Religion, the only happiness a poem : in a letter to a friend.

Religion, the only happiness a poem : in a letter to a friend.

Table of contents

Title page

The PREFACE.

ADVERTISEMENT.

RELIGION THE Only Happineſs. In a Letter to a Friend.

Books Printed for, and Sold by Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1694.

RELIGION THE Only Happineſs.
In a Letter to a Friend.

[Page]

ENough my Friend, of Love and all its Cares,

Falſe wandring hopes, and true perplexing fears.

I'le leave the Barren Soil, and try to gain

A happier Iſle, far diſtant in the main:

[Page] In which alone, though Storms around it beat,

My wearied Soul can find a ſafe retreat.

She's quite fatigu'd by her rough treatment here,

And by your help a fairer courſe wou'd ſteer.

Religion now be her ambitious Aim,

A worthy Object of her growing Flame,

And which alone deſerves the Love, I paid

To a miſtaken Goddeſs I my ſelf had made.

Tell me, by what ſtrange pow'r I was deceiv'd?

How the falſe Story was by me believ'd?

That Happyneſs cou'd flow from Earthly Love,

And thoſe weak Flames not kindled from above.

Which when they ſhou'd beyond the Clouds aſpire,

And in our Souls produce a Sacred Fire,

Grow flat and languid with a meaner Joy,

In Childiſh Trifles Noble Souls employ,

Which ne'r can Satisfie, and often Cloy.

[Page] Yet this I'le grant, no Crimes our Paſſions are,

While bounded in our Souls by a due Care;

And 'tis, at leaſt a part of Happyneſs,

When bounteous Heav'n our juſt deſires doth bleſs.

But when th' Impetuous Torrent, bears away

Our Anxious Souls into the Stormy Sea,

And no fair Banks can tempt us to the Coaſt,

But that one point from whence our Bark is toſt;

If, whilſt juſt Heav'ns but one requeſt deny,

We croſly ſlight what ever elſe w' enjoy:

Then ſure 'tis Sin, and we're ingrateful Fools,

Baſe to our God, and falſe to our own Souls.

Religion ſhews a happier path (if we

Not vainly ſlight our own Felicity)

Than all the falſe Delights of Sin produce,

Thoſe treach'rous pleaſures which ſo oft abuſe

Our eaſie Sences, and thus ſteal their way

Thro' thoſe falſe Guards which our weak Souls betray.

[Page] They never dare attack the Nobler part

With open Force, but ſlily gain the Heart.

For ſoon before our unbrib'd Reaſon, all

Their baffled Arguments with eaſe wou'd fall.

Reaſon wou'd teach us, 'tis not Happineſs,

To have a ſhort-liv'd and uncertain Bliſs:

A Joy ſo mean, without Variety

It wont ſo much as bare Diverſion be.

And oh how ſhort are all the Joys of Vice,

For which we pay ſuch a Prodigious Price?

Our Souls Eternal Torments muſt endure,

For thoſe falſe Pleaſures which our Sins procure.

In a few hours the Gay Deluſion's fled,

By which poor Man is to Deſtruction led.

Had we the brittle Thread of Deſtiny

In our own hands, and cou'd prolong our Day,

To reach the Space which our Fore-Fathers knew,

Ere Luxury, and thence Diſeaſes, grew:

[Page] Nay cou'd we ſpin it out to make it ſtretch

To the laſt Limits Time it ſelf ſhall reach:

Come to its end it there muſt ceaſe to be,

Quite ſwallowed up in an Eternity.

And what proportion has one grain of Sand,

To the unnumber'd Myriads on the Strand?

Times longeſt Date will not ſo much appear,

If with Eternity you it compare.

For Finites ne'r ſo much increas't, will be

But Finites ſtill, and not Eternity.

But how far ſhort of this muſt we deſcend,

If we to th' common rate of Life attend?

Yet there has no Millennian State been tri'd,

'Tis rare one does a Century abide.

How few, to what we call Old Age, arrive?

How ſmall a part of ſcanty time They live?

Ask one, whoſe Crutches keep him from the Grave,

If yet enough of Toilſome Life he have?

[Page] If he'd reſign th' Expiring Snuff unforc'd?

Conſent his parting Soul ſhou'd be Divorc'd?

Not yet, he cries, he hopes a while to live,

That he may now his Miſpent Time retrieve.

He has not done his Work, and feign wou'd ſtay;

In all his Pray'rs he adds another Day.

That Life is ſhort which none can ſatisfie;

And none (we find) are willing yet to die.

(For that Poor Wretch who haſts Untimely Death,

And who unaskt throws back his hated Breath:

'Tis not that length of Life's a Burthen Grown;

Some mean Deſpair does urge him to be gone.

He falſly ſay's he's weary of his Life,

He'l not quit that, if you'l remove his Grief.)

And hence, my Friend, the Sinner muſt deduce

Not a ſmall part, unfit for his abuſe.

Childhood and Age he muſt of force reſign,

In one he knows not, t'other cannot ſin.

[Page]

Childhood a Thouſand ſoft Amuſements has,

Diverting Pleaſures, Recreating Plays.

With harmleſs Converſe they their time beguile,

Their Art's a moving Tear, and pleaſing Smile;

With theſe Endearments they their wiſhes gain;

Whoſe Art is Innocence, need never ſin.

Soft are their Souls, and fitted to receive

Any Impreſſions their Wiſe Tutors give.

Here they're prepar'd for Vertue or for Vice,

Which Rules can firſt their tender Souls poſſeſs.

But till their Judgments with their Years are grown,

And Good from Evil be diſtinctly known,

They ſcarce are Subjects of a Law, which they

Not know, or knowing, hardly cou'd obey.

Old Men have different Reaſons to prevent

Their ſinning on, or ſinning, their Content.

Diſeaſe, and Pains, in various Shapes attend,

Cough rack's the Lungs, a Palſie ſhakes the Hand.

[Page] Salt Watry Rheums do from their Eyes diſtill,

And trickling down their Cheeks, the Furrows fill.

Coldneſs contracts the Organs of the Ear,

No longer they delightful Muſick hear.

Their Smell and Taſt are loſt, their Feeling gone,

And that they live, by their Complaints is known.

The Stone and Cholick on their Years attend,

Memento's of their near approaching End.

Yet theſe (prepoſterous Crime!) when Pleaſing Vice

Forſakes them, hug their Nauſeous Avarice,

And make their Bags the Idol of their Age,

Worſhip their Gold, and ſo go off the Stage.

Thus Youth and Manhood only, can enjoy

Thoſe Fatal Pleaſures which their Souls deſtroy.

Youth the Gay Spring of Pleaſure and of Wit,

The Sences lay their Tribute at her Feet.

Th' Officious Mind too, ſeeks out other Charms,

In Converſation, and in Arts, and Arms.

[Page] But in our looſer times, my friend, we ſee,

Though Honour calls, yet from the Field they fly.

And all their Study, and their boaſted Arts,

Are to betray unpractis'd Virgins Hearts.

Their Converſation's no leſs vicious grown;

Female and Scandal are its chief Renown.

Pleaſure alone they make their Deity,

Their Rules are Epicures Philoſophy,

And their dear Study is Variety.

In Wine's and Women's Orbs by turns they move,

They firſt are Drunk, and then they practice Love.

Wine the kind Comfort of our Grief and Cares,

Allays our Sorrow, and diſpells our Fears,

And moderately us'd, it fills our Veins

With gen'rous Blood, and works to Manly Strams.

But when abus'd, and taken to exceſs,

It urges to the height of wickedneſs.

[Page] Our Reaſon's loſt, and we are hurried on

To the laſt limits of Temptation.

Women, 'tis true, at firſt were formed fair,

Gentle, and good (almoſt) as Angels are;

And no mean part of that compleated bliſs,

We mutually enjoy'd in Paradice.

But ſoon alas! ſhe to deſtroy began,

Now ev'ry Woman is an Eve to Man.

With gaudy Pleaſures they our Paths do ſtrow,

And ſcatter tempting charms where e're we go.

And we too freely yeild our ſelves to Vice,

When charming Woman the ſly Tempter is.

But oh! how ſhort, and fleeting are the joys,

In which vain Youth his time and ſtrength employs.

How few the years; if on the whole we look!

How great a part muſt from theſe few be took!

Tis no ſmall part that Nature's ſelf requires;

Unleſs ſhe's ſerv'd our Pleaſure quickly tires.

[Page] And what's deſign'd to give us happineſs,

Too long enjoy'd affords us nothing leſs.

The glutted ſenſe is pall'd, and we deſpiſe,

What now we ſought with ſo much eagerneſs.

Our Palats Vitiated, we refuſe

The Wine, which we ſo lately did abuſe.

And loath the Woman was but now enjoy'd,

The ſenſe is ſated, th' appetite is cloyd:

And we, at leaſt muſt for a time abſtain,

If only to return to ſin again.

Theſe intervals allow'd, tho' we ſin on,

Till to a riper age and ſence we're grown.

Yet then, quite ſated with joys of ſenſe,

A new degree of ſinning we commence.

Pride and Ambition now our Souls do ſway,

And ſenſe that Rul'd before, learns to obey.

We graſp at Honour, with a ſounding Fame,

Vain Titles, and a celebrated Name.

[Page]

In Courts by bribes, and flattery, they raiſe

Themſelves to Dear bought Honour and Applauſe.

Purchaſing Grandeur, at the vaſt expence,

Of Nobler Honeſty, and Innocence.

If higher Titles do a Blockhead grace,

They'le cringe and bow before the Solemn Aſs.

Unaskt his Pandars, and his Pimps they'l be,

Buffoons, or Jeſters to his company.

Nay more, if he'l befriend them to the King

For a new place, or ſome freſh Honour bring;

Their Wive's, or Siſters Modeſty, ſhall be

O baſe exchange! their luſtful Patrons Fee.

For that alone by them's accounted Vice,

Which curbs Ambition, checks their growing Riſe.

Cit rolling in a lower Sphere, does move

As he were influenc'd from thoſe above.

His Verture, and his Soul, he proſtitutes

For ſordid Gain, which ends all his diſputes.

[Page] And that of all Religions he will chuſe,

Which crams his coffers, leav's his conſcience Looſe.

He ſeeks all methods to be popular,

Perhaps he gets the Scarlet gown, or Chair;

But he'l ſtrive hard, and hopes, at leaſt, to gain

Good-morrow Mr. Common-Council-Man.

If at a ſhop the Sparks and Beaux appear,

A handſome Wife ſhall ſell her Husbands Ware.

And theſe, beſide the Ready gain is got,

Will always for their civil C—old Vote.

But oh! how vainly theſe poor Fools miſpend

Their Toilſome days, to gain a Vainer end;

All that they Purchaſe at the mighty rate,

Is but the empty Name of being Great.

Great Fools indeed! whoſe Juſter Infamy

Shall laſt, when all their other Titles dye.

And all their Dear bought wealth, and envied Lands,

Shall fall into ſome younger ſpend-thrift's hands.

[Page] Who laviſhly ſhall waſte, what they to get,

Run out their Souls in the Almighty's debt.

And his profuſeneſs ſpend on Wine, and Whores,

What turn'd ſo many Widows out of Doors.

His tears that at the funeral are ſhed;

Are fumes of Wine that diſcompoſe his head,

Wine, that was drank for joy the wretch is Dead.

Thus in a ſmall circumference, we ſee

Sins Fatal pleaſures brought to their Cataſtrophe.

Their certain Shortneſs rende'rs them but mean,

And their incertainty ſtill much more Vain.

Our Opportunity doth ſwiftly fly,

And oft e're that is gone, they glide away.

Death often comes, and e're the play is ſeen,

With his dark curtain ſhuts the Gilded Scene.

Hurrys away the Actors, e're they had done

The pleaſing parts, they 'expected as their own.

[Page] And from Deaths hand there's no ſecurity,

The Young, and Old, do undiſtinguiſht Lye,

The difference is, one May, to'ther Muſt dye.

Some but juſt enter'd on the Stage of life,

Ere they to Manly age and ſtrength arrive,

(Whoſe innocence, we are apt to think, might ſave

From that cold bed, the too impartial Grave.)

Unheeding fall, and falling there they Lye,

Making a part in this dire Tragedy.

Tis not Youths pleaſant Gallantry, or Wit,

Can ſave them ſinking in the dreaded Pit.

But in the midſt of their moſt Luſcious joys,

Death ſlyly comes, and thoſe, and them, deſtroys.

Nor can the Manly force of riper age,

Reſiſt the pow'r of Death's impetuous rage.

But they too muſt ſubmit, they too muſt yeild,

As Deaths ſad Trophies, in his ſable field.

[Page] All fall alike, no age, nor no degree,

Is ſafe from Deaths inſulting Tyranny.

Where then are all our charming Pleaſures gone,

When We our ſelves are loſt and quite Undone?

The Sparkling Wines no more our Palats pleaſe,

Beauty, and Love, create no tenderneſs.

We unaffected with their Charms remain,

And never muſt enjoy their ſweets again.

But tho' Death ſhou'd not us of them deprive,

Mifortunes may attend us while we live.

God oft ſee's good, in his wiſe providence,

Some ſevere ſtrokes on Sinners to diſpence.

To leave the Will, and take the pow'r away,

Yet ſcourge that Will, which ſeeks to diſobey.

There's one is not to Wealth and Honour born,

Another had them, but they're from him torn.

And here's a third, whoſe want and miſeries,

Flow from th' exceſs of ſome Expenſive Vice.

[Page] Others are tortur,d by ſome ſad Diſeaſe,

Perhaps th' effect of their own Wickedneſs.

How many various ſeeming accidents,

Deſtroy our Joys, occaſion diſcontents?

We find one Diſappointment yeild more grief,

Than's recompenc'd by all the Joys of life,

And yet, how many do they meet withal,

VVho follow Vice at her deluſive call?

Beſides, that grand Miſtake of Happineſs,

What e're they find, this they are ſure to Miſs.

How few are ſatisfied with their own ſtore,

And ceaſe t' extend their pray'rs to Heav'n for more?

As few are with their State of Life content,

They feign wou'd change, when chang'd, again repent.

The Soldier murmurs at his toil and pains,

And often wiſhes for the Merchants gains;

Whilſt he regrets a loſs he has ſuſtain'd,

And wiſhes, ere it went, he' had purchas'd Land.

[Page] The Country Squire is angry, his Eſtate

Shou'd waſte ſo ſoon, to make his Lawyer Fat.

Whoſe buſie head wiſhes retired eaſe.

Thus nothing that's our own, our minds can pleaſe.

Thus Sins Uncertain Short-liv'd pleaſures waſt,

In the enjoyment, but the ſting will laſt.

Religion yields a Solid, Laſting Bliſs,

A perfectly compleated Happineſs.

Calms all the 'wild diſorders of the Soul,

Our head-ſtrong Paſſions Mildly doth controul.

Informs the Mind, and give's it Light to ſee

Its own loſt State, and wretched Miſery.

Takes off the fair diſguiſe from ugly Vice,

Expoſing to the Soul its Nakedneſs.

Correct's the Will, and teaches it to move

By earneſt Wiſhes, and an ardent Love,

To thoſe bleſt object, which alone can claim

The full expreſſions of its higheſt Flame.

[Page] And whate're Storms we meet with from without,

All's ſtill within, there's not an anxious doubt,

No whiſpring fear, that ſhou'd diſturb our eaſe,

But all within's Serenity and Peace.

Great Pilot Vertue, will our Veſſel guide

A ſteady Courſe, along the Rolling Tide,

Between the fatal Rocks of black Deſpair,

And Diſmal Sands of Doubt, will gently ſteer,

Tho' Winds without a mighty Tempeſt raiſe,

And Gloomy Clouds obſcure the Darkned Skies;

Tho' Death do on the foaming Billows ride,

That beat our harraſs't bark on e'ry ſide;

Tho' fatal Omens hover in the Air,

And not a Spark of Heav'nly Light appear;

Yet we're ſecur'd, at laſt our Port to gain,

Through all the Threatning Dangers of the Main.

And though the Voyage troubleſome appear,

'Tis better vent'ring out than ſtaying here.

[Page] Where all the profit that our labours gain,

Is Diſappointment here, and future Pain.

The only Fruits the Barren Soil of Vice

Does e're produce, are certain Miſeries.

But in the Storm, our Souls are ſure to find

The bleſt Content of a Religious Mind.

That Vertue only makes us happy here,

Is prov'd by giving the Souls Character.

An Immaterial and Immortal Frame,

A Noble Spark of the Eternal Flame.

An uncompounded Eſſence, all Divine,

All Bright, and Fair, till it was ſtain'd by Sin.

And though its Primitive Beauty now is gone,

And all its Glories, faded, pale, and wan;

Tho' the Bright Image of our God's eras'd,

And all its Moral Holineſs defac'd;

Yet 'tis preſerv'd by the Almightie's hand,

And will for ever be by him ſuſtain'd.

[Page] Judgment, the Souls bright Eye, receives, what e're

The ſev'ral Senſes to the Mind confer,

From thoſe Ideas, various Reaſons draws,

Which, form'd to Propoſitions, are its Laws.

Theſe, by an unknown power, ſway the Will,

Intending Good, but oft miſtaking Ill.

(That is alas! one ſad effect of Sin,

To cloud the Soul, and leave a night within;

Whence by the ſad miſtake of Objects, we

Blind Homage pay to a falſe Deity.

Hence our unbounded Vicious paſſions flow,

Here our Misfortunes (their effects) we owe.)

Our various Paſſions always are inclin'd,

As diff'rent Objects preſs upon the Mind.

To apprehended Good, the Will is Love,

To Ill, it does our Violent Hatred move.

As theſe are Paſt, or Preſent, or to Come,

We in our Breaſts give other Paſſions room.

[Page] (Or elſe, perhaps the Paſſion is the ſame,

Only diſtinguiſh't by a diff'rent Name)

They're Joy, or Grief, to preſent Good, or Ill,

And if to come, them Hope, or Fear we ſtile.

When mixt, Doubt does our Harraſs't Souls torment,

And Jealouſie provokes to Diſcontent.

Pleaſure from things agreeable does flow,

We call it Happineſs when laſting too.

'Tis but th' imperfect Shadow of a Bliſs

That fades, or cloy's, ſuch are the Fruits of Vice,

Which under ſpecious Names the ſence amuſe;

But the deſign is only to abuſe.

Baſe Avarice, Good-Husbandry we ſtile,

The Prodigal, a Gen'rous Soul doth fill.

The Luſtful Satyr a kind Lover is;

The ugly Name of Whore's ſoften'd to Miſs;

The Brutiſh Drunkards, Bon Companions are;

The Scoffing Atheiſt, Witty Debonair.

[Page] Thus Vice by Skulking in the fair Diſguiſe

Of Vertue, does her greater worth confeſs.

Vertue the Solid Beauty of the Mind!

Whence we alone true ſatisfaction find.

Vertue does Nobler Pleaſures for us chooſe,

Does greater thoughts into our Souls infuſe.

A God's propos'd the Object of our Love,

To whom our ſtrongeſt Paſſions ought to move;

Whoſe Goodneſs equals his Omnipotence,

Whoſe Attributes, and Eſſence, are immenſe.

And who alone our craving Souls ſupplies,

With the full ſtreams of perfect Happineſs;

Ne'r ceaſing Streams, whoſe endleſs Flux, ſhall vie

With the duration of Eternity.

O what are all the Joys of Vice, that they

Shou'd our weak Souls to Miſery betray?

When Vertue ſtands with all her brighter Charms,

And Wooes us to be Happy in her Arms.

[Page] Without Diſguiſe ſhe does her ſelf Diſplay,

All ſoft and Charming, Beautiful and Gay.

No anxious Cares are lodg'd within her Breaſt,

No Doubts or Fears diſturb her Sacred reſt,

And all that love her are compleatly bleſt.

A Vertuous Mind ſlights all the Baits of Senſe,

Denies them their precarious influence,

Repells the fond aſſaults of Baffled Vice,

Doth both her Charms and Menaces Deſpiſe,

Neither Deluded by her proffer'd Joy,

Nor Frighted, though ſhe threaten to Deſtroy.

Not all the Racking Tortures, Men or Hell

Cou'd e're invent, or make poor Wretches feel,

Can once make Vertue be by him refus'd,

Who once reſolv'dly had her Cauſe eſpous'd.

She has the Art in Torments to ſupport,

And make pale Death and griping Pain our Sport.

[Page] Can unſeen Cordials to the mind preſent,

When the exceſſive Torture makes her faint.

How many have for their Religion Died?

How many more are ready ſtill to bleed?

The firſt that ever trod the paths of Death,

In Vertue's Service loſt his Well-ſpent breath

Since, e'ry Age, and Clime, has been ſupplied

With noble Souls, that for her ſake have Died:

Not always ſingle to deſtruction led,

Thouſands together by the Great have bled,

Thoſe, kill'd with eaſe, and kindly knock't o'th head.

(The Tender Mercies of this Impious World

We feel, when Gently into tother hurld)

Others have a ſeverer Fortune found,

Been firſt Abus'd, and Mock't, and Scourg'd, and Bound,

And then have all the various Torments tried,

Which Rage cou'd find, by Cruel Wit ſupplied.

[Page] 'Twould chill my Blood with Horrour, ſhou'd I tell

By what ſtrange Deaths the Primitive Chriſtians fell:

Or the Mad D' Alva's Helliſh Cruelties,

Or Paris's more freſh Barbarities.

Hibernia's yet more Perfect Wickedneſs,

Or the Wild Fury of our Maries Days.

And all this wretched Inhumanity,

Theſe horrid Scenes of Barbarous Cruelty,

Were levell'd only againſt Piety.

Their Conſecrated Poiſons reach the Throne,

And their mean rage will pull a Cottage down.

Their Brutiſh Malice is not to be ſtaid,

By all the ſoftneſs of a tender Maid.

Her Pray'rs, and Vows, and Tears, are all in Vain,

Her Honour, and her Blood, the Altars ſtain.

No Pity Infants ſofter Smiles can move,

(All Paſſion's baniſh't that's ally'd to Love.)

[Page] They're raviſht from their Dying Mothers Breaſt,

And headlong hurl'd into Eternal reſt.

Old Age, by a Malicious Compliment,

In mere Good will to tother World is ſent.

All theſe (my Friend) theſe wretched Miſeries,

Flow from the enmity of Curſed Vice.

And yet Religious Votaries do chooſe;

Themſelves in all theſe Dangers to expoſe,

(Supported by aſſiſtances within)

Before the Sham Delights of Tempting Sin.

They know there is a near, approaching hour

When God ſhall come to judge the World with Pow'r

In flaming Wrath His Vengeance to repay,

On all who did not his Juſt Laws obey.

Then ſhall their Cauſe at his great Bar be heard,

And to the World their Innocence be clear'd.

And thoſe poor Wretches who condemn'd them here,

Shall have a much more dreadful Sentence there.

[Page] Eternal Torments ſhall the'r Portion be,

And never ending, Perfect, Miſery.

Whilſt thoſe bleſt Souls, ſhall mount to Happineſs,

Beyond what Heart can think, or tongue expreſs.

Freed from their Pains and Grief, their Cares and Fears,

Their Hearts no Sorrows know, their Eyes no Tears.

But an Eternal Joy their Heads ſhall Crown,

Where no diſturbing Thoughts, no Doubts are known.

No hov'ring Clouds obſcure the Immortal Bliſs,

No Sully'd Minute ſtains their Happineſs.

But ah my Dazled Muſe is riſe too high,

She Flags, and flutters in the bordering Skie.

And yet wou'd feign a little longer ſtay,

To view the brightneſs of the Eternal Day.

She feign wou'd bring you ſome Deſcriptions down,

And make thoſe bleſt Abodes a little known.

But all her Notions ſo confuſed are,

She knows not to begin, or how, or where.

[Page] But pardon my Defects, and as I can,

I'le try to mete the Heavens with my Span.

In thoſe Eternal Fields of Sacred Light,

Always Serene and Calm, all Fair and Bright,

Water'd by Rivers of Immortal Bliſs,

On whoſe Fair Banks dwells Everlaſting Peace.

What ever Happineſs a God can give,

What ever Joy our Souls can Then receive,

(Such Joys, as the Eternal Son of God,

Cou'd purchaſe for us with his Sacred Blood)

Shall all be ours. There we (my Friend) ſhall ſee

The Glory of th' Almighty Majeſty,

Not by faint Glimpſes as he Here is known

But by a ſteady View o'th' Holy One.

Here what we learn we argue from below

What from his Works and Holy Word we know;

But there (my Dear) from what in God we ſee,

His Goodneſs, Wiſdom, and his Purity.

[Page] What e're we knew of his great Works, while Here,

In a far greater Luſtre will appear.

And thoſe dark Methods, we cou'd ſcarce diſcern

The Reaſon of, we there ſhall fully Learn;

How Juſt! how Righteous all his dealings are!

That not his Wiſdom, but our Reaſons err.

Our Glorified Redeemer we ſhall ſee,

There crown'd with Honour, and with Majeſty.

He, that to ſave our Souls from endleſs Woe,

So many Miſeries did undergoe;

And in our Natures paid the Mighty Price,

Which ſet us free, and bought Eternal Bliſs;

Now ſeated on his Mediatorial Throne,

From thence on us diſpenſing Bleſſings down;

Shall to his then moſt Perfect Body be

United Head, to all Eternity.

There you and I (my Friend) again ſhall meet,

And with more perfect Love each other greet.

[Page] Both ſhall contribute to that happy Reſt,

And to the Joyful Number of the Bleſt.

For there (my Dear) each Saint ſhall be a Friend,

And all Perfections ſhall our Love attend.

And by the Pow'r of Friendſhip in our heart,

His Bleſſedneſs each ſhall to th' whole impart.

And all the Num'rous Bleſſings of the whole,

Shall be contracted in each ſingle Soul.

The Happy Angels who for us have done

So much while Here, ſhall There by us be known;

Where we ſhall joyn, and help them Celebrate,

Their Praiſes to the Infinitely Great.

And all theſe boundleſs Joys poſſeſt ſhall be,

Through the vaſt Circle of Eternity.

Though Rolling Ages follow Ages on,

And diſtant Years ſucceeding thoſe are gone,

Our Joys ſhall ever laſt, be freſh, and but begun.

FINIS.

§

[Page]

[Page]

RELIGION THE Only Happineſs.

A POEM.

In a Letter to a Friend.

Quid prius dicam ſolitis parentis

Laudibus, qui res hominum, & Deorum,

Qui mare, & terras, variiſque, mundum

Temperat, Horis?

—Horace

§

Licenſed

February 23th. 1693-94.

LONDON, Printed by J. R. for Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns near the Royal Exchange in Cornhil, MDCXCIV.

The PREFACE.

[Page]

[Page]

THIS Poem, when it was written firſt, was far from being deſign'd for the Preſs; and only ſent me by my Friend as a Private Letter. But on the peruſal of it, I found ſomewhat in it that affected me extremely; which made me (thinking it might be beneficial to the Public) perſwade him to let me have it Printed.

This I ſay, only to free the Authour from the imputation of Vanity, which perhaps ſome would be too apt to lay on him, had he publiſht it himſelf, at a time, when we have many Good Poets, and moſt men are (or at leaſt think themſelves) tolerable Judges.

It may be eaſily objected againſt ſuch a Poem in general, that it is of no uſe; ſeeing there has been, already, ſo many Excellent Treatiſes in Proſe, upon the ſame Subject.

[Page] But the Anſwer is as obvious, for there are many, who have not the Patience to read them over, yet nevertheleſs will be drawn to a thing of this Nature, under the Notion of Diverting themſelves.

But I needed not to ſay this in its Defence, having before me ſo Excellent an Example ſet by the Ingenious Authour of a late Poem, Entitled, An Anatomy of Atheiſme.

As to this Eſſay in particular (if I may be allow'd to give my Thoughts of it) I take it to be as Poetical as the Subject will bear; and much more Solid than the Poetry of our Age (the more's the Pity) is generally found to be; and I am very much deceiv'd, if the Reader doth not find in it, the two main Ends of Poetry, Diverſion, and Information.

I ſhall ſay no more to its Advantage, but ſubmit it to the Public, wiſhing, that every one who reads it, may find as much Benefit by it as I did for my own particular.

ADVERTISEMENT.

IN the Preſs, and will be ſpeedily Publiſhed a Book Entituled Converſation in Heaven, Part 2d. being Sacramental Devotions, conſiſting of Meditations, and Prayers, Preparatory to a Worthy Receiving of the Holy Communion; as alſo Meditations and Prayers ſuited to the ſeveral Parts both of Adminiſtring and Receiving it. By Lawrence Smith, LLD. Author of the Firſt Part. Printed for Thomas Speed.

Books Printed for, and Sold by Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1694.

[Page]

THirty Six Sermons, viz. 16 Ad Aulam. 6 Ad Clerum. 6 Ad Magiſtratum. 8 Ad Populum. With a large Preface. By the Right Reverend Father in God, Robert Sanderſon, late Lord Biſhop of Lincoln: The Eighth Edition, corrected and amended. Whereunto is now added the Life of the Reverend and Learned Author. Written by Iſaac Walton Folio. Price 15 s.

Converſation in Heaven: Part the Firſt, Being Devotions; conſiſting of Meditations and Prayers, on ſeveral conſiderable Subjects in Practical Divinity. Written for the Raiſing the Decay'd Spirit of Piety. By Lawrence Smith, LL. D. Fellow of St. John's Colledge in Oxford, 12mo. Price Two Shillings.

A Sermon at the Funeral of the Reverend Mr. Thomas Grey, late Vicar of Dedham in Eſſex; preach'd in the Pariſh-Church of, Dedham, Feb. 2. 1691-92. With a ſhort Account of his Life. By Joſeph Powell. A. M. Rector of St. Mary on the Wall, in Colcheſter. Price 6 d.

An Anatomy of Atheiſme: A Poem by a Perſon of Quality. 4to. Price Six pence.

Religion the only Happyneſs, a Poem, in a Letter to a Friend, 4to. price Six pence.

The Loyal and Impartial Satyriſt, containing Eight Miſcellany Poems: 4to. price Six pence.

Luſus Amatorius: Sive Muſaei Poema de Herone & Leandro, E Graec â in Latinam Linguam Tranſlatum. Cui Aliae (tres ſcilicet) accedunt Nugae Poeticae. Authore C. B. è Coll. Di. Jo. Bapt. Soc. 4o price 6d.

Tachygraphy: The moſt Exact and Compendious Method of Short and Swift Writing, that hath ever yet been publiſhed by any. Compoſed by Thomas Shelton, Author and Profeſſor of the ſaid Art. Approved by both the Univerſities, 8o. price 1 s.

Zeiglographia: Or, a New Art of Short-Writing, never before publiſhed; more Eaſie, Exact, Short, and Speedy than any heretofore. Invented and Compoſed by Thomas Shelton, Author and Teacher of the ſaid Art. Allowed by Authority, 8o. price one Shilling.

[Page]

Information about this book

Title statement

Religion, the only happiness a poem : in a letter to a friend.

Dawes, William, Sir, 1671-1724.

Edition statement

1694

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2007-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A58474

ID [STC]

Wing R903

ID [STC]

ESTC R12713

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

13133644

ID [OCLC]

ocm 13133644

ID [VID]

97881

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A58474)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 97881)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 749:22)

Source

— Religion, the only happiness a poem : in a letter to a friend., Dawes, William, Sir, 1671-1724..

Extent

[4], 31, [1] p.

Printed by J.R. for Thomas Speed ...,. London :: 1694.. (Advertisement: prelim. p. [4] and p. [1] at end.) (Attributed to William Dawes. Cf. NUC pre-1956.) (Reproduction of original in Duke University Library.)

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