't a woman's book be marketed as simply another theological book, and not something distinctively feminine? I refer to the Luther analogy at the beginning of the post. If you strive for excellence as a woman theologian, don't write some sloppy theology and slap a floral cover on it; produce something that lives up to the standards of both our confessional heritage and academia.

Devotional confessionalism

In the midst of some research the other day, I went through chapter two of the 1689, and I was struck by how much of an impact it makes when you consider how these attributes of God are being continually manifested in Himself and worked daily in our lives. It's convicting to realize how much I would benefit in my spiritual life if I were to seriously meditate upon this reality more often. God is not just an academic theory I study; He is the living Unmoved Mover of the universe who loves me and sent His Son to die for me, personally. Just that thought alone ought to make me more patient under trial and more gratefully obedient.

1. The Lord our God is but one only living and true God; whose subsistence is in and of himself, infinite in being and perfection; whose essence cannot be comprehended by any but himself; a most pure spirit, invisible, without body, parts, or passions, who only hath immortality, dwelling in the light which no man can approach unto; who is immutable, immense, eternal, incomprehensible, almighty, every way infinite, most holy, most wise, most free, most absolute; working all things according to the counsel of his own immutable and most righteous will for his own glory; most loving, gracious, merciful, long-suffering, abundant in goodness and truth, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin; the rewarder of them that diligently seek him, and withal most just and terrible in his judgments, hating all sin, and who will by no means clear the guilty.
(1 Corinthians 8:4, 6; Deuteronomy 6:4; Jeremiah 10:10; Isaiah 48:12; Exodus 3:14; John 4:24; 1 Timothy 1:17; Deuteronomy 4:15, 16; Malachi 3:6; 1 Kings 8:27; Jeremiah 23:23; Psalms 90:2; Genesis 17:1; Isaiah 6:3; Psalms 115:3; Isaiah 46:10; Proverbs 16:4; Romans 11:36; Exodus 34:6, 7; Hebrews 11:6; Nehemiah 9:32, 33; Psalms 5:5, 6; Exodus 34:7; Nahum 1:2, 3)

2. God, having all life, glory, goodness, blessedness, in and of himself, is alone in and unto himself all-sufficient, not standing in need of any creature which he hath made, nor deriving any glory from them, but only manifesting his own glory in, by, unto, and upon them; he is the alone fountain of all being, of whom, through whom, and to whom are all things, and he hath most sovereign dominion over all creatures, to do by them, for them, or upon them, whatsoever himself pleaseth; in his sight all things are open and manifest, his knowledge is infinite, infallible, and independent upon the creature, so as nothing is to him contingent or uncertain; he is most holy in all his counsels, in all his works, and in all his commands; to him is due from angels and men, whatsoever worship, service, or obedience, as creatures they owe unto the Creator, and whatever he is further pleased to require of them.
(John 5:26; Psalms 148:13; Psalms 119:68; Job 22:2, 3; Romans 11:34-36; Daniel 4:25, 34, 35; Hebrews 4:13; Ezekiel 11:5; Acts 15:18; Psalms 145:17; Revelation 5:12-14)

3. In this divine and infinite Being there are three subsistences, the Father, the Word or Son, and Holy Spirit, of one substance, power, and eternity, each having the whole divine essence, yet the essence undivided: the Father is of none, neither begotten nor proceeding; the Son is eternally begotten of the Father; the Holy Spirit proceeding from the Father and the Son; all infinite, without beginning, therefore but one God, who is not to be divided in nature and being, but distinguished by several peculiar relative properties and personal relations; which doctrine of the Trinity is the foundation of all our communion with God, and comfortable dependence on him.
(1 John 5:7; Matthew 28:19; 2 Corinthians 13:14; Exodus 3:14; John 14:11; 1 Corinthians 8:6; John 1:14,18; John 15:26; Galatians 4:6)

Glory and holiness

This left me with much to think over after reading it. Particularly the last sentence.

Beginning with glory as an inner attribute of God's nature - fully knowable only to God himself - Leigh then describes God's external manifestation of his glory in all of his works: God not only makes his glory to shine in the heavens but also enables us to magnify him in our obedience and worship in this life. The story culminates in God bringing his people, perfected in body and soul, to enjoy the glory of the new creation with him. For Leigh and his Reformed Orthodox colleagues, all glory belongs to God alone, but this is no abstract statement about a self-centered deity or a slogan motivating a moral program. Soli Deo gloria draws us into a biblical story of creation, providence, redemption, and consummation. God's desire to glorify himself sweeps us up to him in a plot whose unending finale lands us in the New Jerusalem where God is supremely glorified in our sanctification.

(David VanDrunen, God's Glory Alone, p. 31)

Law in the Garden

Really loved the chain of reasoning here.

As to the righteousness of this state, consider, that as uncreated righteousness, the righteousness of God is the supreme rule; so all created righteousness, whether of men or angels, has respect to a law as its rule, and is a conformity thereto. A creature can no more be morally independent of God in its actions and powers, than it can be naturally independent of Him. A creature, as a creature, must acknowledge the Creator's will as its supreme law; for as it cannot exist without Him, so it must be but for Him, and according to His will; yet no law obliges, until it is revealed. And hence it follows, that there was a law which man, as a rational creature, was subjected to in his creation; and that this law was revealed to him.  

(Thomas Boston, Human Nature in its Fourfold State, pp. 39-40)

Calvin on godliness

The Institutes are worth their weight in gold.

For, first of all, the pious mind does not devise for itself any kind of God, but looks alone to the one true God; nor does it feign for him any character it pleases, but is contented to have him in the character in which he manifests himself always guarding, with the utmost diligences against transgressing his will, and wandering, with daring presumptions from the right path. He by whom God is thus known perceiving how he governs all things, confides in him as his guardian and protector, and casts himself entirely upon his faithfulness,—perceiving him to be the source of every blessing, if he is in any strait or feels any want, he instantly recurs to his protection and trusts to his aid,—persuaded that he is good and merciful, he reclines upon him with sure confidence, and doubts not that, in the divine clemency, a remedy will be provided for his every time of need,—acknowledging him as his Father and his Lord he considers himself bound to have respect to his authority in all things, to reverence his majesty, aim at the advancement of his glory, and obey his commands,—regarding him as a just judge, armed with severity to punish crimes, he keeps the Judgment-seat always in his view. Standing in awe of it, he curbs himself, and fears to provoke his anger. Nevertheless, he is not so terrified by an apprehension of Judgment as to wish he could withdraw himself, even if the means of escape lay before him; nay, he embraces him not less as the avenger of wickedness than as the rewarder of the righteous; because he perceives that it equally appertains to his glory to store up punishment for the one, and eternal life for the other. Besides, it is not the mere fear of punishment that restrains him from sin. Loving and revering God as his father, honouring and obeying him as his master, although there were no hell, he would revolt at the very idea of offending him. (I.ii.2) 

Why Keach is better than Milton

[Enjoying how scandalized I am by my own title]

I've had a roller-coaster relationship with Paradise Lost, going from intimidation to love to uneasiness (if you want to talk about the "living" quality of the Great Books, there you go). With Spenser done, my Renaissance class is going through Milton, and this fourth encounter with the poem has confirmed the wariness of my last experience by highlighting all the theological shenanigans taking place. I have two factors to thank for this: the astute insight of my professor and the inevitable comparisons that arise in my ongoing work with Keach's counterpart, The Glorious Lover.

What has struck me most forcefully in recent days is the parallelism between the two poems' depiction of the Divine Council (PL III and GL I.1) between the Father and the Son concerning the salvation of humanity. Both poets choose to depict the members of the Godhead as actual characters, which I find to be a daring move. This is perhaps less so with Milton, who is known for being...adventurous...in his theology, maintaining several pet heterodoxies (Arianism and Arminianism, to name a few); Keach, however, was a card-carrying Calvinist, and one of the tenets of Reformed theology in the seventeenth century was its rejection of (usually visual) representations of God, on the grounds of the second commandment. For context, when Keach's contemporary, Bunyan, desires a divine presence in his work, he restricts himself to personifying functions of God, i.e. the Interpreter, who represents the illuminating work of the Holy Spirit in the soul of man. So for Keach to follow Milton by including God Himself in the pages of his fictional - albeit allegorically didactic - poem is without any precedent that I am aware of in such theologically-conservative circles.

However, this is where the similarities between the two poems come to an end. I'll admit, the first time I read Paradise Lost, I fell in love with the passage where the Son volunteers to redeem mankind; Milton is clearly showcasing his skill for conjuring pathos from his readers. Despite the moment's artistic heights, a close reading of the scene presents several issues. [This would probably be better if I included the two texts side-by-side, but as I have neither the technical skills nor the space for such a thing, any curious reader will have to find them for him/herself.]

• Pervasive within Milton's text is a rejection of the doctrine of Predestination, which, while it comes as no surprise, raises a great number of questions concerning the logic of Milton's depiction of God (as demonstrated by the general angst of my classmates this morning): How does His simple foreknowledge of the events to come "absolve" Him from claims that He violates the will of mankind or the inevitability of the Fall? Milton falls into the trap of equating untouched human will with legitimate freedom.
• His explanation for God's motive for showing mercy to mankind is bizarre. The fallen angels will remain in their doomed state because they knowingly brought this on themselves. Man, however, because he was deceived by Satan, remains eligible for grace from God. Milton undermines both mankind's responsibility for the Fall and also the orthodox understanding of mercy as something utterly undeserved.
• Perhaps the most glaring departure from the biblical framework, Milton's council includes the entire angelic population of Heaven; they too are given the opportunity to redeem mankind, but none of them are willing to take the challenge (thus the famous "all the heavenly choir stood mute,/And silence was in heaven" ll. 217-218). Angels were never qualified to be mediators between God and man; redemption could only be accomplished by a representative of both parties. Furthermore, this open-ended offer turns the plan of redemption into a reactionary decision on God's part: Satan has caused a problem that God now has to fix.

So much for Milton. This is getting long, and other homework awaits, so Keach will have to wait another day.

Devotion and theology

Iain Murray on Martyn Lloyd-Jones' ministry during the Blitz:

"In these, and other sermons, his call to Christians was to think aright about God. That must come first. Not even prayer is to be put before it: 'We talk far too much about our faith, and about our prayers. If we only concentrated upon the power of God.' His concern was that his hearers should not simply derive comfort from passages of Scripture but that they should think theologically. This point is constantly to the fore. In his sermons on 'Paul's Order of the Day' he demonstrates that Christian resolution is a very different thing from what the world calls 'courage,' it arises rather from knowing 'the faith'. Speaking from the words, 'Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong' (1 Cor. 16:13), he said:

We must stand in this faith by reminding ourselves of it constantly, by reading and bunking about it, by meditating concerning it. This is something for which I would plead at the present time. We must return to a consideration of the terms of the faith. This is specifically necessary, perhaps, for those who are Evangelicals. I plead, in other words, for a revival of the study of theology...It is not enough to cultivate the devotional life.  

It is essential to 'stand fast in the faith' when we are assailed by doubt. And it is essential as against feelings. If we trust to our feelings, and to our moods, the time will come when we shall be feeling miserable. We shall wake up in the morning feeling tired and lethargic, and the question will come to us, Why go on with it? I do not feel like going on with it. There is only one answer when you feel like that. It is the faith, the truth - it is our only means of happiness. It is essential also as against the facts of life. There come 'the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune', illness comes, disappointment comes, difficult circumstances arise, a world war takes place, our profession is lost, our business is gone, sorrow knocks at the door of your home, and someone dearer than life is taken away, death comes, either in battle, or on the sea, or in the air, or quietly in a room. How can I face the facts of life? There is but one way. 'Stand fast in the faith.' It has envisioned all these things. It has provided for them all; it covers them all. It is faith for life. It is faith for death. It is the faith for all eternity. 'Stand fast in the faith'."

 (D.M. Lloyd-Jones: The Fight of Faith, 30)

The Great Exchange

From an artistic standpoint, this passage has a tough crowd following all the Spenser quotes I've been leaving here recently. But the sentiment struck me, and it's been a while since Keach had airtime, so there you go. His Glorious Lover is a fascinating poem, and very much a product of his century (romance/epic hybrid allegorizing theological - and occasionally political - concerns). It follows the Reformed tradition of reading the Song of Solomon/Psalm 45 as types of Christ and the Church. So although it's a little clunky, I've enjoyed reading it.

But here, ‘tis like, some may desire to know

The Cause why he abas’d himself so low?

The Answer to which Query’s very plain;

His Errand so requir’d, if he'd obtain

The Soul, for whom his Country he did leave,

He of his Glory must himself bereave.

‘Twas Love that brought him into this disguise,

To come incognito to haughty Eyes,

To lay aside awhile, his Robes of State,

And thus in Pilgrims Weeds upon her wait:

Without this Form assum’d, these Rags put on,

The mighty Work could never have been done.

She grov’ling lay below, unable quite

Once to aspire unto his Glorious Sight.

Therefore must he a Garb suitable take

To raise her up, and his dear Consort make;

He must descend, that she might mount above,

And joyn in a fit Entercourse of Love.

(The Glorious Lover I.ii.136-153)