TRINITAS EMBLEMES
By [...]ra [...] Quar [...]es.
LONDON. Printed by I.D. for Francis. Eglerfeild, and [...] at the [...] of the Marigold in St. Pauls Church-yard 1 [...]7 [...].
Haec Laus, hic Apex Sapientiae est, ea viventem appetere, quae morienti forent appetenda.
TO MY MVCH HONOVRED, AND NO lesse truely beloved Friend EDVV. BENLOVVES Esquire.
My deare Friend,
YOu have put the Theorboe into my hand; and I have played: You gave the Musitian the first encouragement; the Musicke returnes to you for Patronage. Had it been a light Ayre, no doubt but it had taken the most; and, among them, the worst: But being a grave [Page] Strayne, my hopes are, that it will please the best; and among them, You. Toyish Ayres please triviall eares; They kisse the fancy, and betray it: They cry, Haile, first; and, after, Crucifie: Let Dorrs delight to immerd themselves in dung, whilst Eagles scorn so poore a Game as Flies. Sir, you have Art, and Candor: Let the one judge, let the other excuse
Your most affectionate Friend, FRA. QUARLES.
TO THE READER.
AN Embleme is but a silent Parable. Let not the tender Eye checke, to see the allusion to our blessed SAVIOUR figured, in these Types. In holy Scripture, He is sometimes called a Sower; sometimes, a Fisher; sometimes, a Physitian: And why not presented so, as well to the eye, as to the eare? Before the knowledge of letters, GOD was knowne by Hierogliphicks; And, indeed, what are the Heavens, the Earth, nay every Creature, but Hieroglyphicks and Emblemes of His Glory? I have no more to say. I wish thee as much pleasure in the reading, as I had in the writeing. Farewell Reader.
BY Fathers backt; by Holy Writ, led on,
Thou shewst away to Heav'n by Helicon▪
The Muses Font is consecrate by Thee,
And Poefie, baptiz'd Divinitie:
Blest soule, that here embark'st: Thou sayl'st a pace,
'Tis hard to say, mov'd more by Wit, or Grace;
Each Muse so plyes her Oare: but O, the Sayle
Is fill'd from heav'n with a Diviner Cale:
When Poets prove Divines, why should not I
Approve, in Verse, this Divine Poetry?
Let this suffice to licence thee the Presse;
I must no more; nor could the Truth say lesse.
Sic approbavit RICH. LOV [...] Procan. Cantabrigie [...]si [...].
Tot Flores, QUARLES, quot Paradisus, habet. Lectori bene-male-volo.
Qui legit ex Horto hoc Flores, Qui carpit, Ʋter (que)
Jure potest VIOLAS dicere, jure ROSAS.
Non è Parnasso VIOLAM, Paestivè ROSETO
Carpit Apollo, magis quae sit amoena, ROSAM.
Quòt Versus, VIOLAS legis; & Quem verba locutum
Credis, verba dedit: Nam dedit Ille ROSAS.
Ut (que) Ego non dicam haec VIOLAS suavissima; Tu [...]e
Ipse facis VIOLAS, Livide, si violas.
Nàm velūtè VIOLIS sibi sugit A [...]anea virus:
Vertis ità in succos Has (que), ROSAS (que) tuos.
Quas violas Musas, VIOLAS puto quas (que) reculas
Dente tuo rosas, has, r [...]or, esse ROSAS.
Sic rosas, facis esse ROSAS, dùm, Zoile, rodis:
Sic facis, has, VIOLAS, Livide, dum violas.
Brent-Hall. 1634.
EDVV. BENLOVVES.
THE FIRST BOOKE.
The Invocation.
ROwze thee, my soule; and dreine thee from the dregs
Of vulgar thoughts Skrue up the heightned pegs
Of thy Sublime Theorboe foure notes higher,
And higher yet; that so the shrill-mouth'd Quire
Of swift wing'd Seraphims may come and joyne,
And make thy Consort more than halfe divine.
Invoke no Muse; Let heav'n be thy Apollo;
And let his sacred Influences hallow
Thy high-bred Straines; Let his full beames inspire
Thy ravisht braines with more heroick fire;
Snatch thee a Quill from the spread Eagles wing,
And, like the morning Lark, mount up and sing:
Cast off these dangling Plummets, that so clog
Thy lab'ring heart, which gropes in this darke fog
Of dungeon-earth; Let flesh and bloud forbeare
To stop thy flight, till this base world appeare
A thin blew Lanskip: Let thy pineons sore
So high a pitch, that men may seeme no more
Than Pismires, crawling on this Mole-hill earth,
Thy eare untroubled with their frantick mirth;
Let not the frailty of thy flesh disturbe
Thy new-concluded peace; Let reason curbe
Thy [...]ot-mouth'd Passion; and let heav'ns fire season
The flash Conceits of thy corrected Reason;
Disdaine to warme thee at Lusts smoakie fires,
Scorne, scorne to feed on thy old bloat desires▪
Come; come, my soule, hoyse up thy higher sayles,
The wind blowes faire? Shall we still creepe like Snayles,
That gild their wayes with their owne native slimes?
No, we must flie like Eagles, and our Rhimes
Must mount to heav'n, and reach th'Olympick eare;
Our heav'n-blowne fire must seek no other Spheare:
Thou great Theanthropos, that giv'st and crown'st
Thy gifts in dust; and, from our dunghill crown'st
Reflected Honour, taking by Retayle,
(What thou hast giv'n in grosse) from lapsed fraile,
And sinfull man, that drink'st full draughts, wherei [...]
Thy Childrens leprous fingers, scurf'd with Sin,
Have padled, cleanse, O cleanse my crafty Soule
From secret crimes, and let my thoughts controule
My thoughts▪ O, teach me stoutly to deny
My selfe, that I may be no longer I;
Enrich my Fancie, clarifie my thoughts,
Refine my drosse; O, wink at humane faults;
And, through this slender conduit of my Quill,
Convey thy Current, whose cleare streames may fill
The hearts of men with love, their tongues with praise;
Crowne me with Glory: Take, who list, the Bayes.
I. JAM. I.XIV. Every man is tempted, when hee is drawne away by his own lust, and enticed.
Serpent. Eve.
Serp.
NOt eat? Nor tast? Not touch? Nor cast an eye
Upon the fruit of this faire Tree? And why?
Why eat'st thou not what Heav'n ordain'd for food?
Or canst thou think that bad, which heav'n cal'd Good?
Why was it made, if not to be enjoy'd?
Neglect of favours makes a favour void:
Blessings unus'd, pervert into a Wast,
As well as Surfeits; Woman, Do but tast:
See how the laden boughes make silent Suit
To be enjoy'd; Looke how their bending Fruit
Meet thee halfe way; Observe but how they crouch
To kisse thy hand; Coy woman, Do but touch▪
Marke what a pure Vermilian blush has dy'd
Their swelling Cheeks, and how, for shame, they hide
Their palsie heads, to see themselves stand by
Neglected: Woman, Do but cast an eye;
What bounteous heav'n ordain'd for use, refuse not;
Come, pull and eat! y'abuse the things ye use not.
Eve.
Wisest of Beasts, our great Creator did
Reserve this Tree, and this alone forbid,
The rest are freely ours, which, doubtlesse, are
As pleasing to the Tast; to th'eye, as faire;
[Page 6]But touching this, his strict commands are such,
'Tis death to tast, no lesse than death to touch.
Serp.
P'sh; death's a fable: Did not heav'n inspire,
Your equall Elements with living Fire,
Blowne from the spring of life? Is not that breath
Immortall? Come; ye are as free from death
As He that made ye: Can the flames expire
Which he has kindled? Can ye quench His fire?
Did not the great Creators voice proclaime
What ere he made (from the blue spangled frame
To the poore leafe that trembles) very Good?
Blest He not both the Feeder, and the Food?
Tell, tell me, then, what danger can accrue
From such blest Food, to such Halfe-gods as you?
Curb needlesse feares, and let no fond conceit
Abuse your freedome; woman, Take, and eat.
Eve.
'Tis true; we are immortall; death is yet
Unborne; and, till Rebellion make it debt,
Undue; I know the Fruit is good, untill
Presumptuous disobedience make it ill:
The lips that open to this Fruit's a portall
To let in death, and make immortall, mortall.
Serp.
You cannot die; Come, woman, Tast and feare not▪
Eve.
Shall Eve transgresse? I dare not, O I dare not,
Serp.
Afraid? why draw'st thou back thy tim'rous Arme?
Harme onely fals on such as feare a Harme:
Heav'n knowes and feares the vertue of this Tree
'Twill make ye perfect Gods as well as He.
Stretch forth thy hand, and let thy fondnesse never
Feare death; Do, pull, and eat, and live for ever.
Eve.
'Tis but an Apple; and it is as good
To do as to desire▪ Fruit's made for food:
Ile pull, and tast, and tempt my Adam too
To know the secrets of this dainty,
Serp.
Doe.
S. CHRY [...]. sup. Matth.
He forc'd him not: He touch'd him not: Onely said, Cast thy selfe downe; that we may know, whosoever obeyes the Devill, casts himselfe downe; For the Devill may suggest; compell he cannot.
S. BERN. in ser.
It is the Devils part to suggest; Ours, not to consent: As oft as we resist him, so often we overcome him, as often as we overcome him, so often we bring joy to the Angels, and glory to God; Who proposes us, that we may contend, and assists us, that we may conquer.
EPIG. 1.
Unluckie Parliament! wherein, at last,
Both houses are agreed, and firmely past
An Act of death, confirm'd by higher Powers▪
O had it had but such success [...] Ours.
II. JAM. I.XV. Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin when it is finished, bringeth forth death.
1
LAment, lament; Looke, looke what thou hast done
Lament the worlds, lament thy owne Estate;
Looke, looke, by doing, how thou art undone;
Lament thy fall; lament thy change of State:
Thy faith is broken, and thy Freedome gone,
See, see too soone, what thou lament'st too late:
O thou that wert so many men; nay, all
Abrig'd in one, how has thy desp'rate fall
Destroid thy unborne seed, destroid thy selfe withall.
2
Uxorious Adam, whom thy maker made
Equall to Angels, that excell in pow'r,
What hast thou done? O why hast thou obayd
Thy owne destruction? Like a new-cropt flowre
How does the glory, of thy beauty fade!
How are thy fortunes blasted in an houre!
How art thou cow'd, that had'st the pow'r to quell
The spite of new-faln Angels; baffle Hell,
And vye with those that stood, and vanquish those that fell
3
See how the world (whose chast and pregnant wombe,
Of late, conceiv'd, and brought forth nothing ill)
Is now degenerated, and become
A base Adultresse, whose false Births do fill
The Earth with Monsters, Monsters that do [...]ome
And rage about, and make a Trade, to kill.
Now glutt'ny paunches; Lust begins to spawne;
Wrath takes revenge; and Avarice, a pawne;
Pale Envie pines; Pride swels; and Sloth begins to yawne▪
4
The Ayre, that whisper'd, now begins to roare,
And blustring Bore as blowes the boyling Tide;
The white mouth'd water now usurpes the Shore,
And scornes the pow'r of her tryd entall Guide;
The fire now burnes, that did but warme before,
And rules her Ruler with resistlesse Pride;
Fire, Water, Earth and Ayre, that first were made
To be subdu'd, see how they how invade;
They rule whō once they serv'd; cōmand, where once obaid.
5
Behold; that nakednesse, that late bewraid
Thy Glory, now's become thy shame, thy wonder;
Behold; those Trees whose various Fruits were made
For food, now turn'd a Shade to shrowd thee under:
Behold; That voice (which thou hast disobayd)
That late was Musicke, now affrights like Thunder:
Poor man! Are not thy Joints grown sore with shaking,
To view th'effect of thy bold undertaking,
That in one houre didst marre, what heav'n six dayes was making?
S. AUGUST. lib. 1. de lib. arbit.
It is a most just punishment, that man should lose that Freedome which man could not use, yet had power to keep if he would; And that he who had knowledge to do what was right, and did not, should bee deprived of the knowledge of what was right; And that he who would not do righteously when he had the power, should lose the power to do it, when he had the will.
HUGO de anima.
They are justly punished that abuse lawfull things, but they are most justly punished, that use unlawfull things; Thus Lucifer fell from heaven; thus Adam lost his Paradise.
EPIG. 2.
See how these fruitfull kernels, being cast
Upon the earth, how thicke they spring! how fast!
A full ear'd Crop, and thriving; rank and proud;
Prepost'rous man first sow'd, and then he plough'd.
III. PRO. XIV.XIII. Even in laughter the heart is sorrowfull, and the end of that mirth is heavinesse.
1
ALas fond Child,
How are thy thoughts beguil'd,
To hope for Hony from a nest of Wasps?
Thou maist as well
Go seek for ease in Hell,
Or sprightly Nectar from the mouthes of Asps.
2
The world's a Hive,
From whence thou canst derive
No good, but what thy soules vexation brings:
Put case thou meet
Some peti-peti sweet,
Each drop is guarded with a thousand stings.
3
Why dost thou make
These murm'ring Troupes forsake,
The safe Protection of their waxen Homes?
This Hive containes
No sweet that's worth thy paines;
There's nothing here, alas, but empty Combes.
4
For trash and Toyes,
And griefe ingendring Joyes
What torment seemes too sharpe for flesh and blood!
What bitter Pills,
Compos'd of reall Ills,
Man swallowes downe, to purchase one false Good!
5
The dainties here,
Are least what they appeare;
Though sweet in hopes, yet in fruition, sowre:
The fruit that's yellow,
Is found not alwayes mellow,
The fairest Tulip's not the sweetest flowre.
6
Fond youth, give ore,
And vexe thy soule no more,
In seeking, what were better farre unfound;
Alas thy gaines
Are onely present paines
To gather Scorpions for a future wound.
7
What's earth? or in it.
That longer than a minit
Can lend a free delight, that can endure?
O who would droyle,
Or delve in such a soyle,
Where gaine's uncertaine, and the paine is sure?
S. AUGUST.
Sweetnesse in temporall matters is deceitfull; It is a labour and a perpetuall feare; it is a dangerous pleasure, whose beginning is without providence, and whose end is not without repentance.
HUGO.
Luxury is an enticing pleasure, a bastard mirth, which hath honey in her mouth, gall in her heart, and a sting in her taile.
EPIG. 3.
What, Cupid, Are hy shafts already made?
And seeking Hone, to set up thy Trade?
True Embleme of hy sweets! Thy Bees do bring
Hony, in their mout [...]es, but in their tailes, a sting.
IV. PSAL. LXII.IX. To be laid in the ballance, it is altogether lighter than vanitie.
1
PUt in another weight: 'Tis yet, too light:
And yet: Fond Cupid, put another in;
And yet, another: Still there's under weight;
Put in another Hundred: Put agin:
Add world to world; then heape a thousand more
To that; then, to renew thy wasted store,
Take up more worlds on trust, to draw thy Balance lower.
2
Put in the flesh, with all her loades of pleasure;
Put in great Mammons endlesse Inventory;
Put in the pondrous Acts of mighty Caesar;
Put in the greater weight of Swedens Glory;
Add Scipio's gauntlet; put in Plato's Gowne;
Put Circes Charmes, put in the Triple Crowne.
Thy Balance will not draw; thy Balance will not downe.
3
LORD, what a world is this; which, day and night,
Men seek with so much toyle, with so much trouble!
Which, weigh'd in equall Scales, is found so light,
So poorely over-balanc'd with a Bubble;
Good GOD? that frantick mortals should destroy
Their higher Hopes, and place their idle Ioy
Vpon such ayry Trash, upon so light a Toy!
4
Thou bold Imposture, how hast thou befool'd
The Tribe of Man, with counterfeit desire!
How has the breath of thy false bellowes cool'd
He w [...]ns free-borne flames▪ and kindled bastard fire!
How hast thou vented Drosse instead of treasure.
And cheated man with thy false weights and measure,
Proclaiming Bad for good; and gilding death with pleasure!
5
The wo [...]ld's a crafty Strumpet, most affecting,
And closely following those that most reject her;
But seeming carelesse, nicely disrespecting
And coyly flying those that most affect her:
If thou be free, shee's strange; if strange, shee's free;
Fled, and she followes; Follow, and shee'l flee;
Than she there's none more coy; ther's none more fond than she.
6
O, what a Crocodilian world is this,
Compos'd, of trech'ries, and ensnaring wiles!
She cloathes destruction in a form all kisse,
And lodges death in her deceitfull smiles;
She huggs the soule she hates; and, there, does prove
The veryest Tyrant, where she vowes to love:
And is a Serpent most, when most she seemes a Dove.
7
Thrice happy he, whose nobler thoughts despise
To make an Object of so easie Gaines;
Thrice happy he, who scornes so poore a Prize
Should be the C own of his heroick paines:
Thrice happy he, that nev'r was borne to trie
Her frownes or smiles; or, being borne, did lie
In his sad Nurses Armes an houre or two, and die.
S. AUGUST. lib. Confess.
O you that dote upon this world, for what victory do you fight? Your hopes can be crown'd with no greater reward than the world can give; and what is the world but a brittle thing ful of dangers, wherein we travell from lesser to greater periis? O let all her vaine, light, and momentary glory perish with her self, and let us be conversant with more eternall things. Alas, this world is miserable; life is short, and death is sure.
EPIG. 4.
My soule; What's lighter than a feather? Wind▪
Than wind? The fire▪ And what then fire? The mind:
What's lighter than the mind? A thought: Than Thought?
This bubble-world. What, than this Bubble? Nought.
V. I COR. VII.XXXI. The fashion of this world passeth away.
1
GOne are those golden dayes, wherein
Pale conscience started not at ugly sin;
When good old Saturnes peacefull Throne
Was usurped by his beardlesse Sonne:
When jealous Ops nev'r fear'd th'abuse
Of her chast bed, or breach o [...] nuptiall Truce:
When just Astraea poys'd her Scales
In mortall hearts, whose absence earth bewailes:
When froth-borne Venus, and her brat,
With all that spurious brood young Iove begat,
In horrid shapes, were yet unknowne;
Those Halcyon dayes, that golden age is gone:
There was no Clyent then, to wait
The leisure of his long tayl'd Advocate;
The Talion Law was in request,
And Chaunc'ry courts were kept in ev'ry brest;
Abused Statutes had no Tenters,
And men could deale secure, without indentures;
There was no p [...]eping hole, to cleare
The Wittols eye from his incarnate feare;
There were no lustfull Cinders, then,
To broyle the Carbonado'd hearts of men;
The rosie Cheeke did, then, proclaime
A shame of Guilt, but not a guilt of shame;
There was no whining soule to start
At Cupids twang, or curse, his flaming dart;
The Boy had, then, but callow wings,
And fell Erynnis Scorpions had no stings,
The better acted world did move
Upon the fixed Poles of Truth and Love;
Love essenc'd in the hearts of men;
Then, Reason rul'd; There was no Passion, then;
Till Lust and rage began to enter,
Love the Circumf'rence was, and love the Center;
Untill the wanton dayes of Iove,
The simple world was all compos'd of Love;
But Iove grew fleshly, false, unjust;
Inferiour beauty fil'd his veines with Lust;
And Cucqueane Iunos Fury hurld
Fierce Balls of Rage into th'incestuous World:
Astraea fled; and love return'd
From earth: Earth boyl'd with Lust [...]; with Rage, it burn'd:
And ever since the world has beene
Kept going with the scourge of Lust, and Spleene.
S. AMBROS.
Lust is a sharpe spurre to vice, which alwayes puts the affections into a false Gallop.
HUGO.
Lust is an immoderate wantonnesse of the stesh a sweet poyson; a cruell pestilence; a pernicious potion, which weakens the body of man, and effeminates the strength of an heroick mind.
S. AUGUST,
Envy is the hatred of anothers felicity: in respect of Superiours, because they are not equall [...] them in respect of Inferiours, lest they should be equall to them; in respect of equals; because they are equall to them: Through Envy proceeded the fall of the world, and the death of Christ.
EPIG. 5.
What? Cupid, must the world be [...]iht so soone?
But made at morning, and be whipt at noone?
'Tis like the Wagg that pla [...]es with Venus Doves,
The more 'tis lasht, the more perverse it proves.
VI. ECCLES. II.XVII. All is vanitie and vexation of spirit.
1
HOw is the anxious soule of man befool'd
In his desire,
That thinks a Hectick Fever may be cool'd
In flames of fire,
Or hopes to rake full heapes of burnisht gold
From nasty mire!
A whining Lover may as well request
A scorne full brest
To melt in gentle teares, as woo the world for rest.
2
Let wit and all her studied plots effect
The best they can;
Let smiling Fortune prosper, and perfect
What wit began;
Let earth advise with both, and so project
A happy man;
Let wit, or fawning Fortune vie their best;
He may be blest
With all that earth can give: but earth can give no Rest▪
3
Whose Gold is double with a carefull hand,
His cares are double;
The pleasure, Honour, Wealth of Sea and Land
Bring but a trouble;
Tbe world it selfe, and all the worlds Command
Is but a Bubble.
The strong desires of mans insatiate brest
May stand possest
Of all that earth can give; but earth can give no Rest.
4
The world's a seeming Par'dise, but her owne
And Mans Tormenter;
Appearing fixt, yet but a rolling Stone,
Without a Tenter;
It is a vast Circumference, where none
Can find a Center:
Of more than earth, can earth make none possest;
and he that least
Regards this restlesse world, shall in this world find Rest:
5
True Rest consists not in the oft revying
Of worldly drosse;
Earths myry Purchase is not worth the buying;
Her gaine is losse;
Her rest, but giddy toyle, if not relying
Upon her Crosse;
How worldlings droyle for trouble! That fond brest
That is possest
Of earth without a Crosse, has earth without a Rest.
CASS. in Ps.
The Crosse is the invincible Sanctuary of the humble: The dejection of the proud; the victory of Christ; the destruction of the devill: the confirmation of the faithfull: the death of the unbeleever: the life of the just.
DAMASCEN.
The Crosse of Christ is the key of Paradise: the weake mans staffe: the Converts Convoy: the upright mans perfection: the soule and bodies health: the prevention of all evill, and the procurer of all Good,
EPIG. 9.
Worldling, whose whimp [...]ing folly holds the losses
Of honour, Pleasure, health and wealth such Crosses,
Looke here, and tell me what your Armes engrosse,
When the best end of what ye hugg's a crosse.
VII. I PET. V.VIII. Be sober; Be vigilant, because your adversary the devill as a roaring Lion walketh about seeking whom he may devoure.
1
WHy dost thou suffer lustfull sloth to creepe
(Dull Cyp [...]ian lad) into thy wanton browes?
Is this a time to pay thine idle vowes
At Morpheus Shrine? Is this a time to steepe
Thy braines in wastfull slumbers? up and rouze
Thy leaden spirits; Is this a time to sleepe?
Adjourne thy sanguine dreames; Awake, arise;
Call in thy Thoughts, and let them all advise,
Hadst thou as many Heads, as thou hast wounded Eyes.
2
Looke, looke, what horrid Furies doe await
Thy flattring slumbers; If thy drowzie head
But chance to nod, thou fal'st into a Bed
Of sulph'rous flames, whose Torments want a date:
Fond Boy, be wise; let not thy thoughts be fed
With Phrygian wisedome; Fooles are wise too late:
Beware betimes, and let thy Reason sever
Those Gates which passion clos'd; wake now, or never:
For if thou nod'st, thou fal'st: and falling, fal'st for ever.
3
Mark, how the ready hands of death prepare;
His Bow is bent, and he has noch'd his dart;
He aimes, he levels at thy slumbring heart;
The wound is posting; O be wise; Beware,
What? has the voice of danger lost the art
To raise the spirit of neglected Care?
Well; sleep thy fill; and take thy soft reposes;
But know withall, sweet tasts have sower closes;
And he repents in Thornes, that sleeps in Beds of roses.
4
Yet sluggard, wake, and gull thy soule no more,
With earths false pleasure, and the worlds delight,
Whose fruit is faire, and pleasing to the sight,
But sowre in tast; false at the putrid Core:
Thy flaring Glasse is Gemms at her halfe light;
She makes thee seming rich, but truly poore:
She boasts a kernell, and bestowes a Shell;
Performes an Inch of her faire promis'd Ell;
Her words protest a Heav'n; Her works produce a Hell.
5
O thou, the fountaine of whose better part
Is earth'd, and gravail'd up with vaine desire:
That daily wallow'st in the fleshly mire
And base pollution of a lustfull heart,
That feel'st no passion but in wanton fire,
And own'st no torment but from Cupids dart;
Behold thy Type; Thou sitst upon this Ba [...]l
Of earth, secure, while death, that flings at all,
Stands ar'md to strike thee down, where flames attend thy fall.
S. BERN.
Security is no where; It is neither in heaven; nor in Paradise, much lesse in the world: In heaven the Angels fell from the divine presence; in Paradise. Adam fell from his place of pleasure; in the world, Iudas fel from the Schoole of our Saviour.
HUGO.
J eat secure; I drink secure: I sleep secure, even as though I had past the day of death, avoided the day of judgment, and escaped the torments of hell fire: I play and laugh, as though I were already triumphing in the Kingdome of heaven.
EPIG. 7.
Get up, my soule; Redeeme thy slavish eyes,
From drowzy bondage: O beware; Be wise:
Thy Foe's before thee; thou must fight, or flie [...]
Life lies most open in a closed Eye.
VIII. LVKE. VI.XXV. Woe be to you that laugh now, for yee shall mourne and weepe.
THe world's a popular disease, that raignes
Within the froward heart, and frantick braines
Of poore distemper'd mortals, oft arising
From ill digestion, through th'unequall poysing
Of ill-weigh'd Elements, whose light directs
Malignant humours to maligne Effects:
One raves, and labours with a boyling Liver;
Rends haire by handfuls, cursing Cupids Quiver:
Another with a Bloody-fluxe of oathes,
Vowes deepe Revenge; one dotes: the other loathes:
One frisks and sings, and vyes a Flagon more
To drench dry cares; and makes the Welkin roare;
Another droopes; the sunshine makes him sad;
Heav'n cannot please; One's moap'd; the tother's mad;
One huggs his Gold; Another let sit flie,
He knowing not, for whom; nor, tother why:
One spends his day in Plots; his night, in Play;
Another sleeps and slugs both night and day:
One laughs at this thing; tother cries for that:
But neither one, nor tother knowes for what:
Wonder of wonders! What we ought t'evite
As our disease, we hugg as our delight:
Tis held a Symptome of approaching danger,
When disacquainted Sense becomes a stranger,
And takes no knowledge of an old disease;
But when a noysome Griefe begins to please
The unresisting sense, it is a feare
That death has parlyed, and compounded there:
As when the dreadfull Thund'rers awefull hand
Powres forth a Viall on th'infected land,
At first th'affrighted Mortals, quake, and faeare:
And ev'ry noise is thought the Thunderer;
But when the frequent Soule-departing Bell
Has pav'd their eares with her familiar knell,
It is reputed but a nine dayes wonder,
They neither feare the Thundre'r, nor his Thunder;
So when the world (a worse disease) began
To smart for sinne, poore new-created Man
Could seek for shelter, and his gen'rous Son
Knew by his wages, what his hands had done;
But bold-fac'd Mortals in our blushlesse times,
Can sin and smile, and make a sport of Crimes,
Transgresse of Custome, and rebell in ease;
We false-joy'd fooles can triumph in disease,
And (as the carelesse Pilgrim, being bit
By the Tarantula, begins a Fit
Of life-concluding laughter) wast our breath
In lavish pleasure, till we laugh to death.
HUGO de anima.
What profit is there in vaine Glory [...], momentary mirth, the worlds power, the fleshes pleasure, full riches, noble descent, and great desires? Where is their laughter? Where is their mirth? Where their Insolence? their Arrogance? From how much joy to how much sadnesse! After how much mirth, how much misery! From how great glory are they fallen, to how great torments! What hath fallen to them, may befal thee, because thou art a man: Thou art of earth; thou livest of earth; thou shalt returne to earth. Death expects thee every where; be wise therefore, and expect death every where.
EPIG. 8.
What ayles the foole to laugh? Does somthing please
His vaine conceit? Or is 't a meere disease?
Foole, giggle on, And wast thy wanton breath;
Thy morning laughter breeds an ev'ning death.
IX. I IOHN. II.XVII. The world passeth away, and all the lusts thereof.
1
DRraw neare, brave sparks, whose spirits scorne to light
Your hallow'd Tapours, but at honours flame;
You, whose heroick Actions take delight
To varnish over a new painted name;
Whose high-bred thoughts disdaine to take their flight,
But on th'Icarian wings of babbling Fame,
Behold, how tottring are your high-built stories
Of earth, wheron you trust the groundwork of your Glories
2
And you, more brain-sick Lovers, that can prize
A wanton smile before eternall Ioyes;
That know no heav'n but in your Mistresse eyes:
That feele no pleasure but what sense enjoyes:
That can, like crowne-distemper'd fooles despise
True riches, and like Babies, whine for Toyes:
Think ye, the Pageants of your hopes are able
To stand secure on earth, when earth it selfe's unstable?
3
Come dunghill worldlings: you, that root like swine,
And cast up golden Trenches, where ye come:
Whose onely pleasure is to undermine,
And view the secrets of your mothers wombe:
Come bring your Saint, pouch'd in his leather Shrine,
And summon all your griping Angels home.
Behold your world, the Bank of all your store:
The world ye so admire: the world ye so adore.
4
A feeble world; whose hot-mouth'd pleasures tyre
Before the Race; before the start, retrait;
A faithlesse world, whose false delights expire
Before the terme of halfe their promis'd Date;
A fickle world, not worth the least desire,
Where ev'ry Chance proclajmes a Change of State:
A feeble, faithlesse, fickle world, wherein
Each motion proves a vice; and ev'ry act, a Sin.
5
The beauty, that of late, was in her flowre,
Is now a ruine, not to raise a Lust;
He that was lately drench'd in Danaes showre,
Is Master, now, of neither Gold nor Trust;
Whose Honour, late, was mann'd with princely pow'r,
His glory now lies buried in the dust;
O who would trust this world, or prize what's in it,
That gives and takes, and chops, and changes ev'ry minit!
6
Not length of dayes nor solid strength of Braine
Can find a place wherein to rest secure:
The world is various, and the Earth is vaine:
Ther's nothing certaine here: ther's nothing sure:
We trudge, we travell but from paine to paine,
And what's our onely grief's our onely Cure:
The World's a Torment; hee that would endeaver
To find the way to Rest, must seek the way to leave her,
S. GREG. in ho.
Behold, the world is withered in it selfe, yet flourisheth in our hearts, every where death, every where griefe, every where, desolation: On every side wee are smitten; on every side fill'd with bitternesse, and yet with the blind minde of carnall desire we love her bitternesse; It flies, and we follow it; it falls, yet we sticke to it: And because we cannot enioy it fallen, wee fall with it: and enjoy it, fallen.
EPIG. 9.
If Fortune hale, or envious Time but spurne,
The world turnes round; and, with the world, we turne;
When Fortune sees, and Lynx-ey'd Time is blind,
Il'e trust thy joyes, O world; Till then, the Wind.
X IOH. VIII.XLIV. Yee are of your father the devill, and the lusts of your Father yee will doe.
HEre's your right ground: Wagge gently ore this Black;
Ti's a short cast; y'are quickly at the Iack:
Rubbe, rubbe an Inch or two; Two Crownes to one
On this Boules side; blow wind; T's fairely throwne;
The next Boul's worse that comes; Come boule away;
Mammon, you know the ground untutor'd, Play;
Your last was gone; a yard of strength, well spar'd,
Had touch'd the Block; your hand is still too hard.
Brave pastime, Readers, to consume that day,
Which, without pastime, flyes too swift away!
See how they labour; as if day and night
Were both too short, to serve their loose delight▪
See how their curved bodies wreath, and skrue
Such antick shapes as Proteus never knew:
One raps an oath: another deales a curse;
Hee never better bould; this, never worse:
One rubbes his itchlesse Elbow, shrugges, and laughs;
The tother bends his beetle-browes, and chafes,
Sometime they whoope; sometimes their Stigian cries
Send their Black-Santos to the blushing Skies:
Thus, mingling Humors in a mad confusion,
They make bad Premises, and worse conclusion:
But wher's the Palme that Fortunes hand allowes
To blesse the victors honourable Browes?
Come, Reader come; Ile light thine eye the way
To view the Prize, the While the Gamesters play;
Close by the Iack, Behold Gill fortune stands
To wave the game, see, in her partiall hands
The glorious Garland's held in open show,
To cheare the Ladds, and crowne the Conq'rers brow:
The world's the Jack; The Gamsters that contend,
Are Cupid, Mammon: That juditious Friend,
That gives the ground, is Satan; and the Boules
Are sinfull Thoughts: The Prize, a Crowne for Fooles.
Who breathes that boules not? what bold tongue can say
Without a blush, he hath not bould to day?
It is the trade of man; and every Sinner
Has plaid his Rubbers; Every Soule's a winner.
The vulgar Proverb's crost: He hardly can
Be a good Bouler and an honest man
Good God, turne thou my Brazil thoughts a new;
New soale my Boules, and make their Bras true:
I'le cease to game, till fairer Ground be given,
Nor wish to winne untill the Marke be heaven.
S. BERNARD lib. de Consid.
O you Sonnes of Adam, you covetous Generation, what have yee to do with earthly Riches, which are neither true, nor yours. Gold and silver are reall earth, red and white, which the onely error of man makes, or rather reputes pretious: Jn short, if they be yours carry them with you.
S. HIEROME. in Ep.
O Lust, thou infernall fire, whose Fuell is Gluttony; whose Flame is Pride; wose sparkles are wanton words; whose smoke is Infamie; whose Ashes are uncleanesse; whose end is Hell.
EPIG. 10.
Mammon, wel follow'd: Cupid brauely ledde [...]
oth Touchers; Equall Fortunes makes a dead [...]
No Reed can measure where the Conquest lies;
Take my advise; Compound, and share the Prize;
XI. EPH. II.II. Yee walked according to the course of this world, according to the Prince of the Aire.
1
O Whether will this mad-braine world, at last,
Be driv'n? where will her restlesse wheeles arive?
Why hurries on her ill match'd payre so fast?
O whether meanes her furious Groome to drive?
What? will her rambling Fits be never past?
For ever ranging? never once retrive?
Will earths perpetuall Progresse nere expire?
Her Teame continuing in their fresh Careire,
And yet they never rest, And yet they never tyre.
2
Sols hot-mouth'd Steeds, whose nostrils vomit flame,
And brazen lungs belch forth quotidian fire,
Their twelve houres taske perform'd, grow stiffe and lame,
And their immortall Spirits faint and tyre;
At th'Azure mountaines foot, their labours claime
The priviledge of Rest, where they retyre
To quench their burning Fetlocks, and to steepe
Their flaming nostrils in the Westerne deepe,
And fresh there tyred soules with strength-restoring sleepe.
3
But these prodigious Hackneyes, basely got
T'wixt men and Devils, made for Race, not flight,
Cān dragge the idle world, expecting not
The bed of Rest but travell with delight;
Who neither weighing way, nor weather, trott
Through dust and dirt, and droyle both night and day;
Thus droyle these f [...]ends incarnate, whose free paines
Are fed with dropsies, and veneriall Blaines.
No need to use the whip; but strength, to rule the raynes.
4
Poore Captive world! How has thy lightnesse given
A just occasion to thy foes illusion?
O, how art thou betray'd, thus fairely driven
In seeming Triumph to thy owne confusion?
How is thy empty universe bereiven
Of all true joyes, by one false Joyes delusion?
So have I seene an unblowne virgin fed
With suga'rd words so full, that shee is fed
A faire attended Bride, to a false Bankrupts Bed.
5
Pull, gracious LORD; Let not thine Arme forsake
The world, impounded in her owne devises;
Thinke of that pleasure that thou once did take
Amongst the Lillies, and sweet Beds of spices▪
Ha [...]e strongly thou whose hand has pow'r to slake
The swift foot Fury of ten thousand Vices:
Let not that dust-devouring Dragon boast.
His craft has wonne, what Judahs Lyon lost;
Remember what it crav'd; Recount the price it cost.
ISIDOR. lib. 1. De summo bono.
By how much the nearer Satan perceives the world to an end, by so much the more fiercely he troubles it with persecution; that knowing himselfe is to be damned, hee may get company in his damnation.
CIPRIAN in ep.
Broad and spatious is the road to infernall life: there are enticements and death, bringing pleasures. There the Devil flatters, that hee may deceive; Smiles, that he may endamage; allures, that he may destroy.
EPIG. II.
Nay soft and faire, good world; post not too fast;
Thy journeyes end requires not halfe this hast?
Unlesse that Arme thou so disdainst, reprives thee,
Alas thou needs must goe: the devil drives thee.
XII. ISAY LXVI.XI. Yee may sucke, but not be satisfied with the breast of her Consolation.
1
WHat never fill'd? Be thy lips skre'wd so fast
To th'earths full breast? For shame, for shame unseise thee:
Thou tak'st a surfeit, where thou shouldst but tast,
And mak'st too much not halfe enough, to please thee
Ah foole, forbeare; Thou swallow'st at one breath
Both food & poyson down; Thou draw'st both milk & death.
2
The ub'rous breasts, when fairely drawne, repast
The thriving Infant with their milkie flood,
But being overstraind, returne, at last,
Unholsome Gulps compos'd of wind and blood;
A mod'rate use does both repast and please;
Who straines beyond a meane, draws in and gulps disease.
3
But, O that meane whose good the least abuse
Make [...] bad, is too too hard to be directed;
Can Thornes bring grapes, or Crabs a pleasing juce?
Ther's nothing wholesome, where the whole's infected:
Unseise thy lips; Earths milk's a ripned Core
That drops from her disease, that matters from her Sore.
4
Think'st thou, that Paunch that burlyes out thy Coate,
Is thriving Fat; or flesh, that seemes so brawny?
Thy Paunch is dropfied and thy Chee [...] s are bloat;
Thy lips are white and thy complexion tawny;
Thy skin's a Bladder blowne with watry tumors;
Thy flesh a trembling Bogge, a Quagmire full of humors?
5
And thou whose thrivelesse hands are ever straining
Earths fluent Brests, into an empty Sive,
That alwaies hast, yet alwaies art complaining;
And whin'st for more then earth has pow'r to give,
Whose treasure flowes and flees away as fast,
That ever hast, and hast, yet hast not what thou hast;
6
Goe choose a Substance, foole, that will remaine
within the limits of thy leaking Measure;
Or else goe seeke an Urne that will retaine
The liquid Body of thy slipp'ry Treasure:
Alas, how poorely are thy labours crown'd?
Thy liquor's neither sweet, nor yet thy vessell sound.
7
What lesse then foole is Man, to progge, and plot,
And lavish out the Creame of all his care,
To gaine poore seeming goods, which, being got,
Make firme possession, but a Thorow-fare:
Or if they stay, they furrow thoughts the deeper,
And being kept with care, they loose their carefull keeper.
S. GREG. Hom 3. secund. parte Ezech.
If wee give more to the flesh then wee ought, wee nourish an Enemy; If we give not to her necessity what we ought, we destroy a Citizen: The flesh is to bee satisfied so farre as suffices to our good; whosoever allowes so much to her as to make her proud, knowes not how to be satisfied: To be satisfied, is a great Art; least by the society of the flesh we breake forth into the Iniquity of her folly.
HUGO de Anima.
The heart is a small thing, but desires great matters: It is not sufficient for a Kites dinner, yet the whole world is not sufficient for it.
EPIG. 12.
What makes thee, foole, so fat? Foole, thee so Bare?
Yee sucke the selfe-same milke; the selfe-same aire:
No meane betwixt all Paunch, and skinne and bone?
The meane's a vertue, and the world has none.
XIII. IOH. III.XIX. Men love darknesse rather then light, because their deeds are evill.
LORD, when we leave the World and come to Thee,
How dull; how slugge are wee?
How backward! how praeposterous is the motion
Of our ungaine devotion!
Our thoughts are Milstones, and our soules are lead,
And our desires are dead:
Our vowes are fairely promis'd, faintly paid;
Or broken, or not made:
Our better worke (if any good) attends
Upon our private ends:
In whose performance one poo [...]e worldly scoffe
Foyles us, or beates us off:
If thy sharpe scourge finde out some secret fault,
Wee grumble, or revolt.
And if thy gentle hand forbeare, wee stray,
Or idly lose the way:
Is the Roade faire? wee loyter: cloggd with myre▪
Wee sticke, or else retyre:
A Lambe appeares a Lyon; and we feare,
Each bush we see's a Beare.
When our dull soules direct their thoughts to Thee,
The soft-pac'd Snayle is not so slow as we:
But when at earth we dart our wing'd desire,
We burne, we burne like fire:
Like as the am'rous needle joyes to bend,
To her Magneticke Friend:
Or as the greedy Lovers eye-balls flye
At his faire Mistres eye,
So, we cling to earth; we fly, and puff,
Yet fly not fast enough;
If pleasure becken with her balmey hand
Her becke's a strong command▪
If Honour call us with her courtly breath,
An houres delay is death:
If profits golden finger'd Charmes enveigle's,
We clip more swift then Eagles:
Let Auster weep, or blustring Boreas rore
Till eyes or lungs be sore:
Let Neptune swell untill his dropsie-sides
Burst into broken Tides;
Nor threatning Rockes, nor windes, nor waves, nor Fire
Can curbe our fierce desire;
Nor Fire nor Rocks can stop our furious mindes,
Nor waves, nor winds;
How fast and fearelesse do our footsteps flee!
The lightfoot Roe-buck's not so swift as wee.
S. AUGUST. sup. psal. 64.
Two severall Lovers built two severall Cities; The love of God builds a Ierusalem; The love of the world builds a Babylon: Let every one enquire of himselfe what he loves, and hee shal resolve himselfe of whence he is a Citizen.
S. AUGUST. lib 3. Confess.
All things are driven by their owne weight, and tend to their owne Center: My weight is my love; By that I am driven whithersoever I am driven.
Ibidem.
LORD, he loves thee the lesse, that loves any thing with thee, which hee loves not for thee.
EPIG. 13.
Lord scourge my Asse if she should make no hast,
And curbe my Stagge if he should flee too fast:
If hee be overswift, or shee should prove idle,
Let Love lend him a spurre: Feare, her, a Bridle.
XIV. PSAL. XIII.III. Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, lest I sleepe the sleepe of death.
WIl't nere be morning? Will that promis'd light
Nere breake, and cleare these Clouds of night [...]
Sweet Phospher bring the day,
Whose conqu'ring Ray
May chase these fogges; Sweet Phospher bring the day,
How long! how long shall these be nighted eyes
Languish in shades, like feeble Flies
Expecting Spring! How long shall darknesse soyle
The face of earth and thus beguise
Our sōules of rightfull action? when will day
Begin to dawne, whose new-borne Ray
May gild the Wether-cocks of our devotion,
And give out unsoul'd soules new motion?
Sweet Phospher bring the day,
Thy light will fray
These horrid Mists; Sweet Phospher bring the day:
Let those have night, that slily [...]ove t'immure
Their cloyster'd Crimes, and sinne secure;
Let those have night, that blush to let men know
The basenesse they nere blush to do;
Let those have night, that love to take a Nappe
And loll in Ignorances lappe;
Let those whose eyes, like Oules abhorre the light,
Let those have Night that love the Night?
Sweet Phospher bring the day;
How sad delay
Afflicts dull hopes! Sweet Phospher bring the day.
Alas! my light-invaine-expecting eyes
Can find no Objects but what rise
From this poore morall blaze, a dying sparke
Of Vulcans forge, whose flames are darke
And dangerous, a dull blue burning light,
As melancholly as the night:
Here's all the Sunnes that glister in the Spheare
Of earth: Ah me! what comfort's here:
Sweet Phospher bring the day;
Haste, haste away,
Heav'ns loytring lampe; Sweet Phospher bring the day,
Blow ignorance, O thou, whose idle knee
Rocks earth into a Lethargie,
And with thy footy fingers hast bedight
The worlds faire cheekes, blow, blow thy spite;
Since thou hast pufft our greater Tapour, doe
Puffe on, and out the lesser too:
If ere that breath-exiled flame returne,
Thou hast not blowne, as it will burne:
Sweet Phospher bring the day
Light will repay
The wrongs of night: Sweet Phospher bring the day.
S. AUGUST. in Ioh. ser. 19.
God is all to thee; If thou be hungry, he is bread; If thirstie, he is water; If in darkenesse he is light; If naked, he is a Robe of Immortality.
ALANVS de conq: nat.
God is a light that is never darkned; An unwearied life, that cannot die; a Fountaine alwaies flowing; a garden of life; a Seminary of wisedome, a radicall beginning of all goodnesse.
EPIG. 14.
My Soule, if Ignorance puffe out this light
Shee'l do a favour that intends a spight:
'T seemes darke abroad; But take this light away,
Thy windowes will discover breake a day.
XV. REVEL. XII.XII. The Devill is come unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.
1
LORD? canst thou see and suffer? is thy hand
Still bound to th'peace? Shall earths black Monarch take
A full possession of thy wasted land?
O, will slumbring vengeance never wake,
Till full-ag'd law-resisting Custome shake
The pillours of thy right, by false command?
Unlocke thy Clouds, great Thund'rer, and come down;
Behold whose Temples weare thy sacred Crowne;
Redresse, redresse our wrongs; revenge, revenge thy owne.
2
See how the bold Usurper mounts the seat
Of royall Majestie; How overstrawing
Perils with pleasure, pointing ev'ry threat
With bugbeare death; by torments over-awing
Thy frighted subjects; or, by favours drawing
Their tempted hearts to his unjust retreat;
Lord, canst thou be so mild? and be so bold?
Or can thy flockes be thriving, when the fold
Js govern'd by a Fox? Lord, canst thou see and hold?
3
That swift-wing'd Advocate, that did commence
Our welcome Suits before the King of Kings,
That sweet Embassadour, that hurries hence
What Ayres th'harmonious soule or sighs or sings,
See how shee flutters with her idle wings;
Her wings are clipt, and eyes put out by Sense:
Sense conq'ring Faith is now growne blind, and cold,
And basely cravend, that, in times of old,
Did conquer heav'n it selfe, do what th'Almighty could.
4
Behold, how double fraud does scourge and teare
Astraeas wounded sides, plough'd up, and rent
With knotted cords, whose fury has no eare;
See how she stands a Pris'ner, to be sent
A Slave, into eternall banishment,
I know not whither, O, I know not where:
Her Patent must be cancel'd in disgrace;
And sweet-lipt Fraud, with her divided face,
Must act Astraeas part, must take Astraeas place.
5
Faiths pineons clipt? And faire Astraea gone?
Quick seeing Faith now blind? And Iustice see?
Has Iustice now found wings? And has Faith none?
What doe we here? who would not wish to bee
Dissolv'd from earth; and, with Astraea, flee
From this blinde dungeon, to that Sunne-bright Throne?
Lord, is thy Scepter lost, or laid aside?
Is hell broke loose, and all her Fiends untyed?
Lord rise, and rowze, and rule; and crush their furious Pride.
PETR. RAV. in Math.
The Devill is the author of evill; the fountaine of wickednesse; the Adversary of the Truth; the corrupter of the world; mans perpetuall Enemy; He plants snares; digs ditches; spurres bodies; he goads soules; He suggests thoughts, belches Anger; exposes vertue to hatred; makes vices beloved; sowes Errors, nourishes contention; disturbes peace, and scatters Affections.
MACAR.
Let us suffer with those that suffer, and be crucified with those that are crucified, that we may be glorified, with those that are glorified.
SAVANAR.
If there he no enemy, no fight; if no fight, no victory; if no victory, no crowne.
EPIG. 15.
My Soule, sit thou a patient looker on;
Iudge not the Play before the Play is done:
Her Plot has many Changes: Every Day
Speakes a new Scene; The last act crownes the Play.
THE SECOND BOOKE.
I.
Sic sumine lumen ademptum.
Will marshall scu:
I ESAY. L.XI. You that walke in the light of your owne fire, and in the sparkes that ye have kindled ye shall [...]e downe in sorrow.
1
DO silly Cupid snuffe, and trimme
Thy false, thy feeble light,
And make herselfe-consuming flames more bright;
Mee thinkes, she burnes too dimme▪
Is this that sprightly fire,
Whose more then sacred Beames inspire
The ravisht hearts of men, and so inflame desire?
2
See, Boy, how thy unthrifty blaze
Consumes; how fast she waines;
She spends her selfe, and her, whose wealth maintaines
Her weake, her idle Rayes;
Cannot thy lustfull blast,
Which gave it luster, make it last?
What heart can long be pleas'd, where pleasure spends so fast?
3
Goe, Wanton, place thy pale-fac'd light
Where never breaking day
Intends to visit mortals, or display
The sullen shades of night:
Thy Torch will burne more cleare
In nights un-Titand Hemispheare;
Heavns scornefull flames and thine can never co-appeare.
4
In vaine thy busie hands addresse
Their labour, to display
Thy easie blaze, within the veirge of day;
The greater drownes the lesse:
If heav'ns bright glory shine,
Thy glimring sparks must needs resigne;
Puffe out heave's glory then, or heav'n will work out thine:
5
Goe Cupids rammish Pander, goe,
Whose dull, whose low desire
Can finde sufficient warmth from Natures fire,
Spend borrow'd breath, and blow,
Blow wind, made strong with spite;
When thou hast pufft the greater light,
Thy lesser spark may shine, and warme the new made night;
6
Deluded mortals, tell me, when
Your daring breath has blowne
Heav'ns Tapour out, and you have spent your owne,
What fire shall warme ye then?
Ah Fooles, perpetuall night
Shall haunt your soules with Stigian fright,
Where they shall boile in flames, but flames shall bring no light.
S. GREG. Mor. 25.
By how much the lesse, man sees himselfe, by so much the lesse he displeases himselfe; And by how much the more hee sees the light of Grace, by so much the more hee disdaines the light of nature.
S. GREG. Mor.
The light of the understanding humilitie kindles and pride covers.
EPIG. 1.
Thou blowes heav'ns fire, the whilst thou goest about,
Rebellious foole, in vaine, to blow it out:
Thy Folly addes confusion to thy death;
Heav'ns fire confounds, when fann'd with Follies breath,
II. ECCLES. IV.VIII. There is no end of all his labour, neither is his eye satisfied with riches.
O How our wid'ned Armes can over-stretch
Their owne dimensions! How our hands can retch
Beyond their distance! How our yeelding brest
Can shrink, to be more full, and full possest
Of this inferiour Orbe! how earth refinde
Can cling to sordid earth! How kinde to kinde!
We gape, we graspe, we gript; adde store to store;
Enough requires too much; too much craves more;
We charge our soules so sore beyond their stint,
That we recoyle or burst; The busie Mint
Of our laborious thoughts is ever going,
And coyning new desires; desires, not knowing
Where next to pitch, but like the boundlesse Ocean
Gaine, and gaine ground, and grow more strong by motion;
The pale-fac d Lady of the black-eyed night
First tips her horned browes with easie light,
Whose curious traine of spangled Nymphs attire
Her next nights Glory with encreasing Fire;
Each ev'ning addes more luster, and adornes
The growing beauty of her grasping hornes,
Shee suckes and drawes her brothers golden store
Untill her glutted Orbe can sucke no more,
Ev'n so the Vultur of insatiate mindes,
Still wants, and wanting seekes; and seeking, findes
New fewell to encrease her rav'nous fire,
The grave is sooner cloyd then mens desire:
We crosse the Seas, and midst her waves we burne,
Transporting lifes, perchance that nere returne.
We sacke, we ransacke to the utmost sands
Of native Kingdomes, and of forraine lands;
We travell Sea, and Soyle; we pry; we proule,
We progresse, and we progge from pole to pole;
We spend our mid-day sweat, our mid-night oyle;
We tyre the night in thought; the day, in toyle;
We make Artservill, and the Trade gentile,
(Yet both corrupted with ingenious guile)
To compasse earth; and with her empty store,
To fill our Armes, and graspe one handfull more;
Thus seeking Rest, our labours never cease,
But as our yeares, our hot desires encrease;
Thus we poore little worlds (with blood and sweat)
In vaine attempt to comprehend the great;
Thus, in our gaine, become we gainefull losers,
And what's enclos'd, encloses the enclosers.
Now, reader, close thy Booke, and then advise:
Be wisely worldly, be not worldly wise;
Let not thy nobler thoughts be alwaies raking
The worlds base dunghill; Vermins tooke, by taking▪
Take heed thou trust not the deceitfull Lappe
Of wanton Delilah; The world's a Trappe.
HUGO de anima.
Tell me where be those now that so lately loved, and hugg'd the world? Nothing remaines of them but dust and wormes; Observe what those men were; what those men are: They were like thee; They did eate, drinke, laugh, and led merry dayes, and in a moment slipt into Hell: Here their flesh is foode for wormes: There, their soules are fuell of fire, till they shall be rejoyned in an unhappy fellowship, & cast into eternall torments; where they that were once companions in sinne shall be hereafter partners in punishment.
EPIG. [...].
Gripe, Cupid, and gripe still untill that wind,
That's pent before, finde secret vent behind:
And when th'ast done, bark here, I tell thee what,
Before I'le trust thy Armefull, Il'e trust that.
III. IOB XVIII.VIII. He is cast into a net by his owne feet, and walketh upon a snare.
1
WHat? Nets and Quiver too? what need there all
These slie devices to betray poore men?
Die they not fast enough, when thousands fall
Before thy Dart? what need these Engins then?
Attend they not, and answer to thy Call,
Like nightly Coveyes, where thou list? and when?
What needs a Stratagem where strength can sway?
Or what need strength compell, where none gainesay?
Or what need stratagem or strength, where hearts obey?
2
Husband thy sleights: It is but vaine to wast
Hony on those that will be catcht with Gall;
Thou canst not, ah, thou canst not bid so fast
As men obey; Thou art more slow to call:
Than they to come; thou canst not make such hast
To strike, as they, being struck, make hast to fall
Go save thy Nets for that rebellious heart
That scornes thy pow'r, and has obtain'd the Art
T'avoid thy flying shaft, to quench thy fir'y Dart.
3
Lost mortall, how is thy destruction sure,
Betweene two Bawds! and both without remorse;
The one's a Line, the tother is a Lure;
This, to entice thy soule; that, to enforce;
Way-layd by both, how canst thou stand secure?
That drawes, this wooes thee to th'eternall curse;
O charming Tyrant, how hast thou befool'd
And slav'd poore man, that would not, if he could
Avoid thy Line, thy Lure; nay, could not, if he would!
4
Alas thy sweet perfidious voice betrayes
His wanton eares with thy Syrenian baits;
Thou wrapft his eyes in mists, then boldly layes
Thy Lethall Ginns before their Christall Ga [...]s;
Thou lock'st up ev'ry Sense with thy false kayes,
All willing Pris'ners to thy close deceits;
His eare most nimble whereit deafe should be,
His eye most blind where most it ought to see,
And when his heart's most bound, then thinks it self most free.
5
Thou grand Imposter, how hast thou obtain'd
The wardship of the world; Are all men turn'd
Ideots, and Lunaticks? Are all retain'd
Beneath thy servile bands? Is none return'd
To his forgotten selfe? Has none regain'd
His senses? Are their senses all adjourn'd,
What none dismist thy Court? will no plumpe Fee
Bribe thy false fists, to make a glad Decree,
T'unfoole whom thou hast fool'd, and set thy pris'ners free?
S. BERN. in Ser.
In this world is much treacherie, little truth; here, all things are traps; here, every thing is be set with snares; here soules are endanger'd, bodies are afflicted; Here all things are vanity, and vexation of spirit.
EPIG. 3.
Nay, Cupid, pitch thy Trammill where thou please,
Thou canst not faile to take such fish as these;
Thy thriving sport will nev'r be spent; no need
To feare, when ev'ry Corck's a world; Thou'lt speed.
IV. HOS. XIII.III. They shalbe as the chaffe that is driven with a whirlewind out of the floore, and as the smoke out of the chimney.
FLint-hearted Stoicks, you, whose marble eyes
Contemne a wrinckle, and whose soules despise
To follow Natures too affected Fashion,
Or travell in the Regent-walk of Passion;
Whose rigid hearts disdaine to shrink at Feares,
Or play at fast and loose with Smiles and Teares;
Come burst your spleenes with laughter; to behold
A new found vanity; which 'dayes of old
Nev'r knew; A vanitie, that has beset
The world, and made more slaves then Mahomet:
That has condemn'd us to the servile yoke
Of slavery, and made us slaves to smoke:
But stay! why taxe I thus our moderne times,
For new-blowne Follies, and for new-borne Crimes?
Are we sole guilty, and the first Age free?
No, they were smoak'd, and slav'd as well as we:
What's sweet-lipt Honours blast, but smoke? What's treasure
But very smoke? And what more smoke than pleasure?
Alas: they'r all but shadowes, Fumes, and blasts;
That vanishes; this fades; the other wasts.
The restlesse Merchant; he, that loves to steepe
His braines in wealth, and layes his soule to sleepe
In bags of Bullion, sees th'immortall Crowne,
And faine would mount, but Ingots keep him downe:
He brags today, perchance, and begs to morrow;
He lent but now; wants Credit, now to borrow:
Blow windes the Treasur's gone; the Merchant's brok;
A slave to silver's but a slave to smoke:
Behold the Glory-vying Childe of Fame,
That from deep wounds sucks forth an honour'd name,
Tha [...] thinks no purchase worth the stile of good;
But what is sold for sweat, and seal'd with blood,
That for a Point, a blast of empty breath,
Vndaunted, gazes in the face of death;
Whose deare bought Bubble, fild with vaine renowne,
Breaks with a Phillip, or a Gen'ralls frowne;
His stroke got Honour staggers with a stroke;
A Slave to Honour is a Slave to Smoke:
And that fond soule which wasts his idle dayes
In loose delights, and sports about the Blaze
Of Cupids Candle; he that daily spies
Twin Babies in his Mistresse Gemenies,
Whereto his sad devotion does impart
The sweet burnt offring of a bleeding heart;
See, how his wings are sing'd in Cyprian fire,
Whose flames consume with youth; in Age, expire:
The world's a Bubble; all the pleasures in it,
Like morning vapours vanish in a minit.
The vapours vanish, and the Bubble's broke;
A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke.
Now, Stoick, cease thy laughter, and repast
Thy pickled cheeks with Teares, and weep as fast.
S. HIEROM.
That rich man is great, who thinkes not himselfe great because he is rich [...] the proud man (who is the poore man) brags outwardly, but begs inwardly: He is blowne up, but not full.
PETR. RAV.
Vexation and anguish accompany riches and honour: The pompe of the world and the favour of the people are but smoake, and a blast suddenly vanishing which, if they commonly please, commonly bring repentance, and for a minut of joy they bring an age of sorrow.
EPIG. 4.
Cupid; thy diet's strange; It dulls; It rowzes;
It cooles; It heats; it binds, and then it looses:
Dull-sprightly-cold-hot Foole, if ev'r it winds thee
Into a loosenesse once, take heed: It binds thee.
V PRO. XXIII.V. Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? for riches make themselves wings, they flie away as an Eagle.
1
FAlse world, thou ly'st: Thou canst not lend
The least delight.
Thy favours cannot gaine a Friend,
They are so sleight:
Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:
Poore are the wants that thou supply'st
And yet thou vaun'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heav'n; Fond earth thou boasts; False world thou ly'st.
2
Thy babbling Tongue tels golden Tales
Of endlesse Treasure;
Thy bountie offers easie sales
Of lasting pleasure;
Thou asks the Conscience what she ailes,
And swear'st to ease her;
Ther's none can want where thou supply'st:
There's none can give where thou deny'st▪
Alas, fond world thou boasts; false world thou ly'st.
3
What well advised eare regards
What earth can say?
Thy words are Gold, but thy rewards
Are painted Clay;
Thy cunning can but pack the Cards;
Thou canst not play:
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st;
Thou art not what thou seem'st: False world thou ly'st.
4
Thy tinsill boosome seemes a Mint
Of new-coynd treasure;
A Paradise, that has no stint,
No change, no measure;
A painted Cask, but nothing in't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure:
Vaine earth! that falsly thus comply'st
With man; Vaine man! that thus rely'st
On earth: Vaine man thou dot'st: Vaine earth thou ly'st.
5
What meane dull soules, in this high measure
To haberdash
In earths base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is drosse and trash?
The height of whose inchaunting pleasure
Is but a Flash?
Are these the goods that thou supply'st
Vs mortalls with? Are these the high'st?
Can these bring cordiall peace? False world thou ly'st.
PET. BLES.
This world is deceitfull; Her end is doubtfull; Her conclusion is horrible; Her judge is terrible; And her punishment is intolerable.
S. AUGUST. lib. Confess.
The vaine glory of this world is a deceitfull sweetnesse, a fruitlesse labour, a perpetuall feare, a dangerous honour; Her beginning is without providence, end her and not without repentance.
EPIG. 5.
World; th'art a Traytor; Thou hast stampt thy base
And Chymick metall with great Caesars face;
And with thy bastard Bullion thou hast barterd
For wares of price; How justly drawne and quarterd!
VI. IOB XV.XXXI. Let not him that is deceived trust in vanity, for vanity shall be his recompence.
1
BElieve her not: Her Glasse diffuses
False Portraitures: Thou canst espie
No true reflection: She abuses
Her mis-inform'd beholders eye;
Her Chrystal's falsly steel'd. It scatters
Deceitfull beames; Beleeve her not: She flatters,
2
This flaring Mirrour representes
No right Proportion, heiw, nor Feature:
Her very looks are Complements;
They make thee fairer, goodlier, greater;
The skilfull Glosse of her reflection
But paints the Context of thy course Complexion.
3
Were thy dimension but a stride,
Nay, wert thou statur'd but a span,
Such as the long-bill'd Troopes defi'd,
A very Fragment of a Man;
Shee'l make thee Mimas, which ye will,
The love-slaine Tyrant, or th'Ionick Hill.
4
Had surfeits, or th'ungratious Starre
Conspir'd to make one Common place
Of all deformities, that are
Within the Volume of thy face,
Shee'd lend thee favour, should out-move
The Troy-bane Hellen, or the Queen of Love,
5
Were thy consum'd estate as poore
As Lazars, or afflicted Iobs,
Shee's change thy wants to seeming store,
And turne thy Raggs to purple Robes;
Shee'l make thy hide-bound flanck appeare
As plump as theirs that feast it all the yeare.
6
Looke off; let not thy Opticks be
Abus'd; thou seest not what thou shouldst;
Thy selfe's the Object thou should'st see,
But 'tis thy shadow thou behold'st:
And shadowes thrive the more in stature,
The nearer we approach the light of nature.
7
Where heav'ns bright beames looke more direct,
The shadow shrinks as they grow stronger;
But when they glaunce their faire aspect,
The bold-fac'd shade growes larger, longer;
And when their lamp begins to fall,
Th'increasing shadowes lengthen most of all.
8
The soule that seeks the noone of Grace,
Shrinks in; but swels, if Grace retreat;
As heav'n lifts up, or veiles his Face,
Our selfe-esteemes grow lesse, or great,
The least is greatest; And who shall
Appeare the greatest, are the least of all.
HVGO lib. 3. de anima.
In vaine he lifts up the eye of his heart to behold his God, who is not first rightly advised to behold himselfe: First thou must see the vi [...]ble things of thy selfe, before thou canst be prepared to know the invisible things of God, for if thou canst not apprehend the things within thee, thou canst not comprehend the things above thee: The best looking-glasse wherein to see thy God, is perfectly to see thy selfe.
EPIG. 6.
Be not deceiv'd, great Foole; There is no losse
In being small: Great bulks but swell with drosse:
Man is heav'ns Master-peece; If it appeare
More great, the valu's lesse; If lesse, more deare.
VII. DEVT. XXX.XIX. I have set before thee life and death, blessin and cursing, therefore choose life, that thou and thy seede may live.
1
THe world's a Floore, whose swelling heapes retaine
The mingled wages of the Ploughmans toyle;
The world's a Heape, whose yet unwinnowed graine
Is lodg'd with chaffe and buried in her soyle;
All things are mixt; the usefull with the vaine;
The good with bad, the noble with the vile;
The world's an Ark, wherein things pure and grosse
Present their lossefull gaine, and gainefull losse,
Where ev'ry dram of Gold containes a pound of drosse,
2
This furnisht Ark presents the greedy view
With all that earth can give, or heav'n can add;
Here, lasting joyes; here, pleasures hourely new,
And hourely fading, may be wisht and had:
All points of Honour; counterfeit and true
Salute thy soule, and wealth both good and bad:
Here maist thou open wide the two-leav'd doore
Of all thy wishes, to receive that store
Which being empty most; does overflow the more.
3
Come then, my soule, approach this royall Burse,
And see what wares our great Exchange retaines;
Come, come; here's that shall make a firme divorse
Betwixt thy Wants and thee, if want complaines;
No need to sit in councell with thy purse,
Here's nothing good, shall cost more price than paines:
But O my soule, take heed; If thou relie
Vpon thy faithlesse Opticks, thou wilt buy
Too blind a bargaine: know; Fooles onely trade by th'Eye.
4
The worldly wisedome of the foolish man
Is like a Sive, that does, alone, retaine
The grosser substance of the worthlesse Bran;
But thou, my soule, let thy brave thoughts disdaine
So course a purchase; O, be thou a Fan
To purge the Chaffe, and keepe the winnow'd Graine;
Make cleane thy thoughts, and dresse thy mixt desires;
Thou art heav'ns Tasker; and thy GOD requires
The purest of thy Floore, as well as of thy fires.
5
Let grace conduct thee to the paths of peace,
And wisedome blesse thy soules umblemisht wayes,
No matter, then, how short or long's the Lease,
Whose date determins thy selfe-numbred dayes;
No need to care for wealths or Fames increase,
Nor Mars his Palme, nor high Apollo's Bayes:
LORD, if thy gracious bounty please to fill
The floore of my desires, and teach me skill
To dresse and chuse the Corn, take those the Chaffe that will▪
S. AUGUST. lib 1. de doct. Christi.
Temporall things more ravish in the expectation, than in fruition: but things eternall more in the fruition than expectation.
Ibidem.
The life of a man is the middle betweene Angels and beasts: If man takes pleasure in carnall things, hee is compared to beasts; But if he delights in spirituall things, he is suited with Angels.
EPIG. 7.
Art thou a Child? Thou wilt not then be fed,
But like a Child, and with the Childrens bread:
But thou art fed with chaffe, or corne undrest:
My soule thou savour'st too much of the Brest.
VIII. PHIL. III. XIX. They minde earthly things, but our conversation is in heaven.
Venus. Div. Cupid.
Ve.
WHat meanes this peevish Brat? Whish, Lullaby;
What ayles my Babe? What ayles my Babe to cry?
Will nothing still it? will it neither be
Pleas'd with the Nurses breast nor Mothers knee?
What ayles my Bird? What moves my froward Boy
To make such whimpring faces? Peace, my Ioy:
Will nothing doe? Come, come, this pettish Brat,
Thus cry and bawle, and cannot tell for what?
Come busse and friends, my lambe; whish, lullaby,
What ayles my Babe? What ayles my Babe to cry?
Peace, peace my deare; alas, thy early yeares
Had never faults to merit halfe these teares;
Come smile upon me: Let thy mother spie
Thy Fathers Image in her Babies eye:
Husband these guiltlesse drops against the rage
Of harder fortunes, and the gripes of Age;
Thine eye's not ripe for teares: whish, lullaby;
What ayles my Babe, mine sweet-fac'd Babe to cry?
Looke, looke, what's here! A dainty Golden thing:
See how the dauncing Bells turn round and ring
[Page 94]To please my Bantling! Here's a knack will breed
A hundred kisses: Here's a knack indeed,
So, now my bird is white, and looks as faire
As Pelops shoulder, or my milke-white paire:
Here's right the Fathers smile; when Mars beguil'd
Sick Venus of her heart, just thus he smil'd.
DIVIN. CVPID.
Well may they smile alike: Thy base-bred Boy
And his base Syre had both one Cause; A Toy:
How well their subjects and their smiles agree?
Thy Cupid finds a Toy, and Mars found thee:
False Queene of Beauty, Queene of false delights,
Thy knee presents an Embleme, that invites
Man to himselfe, whose selfe-transported heart
(Ov'rwhelm'd with native sorrowes, and the smart
Of purchas'd griefes) lies whining night and day,
Not knowing why, till heavy-heeld delay
The dull-brow'd Pander of despaire, layes by
His leaden Buskins, and presents his eye
With antick Trifles, which th'indulgent earth
Makes proper Objects of mans childish mirth:
These be the coyne that passe; the sweets that please;
There's nothing good, there's nothing great but these:
These be the Pipes that base-borne minds daunce after,
And turne immod'rate teares to lavish laughter;
Whilst heav'nly Raptures passe without regard;
Their strings are harsh and their high straines unheard:
The plough mans Whistle, or the triviall Flute
Find more respect than great Apollo's Lute:
Wee'l looke to heav'n and trust to higher Ioyes;
Let Swine love Husks, and children whine for Toyes:
S. BERN.
That is the true and chiefe joy, which is not conceived from the creature, but received from the Creator; which (being once possest thereof) none can take from thee, whereto all pleasure being compared, is torment; all joy is griefe; sweet things are bitter, all glory is basenesse, and all delectable things are despicable.
S. BERN.
Ioy in a changeable subject must necessarily change as the subject changes.
EPIG. 8.
Peace, childish Cupid, peace: Thy finger'd eye
But cries for what, in time, will make thee cry:
But are thy peevish wranglings thus appeas'd?
Well maist thou cry, that art so poorely pleas'd.
IX. ESAY X.III. What will ye do in the day of your visitation? to whom will ye flie for help? and where will ye leave your glory?
1
IS this that jolly God, whose Cyprian Bow
Has shot so many flaming darts,
And made so many wounded Beauties goe
Sadly perplext with whimpering hearts?
Is this that Sov'raigne Deity that brings
The slavish world in awe, and stings
The blundring soules of swaines, and stoops the hearts of Kings
2
What Circean Charme? what Hecatean spight
Has thus abus'd the God of love?
Great Iove was vanquisht by his greater might;
(And who is stronger-arm'd than Iove?)
Or has our lustfull God perform'd a Rape,
And (fearing Argus eyes) would scape
The view of jealous earth, in this prodigious shape?
3
Where be those Rosie Cheeks, that lately scorn'd
The malice of injurious Fates?
Ah, wher's that pearle Percullis, that adorn'd
Those dainty two-leav'd Ruby gates?
Where be those killing eyes, that so controld
The world? And locks, that did infold
Like knots of flaming wyre, like Curles of burnisht Gold?
4
No, no, 'Twas neither Hecatean spite
Nor Charme below, nor pow'r above;
'Twas neither Circes spell; nor Stigian sprite,
That thus transform'd our God of Love;
'Twas owle-ey'd Lust (more potent farre than they)
Whose eyes and actions hate the day;
Whom all the world observe; whom all the world obay.
5
See how the latter Trumpets dreadfull blast
Affrights stout Mars his trembling Son!
See, how he startles! how he stands agast,
And scrambles from his melting Throne!
Hark, how the direfull hand of vengeance teares,
The sweltring Clouds, whilst heav'n appeares
A Circle fil'd with flame, and centerd with his feares.
6
This is that day, whose oft report hath worne
Neglected Tongues of Prophets bare;
The faithlesse subject of the worldlings scorne,
The summe of men and Angels pray'r:
This, this the day whose All-descerning light
Ransacks the secret dens of night,
And severs Good from Bad; true Ioyes from false Delight.
7
You grov'ling Worldlings, you whose wisedome trades,
Where light nev'r shot his Golden Ray;
That hide your Actions in Cymerian shades,
How will your eyes indure this day?
Hils wil be deafe, and mountaines will not heare;
There be no Caves, no Corners there,
To shade your soules from fire, to shield your hearts from feare.
HUGO.
O the extreame loathsomnesse of fleshly lust, which not onely effeminates the mind, but enerves the body; which not onely distaines the soule, but disguises the person! It is usher'd with fury and wantonnesse, It is accompanied with filthinesse and uncleannesse, and it is followed with griefe and repentance.
EPIG. 9.
What? sweet-fac'd Cupid, has thy bastard-treasure,
Thy boasted Honours, and thy bold-fac'd pleasure
Perplext thee now? I told thee long ago,
To what they'd bring thee, foole, To wit, to woe,
X NAH. II.X. Shee is emptie, and void, and waste
1
SHe's empty: Hark, she sounds: There's nothing there
But noyse to fill thy eare,
Thy vaine enquiry can, at length, but find
A blast of murm'ring wind:
It is a Cask, that seems as full, as faire;
But meerely tunn'd with Ayres
Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds:
Thy soule that vainely founds
Her joyes upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds:
2
Shee's empty: Hark; she sounds: Ther's nothing in't
The spark-ingendring Flint
Shall sooner melt, and hardest Raunce, shall first,
Dissolve and quench thy thirst,
Ere this false world shall still thy stormy brest
With smooth fac'd Calmes of Rest:
Thou mayst, as well, expect Meridian light
From shades of black-mouth'd night,
As in this empty world to find a full delight.
3
Shee's empty: Hark; she sounds; 'Tis void and vast;
What if some flattring blast
Of flatuous Honour should perchance, be there;
And whisper in thine eare,
It is but wind; and blowes but where it list,
And vanishes like a Mist:
Poore Honour earth can give! What gen'rous mind
Would be so base, to bind
Her heav'n-bred soule a slave, to serve a Blast of wind?
4
Shee's empty: Hark; She sounds: 'Tis but a Ball
For Fooles to play with all;
The painted filme but of a stronger Bubble,
That's lin'd with silken trouble;
It is a world, whose Worke, and Recreation
Is vanity, and vexation;
A Hagg, repair'd with vice-complexion, paint:
A Questhouse of complaint;
It is a Saint; a Fiend: worse Fiend, when most a Saint.
5
Shee's empty: Hark; she sounds: 'Tis vaine and void;
What's here to be enjoyed,
But Griefe, and sicknesse, and large bills of sorrow,
Drawne now, and crost to morrow?
Or what are Men, but puffs of dying breath,
Reviv'd with living death?
Fond lad; O build thy hopes on surer grounds
Than what dull flesh propounds;
Trust not this hollow world, shee's empty: Hark; she sounds,
S. CHRYS. in Ep. ad Heb.
Contemne riches, and thou shalt be rich; Contemne glory, and thou shalt be glorious; contemne injuries, and thou shalt be a conquerer; Contemne rest, and thou shalt gaine rest; Contemne earth, and thou shalt find Heaven.
HUGO. lib. de Vanit. mundi.
The world is a vanity which affords neither beauty to the amorous, nor reward to the laborious, nor incouragement to the industrious.
EPIG. 10.
This house is to be let; for life or yeares;
Her rent is sorrow, and her In-come, Teares:
Cupid, 't' as long stood void: Her bills make knowne,
She must be dearely Let; or let alone.
XI. MAT. VII.XIV. Narrow is the way that leadeth unto life and few there be that finde it.
PRepost'rous foole, thou troul'st amisse:
Thou err'st; That's not the way, 'Tis this:
Thy hopes, instructed by thine Eye,
Make thee appeare more neare than I;
My floore is not so flat, so fine,
And has more obvious Rubs than thine;
'Tis true; my way is hard, and strait,
And leads me through a thorny Gate;
Whose ranckling pricks are sharpe and fell;
The common way to Heav'n's by Hell:
'Tis true; Thy path is short and faire,
And free of Rubbs: Ah, foole, beware,
The safest Road's not alwayes ev'n;
The way to Hell's a seeming Heav'n;
Think'st thou, the Crown of Glory's had
With idle ease, fond Cyprian Lad?
Think'st thou, that mirth, and vaine delights;
High feed, and shadow-shortning nights,
Soft knees, full bones, and Beds of Downe
Are proper Prologues to a Crowne?
Or canst thou hope to come, and view,
Like prosperous Caesar, and subdue?
The bond-slave Vsurer will trudge
In spite of Gouts, will turne a drudge,
And serve his soule-condemning purse,
T'increase it with the widdowes Curse;
And shall the Crowne of glory stand
Not worth the waving of a hand?
The fleshly wanton, to obtaine
His minit-lust, will count it gaine
To lose his freedome, his Estate
Vpon so deare, so sweet a rate;
Shall pleasures thus be priz'd, and must
Heav'ns Palme be cheaper than a lust?
The true-bred Spark, to hoyse his name
Vpon the waxen wings of Fame,
Will fight undaunted, in a Flood
That's rais'd with brackish drops, and blood:
And shall the promis'd Crowne of life
Be thought a Toy, not worth a Strife?
An easie Good, brings easie Gaines,
But things of price are bought with paines:
The pleasing way is not the right:
He that would conquer heav'n, must fight.
S. HIEROM. in Ep.
No labour is hard, no time is long, wherein the glory of Eternity is the marke we levell at.
S. GREG. lib. 8. Mor.
The val [...]ur of a just man is to conquer the flesh, to contradict his owne will, to quench the delights of this present life, to endure and love the miseries of this world for the reward of a better, to contemne the flatteries of prosperity, and inwardly to overcome the feares of adversity.
EPIG. 11.
O Cupid, if thy smoother way were right,
I should mistrust this Crowne were counterfeit▪
The way's not easie where the Prize is great:
I hope no vertues, where I smell no sweat.
XII. GAL. VI.XIV. God forbid that I should glory, save in the Crosse.
1
CAn nothing settle my uncertaine brest,
And fix my rambling Love?
Can my affections find out nothing best?
But still, and still remove?
Has earth no mercy? Will no Ark of Rest
Receive my restlesse Dove?
Is there no Good, than which ther's nothing higher,
To blesse my full desire
With Ioyes that never change; with Ioyes that nev'r expire;
2
I wanted wealth; and, at my deare request,
Earth lent a quick supply;
I wanted Mirth, to charme my sullen brest;
And who more brisk than I?
I wanted Fame, to glorifie the rest;
My fame flew Eagle-high:
My Ioy not fully ripe, but all decaid;
Wealth vanisht like a shade;
My mirth began to flag, my Fame began to fade.
3
The world's an Ocean, hurried to and fro,
With evry blast of passion:
Her lustfull streames, when either ebb or flow,
Are tides of mans vexation:
They alter daily, and they daily grow
The worse by alteration:
The Earth's a Cask full tun'd, yet wanting measure;
Her precious wine, is pleasure;
Her Yest is Honours puffe; Her Lees are wordly treasure.
4
My trust is in the Crosse: Let Beauty flag
Her loose, her wanton saile;
Let count'nance-gilding Honour cease to brag
In courtly termes, and vale;
Let ditch-bred wealth, henceforth, forget to wag
Her base though golden taile;
False beauties conquest is but reall losse,
And wealth but golden drosse;
Best Honon's but a blast: my trust is in the Crosse.
5
My trust is in the Crosse: There lies my rest;
My fast, my sole delight;
Let cold-mouth'd Boreas, or the hot-mouth'd East
Blow till they burst with spight;
Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best,
And joyne their twisted might:
Let showres of Thunderbolts dart down, and wound me,
And troupes of Fiends surround me,
All this may well confront; all this shall nev'r confound me.
S. AUGUST.
Christs Crosse is the Chriscrosse of all our happinesse; It delivers us from all blindnesse of errour, and enriches our darkenesse with light; It restores the troubled soule to rest; It brings strangers to Gods Acquaintance; It makes remote forreiners neare neighbours; It cuts off discord; concludes a league of everlasting peace, and is the bounteous Author of all Good.
S. BERNARD in Ser. de resur▪
Wee find glory in the Crosse; To us that are saved it is the power of God, and the fulnesse of all vertues.
EPIG. 12.
I follow'd Rest, Rest sled, and soone forsooke me;
I ran from Griefe, Griefe ran, and over-tooke me.
What shall I doe? Lest I be too much tost
On worldly Crosses, LORD, let me be crost.
XIII. PRO. XXVI.XI. As a Dog returneth to his vomit, so a foole returneth to his follie.
O I am wounded! And my wounds doe smart
Beyond my patience, or great Chirons Art;
I yeeld, I yeeld; The day, the Palme is thine;
Thy Bow's more true; thy shafts more fierce than mine.
Hold, hold, O hold thy conq'ring hand▪ What need
To send more darts; The first has done the deed:
Oft have we struggled, when our equall Armes
Shot equall shafts; inflicted equall harmes;
But this exceeds, and with her flaming head,
Twyfork'd with death, has struck my Conscience dead:
But must I die? Ah me! If that were all,
Then, then I'd stroke my bleeding wounds, and call
This dart a Cordiall, and with joy, endure
These harsh Ingredients, where my Griefe's my Cure.
But something whispers in my dying eare,
There is an After-day; which day I fea [...]e:
The slender debt to Nature's quickly payd,
Discharg'd, perchance, with greater ease than made;
But if that pale-fac'd Sergeant make Attest,
Ten thousand Actions would (whereof the least
Is more than all this lower world can bayle)
Be entred, and condemne me to the Iayle
Of Stygian darkenesse, bound in red-hot Chaines,
And grip'd with Tortures worse than Tytian paines;
Farewell my vaine, farewell my loose delights;
Farewell my rambling dayes; my rev'ling nights;
'Twas you betrayd me first, and when ye found
My soule at vantage: gave my soule the wound:
Farewell my Bullion Gods, whose sov'raigne lookes
So ofte [...] catch'd me with their golden hookes;
Go, seek another slave; yee must all go;
I cannot serve my God, and Bullion too:
Farewell false Honour; you, whose ayry wings
Did mount my soule above the Thrones of kings;
Then flatter'd me; tooke pet; and, in disdaine,
Nipt my greene buds; then kickt me down againe:
Farewell my Bow: Farewell my Cyprian Quiver;
Farewell, deare world; farewell, deare world, for ever,
O, but this most delicious world, how sweet
Her pleasures relish! Ah! How jump they meet
The grasping soule! And, with their sprightly fire,
Revive, and raise, and rowze the rapt desire!
For ever? O, to part so long? What never
Meet more? Another yeare; and then, for ever:
Too quick resolves do resolution wrong;
What, part so soone, to be divorc'd so long?
Things to be done are long to be debated;
Heav'n is not day'd. Repentance is not dated.
S. AUGUST. lib. de util. agen. paen.
Goe up my soule into the Tribunall of thy Conscience; There set thy guilty selfe before thy selfe: Hide not thy selfe behind thy selfe, least God bring thee forth before thy selfe.
S. AUGUST. in Soliloq.
In vaine is that washing, where the next sin defiles: Hee hath ill repented whose sinnes are repeated: that stomack is the worse for vomiting, that licks up his vomit.
ANSELM.
God hath promised pardon to him that repenteth, but he hath not promised repentance to him that sinneth.
EPIG. 13.
Braine wounded Cupid, had this hasty dart
As it hath prickt thy Fancy, pierc'd thy heart,
'T had beene thy Friend: O how has it deceiy'd thee?
For had this dart but kill'd, this dart had say'd thee.
XIV. PRO. XXIV.XVI. A just man falleth seaven times and riseth up againe, but the wicked shall fall into mischiefe.
1
TIs but a Foyle at best, And that's the most
Your skill can boast:
My slippry footing fail'd me; and you tript,
Iust as I slipt:
My wanton weakenesse did her selfe betray
With too much play:
I was too bold: He never yet stood sure,
That stands secure:
Who ever trusted to his native strength,
But fell at length?
The Title's craz'd the Tenour is not good,
That claimes by th'Evidence of flesh and Blood.
2
Boast not thy skill; The Righteous man falls oft,
Yet falls but soft:
There may be dirt to mire him; but, no stones,
To crush his bones:
What, if he staggers? Nay, put case he be
Foyl'd on his knee;
That very knee will bend to heav'n, and woo
For mercy too.
The true-bred Gamester ups a fresh; and then,
Falls to't agen;
Whereas the leaden-hearted Coward lies,
And yeelds his conquer'd life; or cravend, dies:
3
Boast not thy Conquest; thou, that ev'ry houre,
Falst ten times lower;
Nay, hast not pow'r to rise, if not, in case,
To fall more base:
Thou wallow'st where I slip; and thou dost tumble,
Where I but stumble:
Thou glory'st in thy slav'ries dirty Badges,
And fal'st for wages:
Sowre griefe, and sad repentance scowres and cleares
My staines with teares;
Thy falling keeps thy falling still in ure;
But when I slip, I stand the more secure.
4
LORD what a nothing is this little Span,
We call a Man!
What fenny trash maintaines the smooth'ring fires
Of his desires!
How sleight and short are his Resolves at longest!
How weake, at strongest.
O if a Sinner, held by thy fast hand
Can hardly stand,
Good GOD! in what a desp'rate case are they
That have no stay!
Mans state implies a necessary Curse;
When not himselfe, hee's mad; when most himself, hee's worse.
S. AMBROS. in Serm. ad vincula.
Peter stood more firmely after he had lamented his fall, than before he fell. Insomuch that he found more grace than he lost grace.
S. CHRYS. in Ep. ad Heliod. monach.
It is no such hainous matter to fall afflicted; as being downe, to lie dejected: It is no danger for a souldier to receive a wound in battell, but after the wound received, through despaire of recovery, to refuse a Remedy; For wee often see wounded Champions weare the Palme at last, and after flight, crown'd with victory.
EPIG. 14.
Triumph not, Cupid, His mischance does show
Thy Trade; does once, what thou dost alwayes do:
Brag not too soone: Has thy prevailing hand
Foyl'd him? Ah Foole, Th'ast taught him how to stand:
XV. IER. XXXII.XL. I will put my feare in their hearts, that they shall not depart from me.
SO; now the soule's sublim'd: Her sowre desires
Are re-calcin'd in heav'ns well tempred Fires:
The heart restor'd and purg'd from drossie Nature,
Now finds the freedeme of a new-borne Creature:
It lives another life, it breaths new Breath;
It neither feeles nor feares the sting of death:
Like as the idle vagrant (having none)
That boldly dopts each house he viewes, his owne;
Makes ev'ry purse his Chequer; and at's pleasure,
Walks forth, and taxes all the world, like Caesar,
At length, by vertue of a just command,
His sides are lent to a severer hand;
Whereon, his Passe, not fully understood,
Is taxed in a Manuscript of Blood;
Thus past from towne to towne, untill he come
A sore Repentant to his native home:
Ev'n so the rambling heart, that idly roves
From Crime to Sin; and uncontrol'd, removes
From lust to lust, when wanton flesh invites
From old-worne pleasures to new choice delights,
At length corrected by the filiall Rod
Of his offended (but his gracious GOD)
And lasht from Sinnes to sighs; and, by degrees.
From sighs to vowes; From vowes, to bended knees,
From bended knees, to a true pensive brest;
From thence, to torments, not by tongues exprest,
Returnes; and (from his sinfull selfe exil'd)
Finds a glad Father; He, a welcome Child:
O, then, it lives; O then, it lives involv'd:
In secret Raptures; pants to be dissolv'd:
The royall Of-spring of a second Birth
Sets ope to heav'n, and shuts the doores to earth:
If love-sicke love-commanded Clouds should hap
To raine such show'rs as quickned Danaes lap:
Or dogs (far kinder than their purple Master)
Should lick his sores, he laughs nor weepes the faster.
If Earth (Heav'ns Rivall) dart her idle Ray;
To heav'n, 'tis Wax, and to the world, 'tis Clay;
If earth present delights, it scornes to draw,
But, like the Iet unrub'd, disdaines that straw:
No hope deceives it, and no doubt divides it;
No Griefe disturbes it; and no Errour guides it;
No Feare distracts it; and no Rage inflames it;
No Guilt condemnes it; and no Folly shames it;
No sloth besots it; and no lust inthrals it;
No Scorne afflicts it; and no Passion gawles it:
It is a Carknet of immortall life;
An Arke of peace; The Lists of sacred Strife;
A purer peece of endlesse Transitory;
A Shrine of Grace; A little Throne of Glory;
A Heav'n borne Of-spring of a new-borne birth;
An earthly Heav'n; An ounce of heav'nly Earth.
S. AUGUST. de spir. & anima.
O happie heart, where piety affects; where, humility subjects, where, repentance corrects; where, obedience directs; where, perseverance perfects; where, power protects; where, devotion projects; where, charity connects.
S. GREG.
Which way soever the heart turnes it selfe (if carefully) it shall commonly observe, that in those very things we lose God, in those very things we shall find God; It shall find the heat of his power in consideration of those things, in the love of which things he was most cold; and by what things it fell, perverted, by those things it is raised, converted.
EPIG. 15.
My heart, but wherefore do I call thee so?
I have renounc'd my Intrest long agoe:
When thou wert false, and fleshly, I was thine;
Mine wert thou never, till thou were not mine.
THE THIRD BOOKE.
The Entertainement.
ALL you whose better thoughts are newly born,
And (rebaptiz'd with holy fire) can scorn
The worlds base trash, whose necks disdain to beare
Th'imperious yoke of Satan; whose chast eare
No wanton Songs of Syrens can surprize
With false delight; whose more than Eagle-eyes
Can view the glorious flames of Gold, and gaze
On glittring beames of Honour, and not daze;
Whose soules can spurne at pleasure, and deny
The loose Suggestions of the flesh; draw nigh:
And you, whose am'rous, whose select desires
Would feele the warmth of those transcendent fires,
Which (like the rising Sun) put out the light
Of Venus starre, and turne her day to night;
You that would love, and have your passions crown'd
With greater happinesse than can be found
In your own wishes; you, that would affect
Where neither, scorn, nor guile, nor disrespect
Shall wound your tortur'd Soules; that would enjoy,
Where neither want can pinch, nor fulnesse cloy;
Nor double doubt afflicts, nor baser Feare
Vnflames your courage in pursuit; draw neare:
Shake hands with earth, and let your soule respect
Her Ioyes no further than her Ioyes reflect
Vpon her Makers Glory, if thou swim
In wealth, See him in all; See all in Him:
Sink'st thou in want, and is thy small Cruise spent?
See Him in want; Enjoy [...]im in Content:
Conceiv'st Him lodg'd in C [...]oste▪ or lost in paine?
In Pray'r and Patience find Him out againe▪
Make Heav'n thy Mistresse, Let no Change remove
Thy loyall heart: Be fond; be sick of Love:
What if he stop his [...] knit his Brow?
At length hee'l be as fond, as sick as thou:
Dart up thy Soule in Groanes: Thy secret Grone
Shall pierce his Eare, shall pierce his Eare, alone:
Dart up thp Soule in vowes; Thy sacred Vow
Shall find him out, where heav'n alone shall know:
Dart up thy Soule in sighs: Thy whispring sigh
Shall rouze his eares, and feare no listner nigh:
Send up thy Grones, thy Sighs, thy closet Vow;
There's none, there's none shall know but Heav'n and thou:
Grones fresht with vowes, and vowes made salt with teares,
Vnscale his eyes, and scale his conquer'd eares:
Shoot up the bosome Shafts of thy desire,
Feather'd with Faith, and double forkt with Fire,
And they will hit; Feare not, where heav'n bids Come:
Heav'ns never deafe, but when mans heart is dumbe.
I. ESAY XXIX.VI. My soule hath desired thee in the Night.
GOod God! what horrid darkenesse do's surround
My groping soule! How are my Senses bound
In utter shades; and, muffled from the light,
Lusk in the bosome of eternall night!
The bold-fac'd Lamp of heav'n can set and rise;
And, with his morning glory, fill the eyes
Of gazing Mortals, his victorious Ray
Can chase the shadowes, and restore the day:
Nights bashfull Empresse, though she often wayne,
As oft repents her darknesse; primes againe;
And with her circling Hornes does re-embrace
Her brothers wealth, and orbs her silver face.
But, ah, my Sun, deep swallow'd in his Fall,
Is set, and cannot shine; nor rise at all:
My bankcrupt Waine can beg nor borrow light;
Alas, my darkenesse is perpetuall night.
Falls have their Risings; Wainings have their Primes,
And desp'rate sorrowes wait their better times,
Ebbs, have their Floods, and Autumnes have their Springs;
All States have Changes hurried with the swings
Of Chance, and Time, still tiding to and fro:
Terrestriall Bodies and Celestiall too▪
How often have I vainely grop'd about,
With lengthned Armes, to find a passage out,
That I might catch those Beames mine eye desires,
And bathe my soule in those Celestiall fires:
Like as the Hagard, cloyster'd in her M [...]e,
To scowre her downy Robes, and to renew
Her broken Flags, preparing t'overlooke
The tim'rous Malard at the sliding Brooke,
Iets oft from Perch to Perch; from Stock to ground;
From ground to Wandow, thus surveying round
Her dove-befeatherd Prison, till at length,
(Calling her noble Birth to mind, and strength
Whereto her wing was borne) her ragged Beake
Nips off her dangling Iesses, strives to breake
Her gingling Fetters, and begins to bate
At ev'ry glimspe, and darts at ev'ry grate:
Ev'n so my weary soule, that long has bin
An Inmate in this Tenement of Sin,
Lockt up by Cloud-brow'd Error, which invites
My cloystred Thoughts to feed on black delights,
Now scornes her shadowes, and begins to dart
Her wing'd desires at Thee, that onely art
The Sun she seeks, whose rising beames can fright
These duskie Clouds that make so darke a night:
Shine forth, great Glory, shine; that I may see
Both how to loath my selfe, and honour Thee:
But if my weakensse force Thee to deny
Thy Flames, yet lend the Twilight of thine Eye:
If I must want those Beames I wish, yet grant,
That I, at least, may wish those Beames I want.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. cap. 33.
There was a great and darke cloud of vanity before mine eyes, so that I could not see the Sun of Iustice, and the light of Truth: I being the Son of darknesse, was involved in darknesse: I loved my darknesse, because I knew not thy Light: I was blind, and loved my blindnesse, and did walke from darkenesse to darkenesse: But Lord, thou art my God, who hast led me from darknesse, and the shadow of death; hast called me into this glorious light, and behold, I see.
EPIG. 1.
My soule, cheare up: What if the night belong?
Heav'n finds an eare, when sinners finde a tongue:
Thy teares are Morning show'rs: Heav'n bids me say,
When Peters Cock begins to crow, 'tis Day.
II.
II. PSAL. LXIX.III. O Lord, thou knowest my foolishnesse, and my sinnnes are not hid from thee.
SEest thou this fulsome Ideot? In what measure
He seemes transported with the anticke pleasure
Of childish Baubles? Canst thou but admire
The empty fulnesse of his vaine desire?
Canst thou conceive such poore delights as these
Can fill th'satiate soule of Man, or please
The fond Aspect of his deluded eye?
Reader, such very fooles are thou and I:
False puffes of Honour; the deceitfull streames
Of wealth; the idle, vaine; and empty dreames
Of pleasure, are our Traffick, and ensnare
Our soules; the threefold subject of our Care:
We toyle for Trash, we barter solid Ioyes
For ayry Triffes; sell our Heav'n for Toyes:
We snatch at Barly graines, whilst Pearles stand by
Despis'd; Such very Fooles are Thou and I;
Aym'st thou at Honour? Does not th'Ideot shake it:
In his left hand? Fond man, step forth and take it:
Or wouldst thou Wealth? See how the foole presents thee
With a full Basket; if such Wealth contents thee:
Wouldst thou take pleasure? If the Foole unstride
His prauncing Stallion, thou mayst up, and ride:
Fond man: Such is the Pleasure, Wealth, and Honour
The earth affords such Fooles as dote upon her;
Such is the Game whereat earths Ideots flie;
Such Ideots, ah, such Fooles are thou and I
Had rebell-mans Foole-hardinesse extended
No further than himselfe, and there, had ended,
It had beene Iust; but, thus, enrag'd to flie
Vnon th'eternall eyes of Majesty,
And drag the Son of Glory, from the brest
Of his indulgent Father; to arrest
His great and sacred Person; in disgrace,
To spit and spaule upon his Sun-bright face;
To taunt him with base termes; and, being bound,
To scourge his soft, his trembling sides; to wound
His head with Thornes; his heart, with humane feares;
His hands, with nayles; and his pale Flanck with speares;
And, then, to paddle in the purer streame
Of his spilt Blood, is more than most extreame:
Great Builder of mankind, canst thou propound
All this to thy bright eyes, and not confound
Thy handy-worke? O, canst Thou choose but see,
That mad'st the Eye? Can ought be hid from Thee?
Thou seest our persons, LORD, and not our Guilt;
Thou seest not what thou maist, but what thou wilt:
The Hand, that form'd us, is enforc'd to be
A Screene set up betwixt thy Work and Thee:
Look, looke upon that Hand, and thou shalt spy
An open wound, a Through-fare for thine Eye;
Or if that wound be clos'd, that passage be
Deny'd betweene Thy gracious eyes, and me,
Yet view the Scarre; That Starre will countermand
Thy Wrath: O read my Fortune in thy Hand.
S. CHRYS. Hom. 4. Ioan.
Fooles seeme to abound in wealth, when they want all things; they seeme to enjoy happinesse, when indeed they are onely most miserable; neither doe they understand that they are deluded by their fancy, till they be delivered from their folly.
S. GREG. in Mor.
By so much the more are we inwardly foolish, by how much we strive to seeme outwardly wise.
EPIG. 2.
Rebellious foole, what has thy Folly done:
Controld thy GOD, and crucified His Son:
How sweetly has the LORD of life deceiv'd thee?
Thou shedst His Blood, and that shed Blood has sav'd thee.
III. PSAL. VI.II. Have mercy, Lord, upon me, for I am weake, O Lord heale me, for my bones are vexed.
Soule. Iesu [...]
Soul.
AH, Son of David, help:
Ies.
What sinfull crie
Implores the Son of David?
Soul.
It is I:
Ies.
Who art thou?
Soul.
Oh, a deepely wounded brest
That's heavy laden, and would faine have rest.
Ies.
I have no scraps, and dogs must not be fed
Like houshold Children, with the childrens bread:
Soul.
True Lord; yet tolerate a hungry whelp
To lick their crums: O, Son of David, help.
Ies.
Poore Soule, what ail'st thou?
Soul.
O I burne, I fry▪
I cannot rest; I know not where to fly
To find some case; I turne my blubber'd face
From man to man; I roule from place to place,
T'avoid my tortures, to obtaine reliefe,
But still am dogg'd and haunted with my griefe:
My midnight torments call the sluggish light,
And when the morning's come, they woo the night.
Ies.
Surcease thy teares, and speake thy free desires;
Soul.
Quench, quench my flames, & swage these scorching fires
Ies.
[Page 138]Canst thou believe my hand can cure thy griefe?
Soul.
Lord, I believe; Lord, helpe my unbeliefe:
Ies.
Hold forth thy Arme, and let my fingers try
Thy Pulse; where (chiefly) does thy torment lie?
Soul.
From head to foot; it raignes in ev'ry part,
But playes the selfe-law'd Tyrant in my heart.
Ies.
Canst thou digest? canst relish wholesome food?
How stands thy tast?
Soul.
To nothing that is good:
All sinfull trash, and earths unsav'ry stuffe
I can digest, and relish well enough:
Ies.
Is not thy blood as cold as hot, by turnes?
Soul.
Cold to what's good; to what is bad, it burnes:
Ies.
How old's thy griefe?
Soul.
I tooke it at the Fall
With eating Fruit.
Ies.
'Tis Epidemicall;
Thy blood's infected, and th'Infection sprung
From a bad Liver: 'Tis a feaver strong.
And full of death, unlesse, with present speed,
A veine be op'ned; Thou must die, or bleed.
Soul.
O I am faint, and spent: That Launce that shall
Let forth my blood, lets forth my life withall;
My soule wants Cordials, and has greater need
Of blood, than (being spent so farre) to bleed:
I faint already: If I bleed, I die.
Ies.
'Tis either thou must bleed, sick soule, or I:
My blood's a Cordiall. He that sucks my veines,
Shall cleanse his owne, and conquer greater paines
Than these: Cheere up: this precious Blood of mine
Shall cure thy Griefe; my heart shall bleed for thine:
Believe, and view me with a faithfull eye;
Thy soule shall neither languish, bleed, nor die.
S. AUGUST. lib. 10. Confess.
Lord, Be mercifull unto me: Ah me: Behold, I hide not my wounds. Thou art a Physician, and I am sicke; Thou art mercifull, and I am miserable.
S. GREG. in Pastoral.
O Wisedome, with how sweet an art does thy wine and oyle restore health to my healthlesse soule! How powerfully mercifull, how mercifully powerfull art thou! Powerfull, for me, Mercifull, to me!
EPIG. 3.
Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctor by?
Thou canst not live, unlesse thy Doctor die!
Strange kind of griefe, that finds no med'cine good
To swage her paines, but the Physicians Blood!
IV. PSAL. XXV.XVIII. Looke upon my affliction and my paine, and forgive all my sinnes.
BOth worke, and stroakes? Both lash, and labour too?
What more could Edom, or proud Ashur doe?
Stripes after stripes? and blowes succeeding blowes?
Lord, has thy scourge no mercy, and my woes
No end? My paines no ease? No intermission?
Is this the state? Is this the sad condition
Of those that trust thee? Will thy goodnesse please
T'allow no other favours? None but these?
Will not the Rethrick of my torments move?
Are these the symptoms? these the signes of love?
Is't not enough, enough that I fulfill
The toylsome task of thy laborious Mill?
May not this labour expiate, and purge
My sinne, without th'addition of thy scourge?
Looke on my cloudy brow, how fast it raines
Sad showers of sweat, the fruites of fruitlesse paines:
Behold these ridges; see what purple furrowes
Thy plow has made; O thinke upon those sorrowes,
That once were thine; wilt, wilt thou not be woo'd
To mercy, by the charmes of sweat and blood?
Canst thou forget that drowsie Mount, wherein
Thy dull Disciples slept? Was not my sinne
There, punish'd in thy soule? Did not this brow
Then sweat in thine? Were not those drops enow?
Remember Golgotha where that spring-tide
Or'e flow'd thy sov'raigne Sacramentall side;
There was no sinne; there was no guilt in Thee,
That caus'd those paines; Thou sweatst; thou bledst for me:
Was there not blood enough, when one small drop
Had pow'r to ransome thousands worlds, and stop
The m [...]uth of Iustice? Lord, I bled before,
In thy deep wounds; Can Iustice challenge more?
O doe thou vainly labour to hedge in
Thy losses from my sides? My blood is thin;
And thy free bounty scornes such easie thrift;
No no▪ thy blood came not as lone, but gift:
But must I ever grinde? And must I earne
Nothing bu [...] stripes? O, wi t thou disalterne
The rest thou gav'st? Hast thou perus'd the curse
Thou laydst on Adams fall, and made it worse?
Canst thou repent of mercy? Heav'n thought good
Lost man should feed in sweat; not work in blood:
Why dost thou wound th'already wounded brest?
Ah me; my life is but a paine at best?
I am but dying dust: my dayes, a span;
What pleasure tak'st thou in the blood of man?
Spare, spare thy scourge, and be not so austere;
Send fewer stroaks, or lend more strength to beare.
S. BERN. Hom. 81. in Cant.
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproach of this shamefull bondage? I am a miserable man; but a free man; free, because a man; Miserable, because a servant: In regard of my bondage, miserable; In regard of my will, inexcusable: For my will, that was free, be slaved it selfe to sinne, by assenting to sinne; for he that commits sin, is the servant to sinne.
EPIG. 4.
Taxe not thy God: Thine owne defaults did urge
This twofold punishment; the Mill, the Scourge:
Thy sin's the Author of thy selfe tormenting:
Thou grind'st for sinning; scourg'd for not repenting:
V.
V. IOB. X.IX. Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me to dust againe?
THus from the bosome of the new-made earth,
Poore man was delv'd, and had his unborne birth:
The same the stuffe; the selfe-same hand does trim
The Plant that fades, the Beast that dies; and Him:
One was their Syre; one was their common mother;
Plants are his sisters; and the Beast; his brother,
The elder too, Beasts draw the selfe-same breath,
Waxe old alike, and die the selfe-same death:
Plants grow as he, with fairer robes arraid;
Alike they flourish, and alike they fade:
The beast, in sense, exceeds him; and, in growth,
The three-ag'd Oake doth thrice exceed them both:
Why look'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth? What art thou more, in being man?
I; but my great Creator did inspire
My chosen earth with that diviner fire
Of Reason; gave me Iudgement, and a Will;
That, to know good; this, to chuse good from ill:
He put the raines of pow'r in my free hand,
And jurisdiction oversea and land:
He gave me art, to lengthen out my span
Of life, and made me all, in being man▪
I; but thy Passion has committed treason
Against the sacred person of thy Reason;
Thy Iudgement is corrupt; perverse thy Will;
That knowes no good; and this makes choice of ill:
The greater height sends downe the deeper fall,
And good, declin'd, turnes bad; turnes worst of all:
Say then proud inch of living earth, what can
Thy greatnesse claime the more in being man?
O but my soule transcends the pitch of nature,
Borne up by th'Image of her high Creator;
Out-braves the life of reason, and beats downe
Her waxen wings kicks off her brazen Crowne;
My earth's a living Temple t'entertaine
The King of Glory, and his glorious traine:
How can I mend my Title then? where can
Ambition find a higher stile than man?
Ah, but that Image is defac'd and soil'd;
Her Temple's raz'd, her altars all defil'd;
Her vessels are polluted, and distain'd
With loathed lust; her ornaments prophan'd;
Her oyle forsaken lamps, and hallow'd Tapoure
Put out; her incense breaths unsav'ry vapours:
Why swel'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth? What art thou more in being man?
Eternall Porter, whose blest hands did lay
My course foundation from a sod of clay,
Thou know'st my slender vessell's apt to leake;
Thou know'st my brittle Temper's prone to breake;
Are my Bones Brazzill, or my Flesh of Oake?
O, mend what thou hast made, what I have broke:
Looke, looke with gentle eyes, and in thy day
Of vengeance, Lord remember I am clay.
S. AUGUST Soliloq. 32.
Shall I ask, who made me? It was thou that madest me, without whom nothing was made: Thou art my maker, and I thy worke: I thanke thee my Lord God, by whom I live, and by whom all things subsist, because thou madest me: I thanke thee O my Potter, because thy hands have made me, because thy hands have formed me.
EPIG. 5.
Why swell'st thou, Man, puft up with Fame, and Purse?
Th'art better earth, but borne to dig the worse:
Thou cam'st from earth, to earth thou must returne;
And art but earth, cast from the wombe, to th' [...]ne.
VI.
VI. IOB. VII.XX. I have sinned: What shall I doe unto thee, O thou preserver of men, why hast thou set me as a marke against thee?
LOrd I have done: and Lord, I have misdone;
'Tis folly to contest, to strive with one,
That is too strong; 'tis folly to assaile
Or prove an Arme, that will, that must prevaile?
Iv'e done, I've done; these trembling hands have throwne
Their daring weapons downe: The day's thine owne:
Forbeare to strike, where thou hast won the field;
The palme, the palme is thine: I yeeld, I yeeld.
These treach'rous hands, that were so vainly bold
To try a thrivelesse combat, and to hold
Selfe-wounding weapons up, are now extended
For mercy from thy hand; that knee that bended
Vpon her guardlesse guard, does now repent
Vpon this naked floore; See, both are bent,
And sue for pitie; O, my ragged wound
Is deep and desp'rate; it is drench'd and drown'd
In blood, and briny teares: It does begin
To stinke without, and putrifie within:
Let that victorious hand, that now appeares
Iust in my blood, prove gracious to my teares:
Thou great Preserver of presumptuous man,
What shall I do? What satisfaction can
Poore dust and ashes make? O, if that blood
That yet remaines unshed, were halfe as good
As blood of Oxen; if my death might be
An offring to attone my God and me,
I would disdaine injurious life, and stand
A suiter, to be wounded from thy hand.
But may thy wrongs be measur'd by the span
Of life? or balanc'd with the blood of man?
No, no, eternall sin expects for guerdon,
Eternall penance, or eternall pardon:
Lay downe thy weapons; turne thy wrath away;
And pardon him that hath no price to pay;
Enlarge that soule, which base presumption binds;
Thy justice cannot loose what mercy finds:
O thou that wilt not bruise the broken reed,
Rub not my sores, nor prick the wounds that bleed:
Lord, if the peevish Infant fights, and flies,
With unpar'd weapons, at his mothers eyes,
Her frownes (halfe mixt with smiles) may chance to shew
An angry love-trick on his arme, or so;
Where, if the babe but make a lip, and cry,
Her heart begins to melt; and by and by,
She coakes his deawy cheekes; her babe she blisses,
And choaks her language with a thousand kisses.
I am that child; loe, here I prostrate lie,
Pleading for mercy; I repent, and cry
For gracious pardon: let thy gentle eares
Heare that in words, what mothers judge in teares:
See not my frailties, Lord, but through my feare,
And looke on ev'ry trespasse through a teare:
Then calme thy anger, and appeare more mild:
Remember, th'art a Father; I, a child.
S. BERN. Ser. 21. in Cant.
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproach of this shamefull bondage? I am a miserable man, but a free man: Free because like to God; miserable, because against God: O keeper of mankind, why hast thou set me as a marke against thee? Thou hast set me, because thou hast not hindred me. It is just that thy enemy should be my enemy, and that he who repugnes thee, should repugne me: I who am against thee, am against my selfe.
EPIG. 6.
But form'd, and fight? But borne, and then rebell?
How small a blast will make a bubble swell?
But dare the floore affront the hand that laid it?
So apt is dust to fly in's face that made it.
VII. IOB XIII.XXIV. Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemie?
WHy dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Does that ecclipsing hand so long, deny
The Sun-shining of thy soule-enliv'ning eye?
Without that Light, what light remaines in me
Thou art my Life, my Way, my Light; in Thee
I live, I move, and by thy beames I see:
Thou art my Life; If thou but turne away,
My life's a thousand deaths: thou art my Way;
Without thee, Lord, I travell not but stray.
My Light thou art; without thy glorious sight,
Mine eyes are darkned with perpetuall night.
My God, thou art my Way, my Life, my Light.
Thou art my Way; I wander, if thou flie:
Thou art my Light; It hid, how blind am I?
Thou art my Life; If thou withdraw, I die:
Mine eyes are blind and darke, I cannot see;
To whom, or whether should my da [...]kenesse flee,
But to the Light? And who's that Light but Thee?
My path is lost; my wandring steps do stray;
I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
Whom should I seek but Thee, my Path, my Way?
O, I am dead: To whom shall I, poore I
Repaire? To whom shall my sad Ashes fly
But Life? And where is Life but in thine eye?
And yet thou turn'st away thy face, and fly'st me;
And yet I sue for Grace, and thou deny'st me;
Speake, art thou angry, Lord, or onely try'st me?
Vnskreene those heav'nly lamps, or tell me why
Thou shad'st thy face; Perhaps, thou think'st, no eye
Can view those flames, and not drop downe and die:
If that be all; shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
Let me behold and die; for my desire
Is Phoenix-like to perish in that Fire.
Death conquer'd Laz'rus was redeem'd by Thee;
If I am dead, Lord set deaths pris'ner free;
Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?
If my pufft light be out, give leave to tine
My flamelesse snuffe at that bright Lamp of thine;
O what's thy Light the lesse for lighting mine?
If I have lost my Path, great Shepheard, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtfull way?
Lord, shall a Lamb of Isr'els sheepfold stray?
Thou art the Pilgrims Path; the blind mans Eye?
The dead mans Life; on thee my hopes rely;
If thou remove, I erre; I grope; I die:
Disclose thy Sun-beames; close thy wings, and stay;
See see, how I am blind and dead, and stray,
O thou, that art my Light, my Life, my Way.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. cap. 1.
Why dost thou hide thy face? Happily thou wilt say, none can see thy face and live: Ah Lord, let me die, that I may see thee; let me see thee, that I may die: I would not live, but die; That I may see Christ, I desire death; that I may live with Christ, I despise life.
ANSELM. Med. cap. 5.
O excellent hiding, which is become my perfection! My God, thou hidest thy treasure, to kindle my desire; Thou hidest thy pearle, to inflame the seeker; thou delay'st to give, that thou maist teach me to importune, seem'st not to heare, to make me persever,
EPIG. 7.
If heav'ns all-quickning Eyes vouchsafe to shine
Vpon our soules, we slight; If not, we whine:
Our Equinoctiall hearts can never lie
Secure, beneath the Tropicks of that eye.
VIII.
VIII. IER. IX.I. O that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountaine of teares, that I might weepe day and night.
O That mine eyes were springs, and could transforme
Their drops to seas! My sighs, into a storme
Of Zeale, and sacred Violence, wherein
This lab'ring vessell, laden with her sinne,
Might suffer sudaine shipwracke, and be split
Vpon that Rock, where my drench'd soule may sit
Orewhelm'd with plenteous passion; O, and there
Drop, drop into an everlasting teare!
Ah me! that ev'ry sliding veine that wanders
Through this vast Isle, did worke her wild Meanders
In brackish teares, in stead of blood, and swell
This flesh with holy Dropsies, from whose Well,
Made warme with sighs, may fume my wasting breath
Whilst I dissolve in streames, and reeke to death!
These narrow sluces of my dribling eyes
Are much too streight for those quick springs that rise,
And hourely fill my Temples to the top;
I cannot shed for ev'ry sin a drop:
Great builder of mankind, why hast thou sent,
Such swelling floods, an [...] [...]ade so small a vent?
O that this flesh had beene compos'd of snow,
Instead of earth; and bones of Ice, that so,
Feeling the Fervor of my sin; and loathing
The fire I feele, I might be thaw'd to nothing!
O thou, that didst, with hopefull joy, entombe,
Me thrice three Moones in thy laborious wombe,
And then, with joyfull paine, broughtst forth a Son,
What worth thy labour, has thy labour done?
What was there? Ah! what was there in my birth
That could deserve the easiest smile of mirth?
A man was borne: Alas, and what's a man?
A scuttle full of dust, a measur'd span
Of flitting Time; a furnish'd Pack, whose wares
Are sullen Griefs, and soule-tormenting Cares:
A vale of teares; a vessell tunn'd with breath,
By sicknesse broacht, to be drawne out by death:
A haplesse, helplesse thing; that, borne, does cry
To feed; that feedes to live; that lives to die.
Great God and Man, whose eyes spent drops so often
For me, that cannot weepe enough; O soften
These marble braines, and strike this flinty rock;
Or if the musick of thy Peters Cock
Will more prevaile, fill, fill my hearkning eares
With that sweet sound, that I may melt in teares:
I cannot weepe, untill thou broach ruine eye;
Or give me vent, or els I burst, and die.
S. AMBROS: in Psal. 118.
He that commits sinnes to be wept for, cannot weepe for sinnes committed: And being himselfe most lamentable, hath no teares to lament his offences.
NAZIANZ. Orat. 3.
Teares are the deluge of sinne, and the worlds sacrifice:
S. HIEROM. in Esaiam.
Prayer appeases God, but a teare compels him: That moves him, but this constraines him.
EPIG. 8.
Earth is an Island ported round with Feares;
The way to Heav'n is through the Sea of teares.
It is a stormy passage, where is found
The wracke of many a ship, but no man drown'd.
IX.
IX. PSALM. XVIII.V. The sorrowes of hell compassed mee about, and the snares of death prevented me.
IS not this Type well cut? In ev'ry part
Full of rich cunning? fil'd with Zeuxian Art?
Are not the Hunters, and their Stygian Hounds
Limm'd full to th'life? Didst ever heare the sounds,
The musicke, and the lip-divided breaths
Of the strong-winded Horne Recheats, and deaths
Done more exact? Th'infernall Nimrods hollow?
The lawlesse Purliews? and the Game they follow?
The hidden Engines? and the snares that lie
So undiscover'd, so obscure to th'eye?
The new-drawne net? and her entangled Prey?
And him that closes it? Beholder, say,
Is't not well done? seemes not an em'lous strife
Betwixt the rare cut picture, and the life?
These Purlieu-men are Devils; And the Hounds,
(Those quick nos'd Canibals that scoure the grounds)
Temptations and the Game these Frends pursue,
Are humane soules, which still they have in view;
Whose fury if they chance to scape, by flying,
The skilfull Hunter plants his net, close lying
On th'unsuspected earth, bayted with treasure,
Ambitious honour, and selfe-wasting pleasure;
Where if the soule but stoope, death stands prepar'd
To draw the net, and drawne, the soule's ensnar'd.
Poore soule! how art thou hurried to and fro?
Where canst thou safely stay? where safely go?
If stay: these hot-mouth'd Hounds are apt to teare thee,
If goe; the snares enclose, the nets ensnare thee:
What good in this bad world has pow'r t'invite thee
A willing Guest? wherein can earth delight thee?
Her pleasures are but Itch; Her wealth, but Cares;
A world of dangers, and a world of snares:
The close Pursuers busie hands do plant
Snares in thy substance; Snares attend thy want;
Snares in thy credit; Snares in thy disgrace;
Snares in thy high estate; Snares in thy base;
Snares tuck thy bed; and Snares arround thy boord;
Snares watch thy thoughts; and Snares attache thy word;
Snares in thy quiet; Snares in thy commotion;
Snares in thy dyet; Snares in thy devotion;
Snares lurk in thy resolves; Snares, in thy doubt;
Snares lie within thy heart, and Snares, without;
Snares are above thy head, and Snares, beneath;
Snares in thy sicknesse; Snares are in thy death:
O, if these Purlieus be so full of danger,
Great God of Harts, the worlds sole sov'raigne Ranger,
Preserve thy Deere, and let my soule be blest
In thy safe Forrest, where I seeke for rest:
Then let the Hell-hounds roare; I feare no ill;
Rouze me they may, but have no pow'r to kill.
S. AMBROS. lib. 4. in cap. 4. Lucae.
The reward of honours, the height of power, the delicacie of diet, and the beauty of a harlot are the snares of the Devill.
S. AMBROS. de bono mortis.
Whilest thou seekest pleasures, thou runnest into snares, for the eye of the harlot is the snare of the Adulterer.
SAVANAR.
In eating, he sets before us Gluttony; In generation, luxury; In labour sluggishnesse; In conversing, envy; in governing, covetousnesse; In correcting, arger; In honour, pride; In the heart, he sets evill thoughts; in the mouth, evill words; in actions evill workes; when awake, he moves us to evill actions; when asleepe, to filthy dreames.
EPIG. 9.
Be sad, my Heart, Deep dangers wait thy mirth;
Thy soule's way layd by sea; by Hell; by earth;
Hell has her hounds; Earth, snares; the Sea, a shelfe;
But most of all, my heart, beware thy selfe.
X.
X. PSAL. CXLIII.II. Enter not into judgement with thy servant, for in thy sight shall no man living bee iustified.
Jesus. Justice. Sinner.
Ies.
BRing forth the prisner, Iustice.
Iust.
Thy commands
Are done, just Iudge; See here the prisner stands.
Ies.
What has the prisner done? Say; what's the cause
Of his committment?
Iust.
He has broke the lawes
Of his too gracious God; conspir'd the death
Of that great Majesty that gave him breath,
And heapes transgression, Lord, upon transgression:
Ies.
How know'st thou this?
Iu.
Ev'n by his own confessiō:
His sinnes are crying; and they cry'd aloud;
They cry'd to heav'n; they cry'd to heav'n for blood:
Ies.
What sayst thou sinner? hast thou ought to plead,
That sentence should not passe? Hold up thy head,
And shew thy brazen, thy rebellious face.
Sin.
Ah me! I dare not: I'am too vile and base,
To tread upon the earth, much more, to lift
Mine eyes to heav'n; I need no other shrift
Than mine owne conscience; Lord, I must confesse,
I am no more than dust, and no whit lesse
[Page 166]Than my Inditement stiles me; Ah, if thou
Search too severe, with too severe a Brow,
What Flesh can stand? I have transgrest thy lawes;
My merits plead thy vengeance; not my cause.
Iust.
Lord shall I strike the blow?
Ies.
Hold, Iustice, stay,
Sinner, speake on; what hast thou more to say?
Sin.
Vile as I am, and of my selfe abhor'd,
I am thy handy-worke, thy creature, Lord,
Stampt with thy glorious Image, and at first,
Most like to thee, though now a poore accurst
Convicted Caitiffe, and degen'rous creature,
Here trembling at thy Bar.
Iust.
Thy fault's the greater;
Lord shall I strike the blow?
Ies
Hold, Iustice, stay,
Speake, sinner; hast thou nothing more to say?
Sin.
Nothing but Mercy, Mercy; Lord, my state
Is miserably poore and desperate;
I quite renounce my selfe, the world, and flee
From Lord to Iesus; from thy selfe, to Thee.
Iust.
Cease thy vaine hopes; my angry God has vow'd:
Abused mercy must have blood for blood:
Shall I yet strike the blow?
Ies.
Stay, Iustice, hold;
My bowels yearne, my fainting blood growes cold,
To view the trembling wretch; Me thinks, I spye
My fathers Image in the pris'ners eye:
Iust.
I cannot hold.
Jes.
Then turne thy thirsty blade
Into my sides: let there the wound be made:
Cheare up, deare soule; Redeeme thy life with mine:
My soule shall smart; My heart shall bleed for thine.
Sin.
O ground-lesse deepes! O love beyond degree!
Th'offended dies, to set th'offender free.
S. AUGUST.
Lord, if I have done that, for which thou mayest damne mee; thou hast not lost that, whereby thou mayest save me: Remember not sweet Jesus, thy justice against the sinner, but thy benignity towards thy Creature: Remember not to proceed against a guilty soule, but remember thy mercy towards a miserable wretch: Forget the insolence of the provoker, and behold the misery of the invoker; for what is Jesus but a Saviour.
ANSELM.
Have respect to what thy Sonne hath done for me, and forget what my sinnes have done against thee: My flesh hath provoked thee to vengeance; let the flesh of Christ move thee to mercy: It is much that my rebellions have deserved; but it is more that my Redeemer hath merited.
EPIG. 10.
Mercie of mercies! He that was my drudge
Is now my Advocate, is now my Iudge:
He suffers, pleads, and sentences, alone:
Three I adore, and yet adore but One.
XI.
XI. PSAL. LXIX.XV. Let not the water-flood over-flow me, neither let the deepes swallow me up.
THe world's a Sea; my flesh, a ship, that's man'd
With lab'ring Thoughts; and steer'd by Reasons hand:
My heart's the Sea-mans Card, whereby she sailes;
My loose Affections are the greater Sailes:
The Top-saile is my Fancy; and the Gusts
That fill these wanton Sheets, are worldly Lusts.
Pray'r is the Cable, at whose end appeares
The Anchor Hope, nev'r slipt but in our feares:
My Will's th'unconstant Pilot, that commands
The staggring Keele; my Sinnes are like the Sands:
Repentance is the Bucket; and mine Eye
The Pumpe, unus'd (but in extreames) and dry:
My conscience is the Plummet, that does presse
The deepes, but seldom cryes, A fathom lesse:
Smooth Calm's security; The Gulph, despaire;
My Freight's Corruption, and this life's my Fan
My soule's the Passenger, confus'dly driven
From feare to fright; her landing Port, is Heaven.
My seas are stormy, and my Ship does leake;
My Saylers rude▪ My Steersman faint and weake:
My Canvace torne, it flaps from side to side;
My Cable's crakt; my Anchor's slightly ty'd;
My Pilot's craz'd; my shipwrack sands are cloak'd;
My Bucket's broken, and my Pump is choak'd;
My Calm's deceitfull; and my Gulph too neare;
My Wares are flubber'd; and my Fare's too deare:
My Plummet's light, it cannot sink nor sound;
O shall my Rock-be threatned Soule be drown'd?
Lord still the seas, and shield my ship from harme;
Instruct my Saylours; guide my Steersmans Arme;
Touch thou my Compasse, and renew my Sailes;
Send stiffer courage, or send milder gales;
Make strong my Cable; bind my Anchor faster;
Direct my Pilot, and be thou his Master;
Object the Sands to my more serious view,
Make sound my Bucket; bore my Pump anew;
New cast my Plummet, make it apt to try
Where the Rocks lurke, and where the Quicksands lie;
Guard thou the Gulph, with love; my Calmes, with Care▪
Cleanse thou my Freight; accept my slender Fare;
Refresh the Sea-sick passenger; cut short
His Voyage; land him in his wished Port:
Thou, thou, whom winds and stormy seas obay,
That, through the deepes, gav'st grumbling Isr'ell way.
Say to my soule, be safe; and then mine eye
Shall scorne grim death, although grim death stand by;
O thou whose strength-reviving Arme did cherish
Thy sinking Peter, at the point to perish,
Reach forth thy hand, or bid me tread the Wave,
Ile come, Ile come, The voice that calls will save.
S. AMBROS. Apol. post. pro David. Cap. 3.
The confluence of lusts make a great Tempest, which in this sea disturbes the sea-faring soule, that reason cannot governe it.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap. 35.
We labour in a boysterous sea: Thou standest upon the shore and seest our dangers: Give us grace to hold a middle course betwixt Scylla and Charybdis, that both da [...]gers escaped, we may arrive at our Port, secure.
EPIG. 11.
My soule; the seas are rough; and thou a stranger
In these false coasts; O keepe aloofe; ther's danger:
Cast forth thy Plummet; see a rock appeares;
Thy ship wants sea-roome; Make it with thy teares.
XII.
XII. IOB XIV.XIII. O that thou wouldst hide mee in the grave, that thou wouldst keepe me secret untill thy wrath be past!
O Whether shall I flye? what path untrod
Shall I seeke out, to scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?
Where shall I sojourne? What kind sea will hide
My head from Thunder? where shall I abide,
Vntill his flames be quench'd, or laid aside?
What if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seeke protection in the shades of night?
Alas, no shades can blind the God of Light:
What, if my soule should take the wings of day,
And find some desart; if she spring away,
The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they:
What if some solid Rock should entertaine
My frighted soule? Can solid Rocks restraine
The stroke of Iustice, and not cleave in twaine?
Nor Sea, nor Shade, nor Shield, nor Rock, nor Cave,
Nor silent desarts, nor the sullen grave,
Where flame ey'd fury meanes to smite, can save.
The Seas will part; graves open; Rocks will spl [...]t;
The shield will cleave; the frighted shadowes flit;
Where Iustice armes, her fiery darts must hit.
No, no, if sterne-brow'd vengeance meanes to thunder,
There is no place above; beneath, nor under,
So close, but will unlocke, or rive in sunder.
'Tis vaine to flee; 'Tis neither here nor there
Can scape that hand untill that hand forbeare;
Ah me! where is he not, that's every where?
'Tis vaine to flee; till gentle mercy show
Her better eye, the farther off we goe,
The swing of Iustice deales the mightier blow▪
Th'ingenious child, corrected, does not flie
His angry mothers hand, but clings more nigh.
And quenches, with his teares, her flaming eye.
Shadowes are faithlesse, and the rockes are false;
No trust in brasse; no trust in marble walls;
Poore Cotts are e'ven as safe as Princes Halls:
Great God, there is no safety here below;
Thou art my Fortresse, though thou seem'st my foe,
'Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.
Thou art my God; by thee I fall or stand;
Thy Grace hath giv'n me courage to withstand
All tortures, but my Conscience, and thy Hand.
I know thy Iustice is thy selfe; I know,
Iust God, thy very selfe is mercy too;
If not to thee, where? whether should I go?
Then worke thy will; If passion bid me flee,
My Reason shall obey; my wings shall be
Stretcht out no further than from Thee to Thee.
S. AUGUST. in Psal. 30.
Whether flie I? To what place can I safely flie? To what mountaine? To what den? To what strong house? What Castle shall I hold? What walls shall hold me? Whethersoever I go, my selfe followes me: For whatsoever thou flyest, O man, thou mayst, but thy owne Conscience: wheresoever O Lord I go, I find thee, if angry, a Revenger; if appeas'd, a Redeemer: What way have I, but to flee from thee, to thee: That thou maist avoid thy God, addresse thee to thy Lord.
EPIG. 12.
Hath vengeance found thee? Can thy feares command
No Rocks to shield thee from her thundring hand?
Know'st thou not where to scape? Ile tell thee where;
My soule make cleane thy Conscience; Hide thee there;
XIII.
Are not my dayes few? Cease then, and let me alone that I may bewayle me a little
Iob. 10.20. Will. simpson. sculpsit
XIII. IOB. X.XX. Are not my dayes few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewaile my selfe a little.
MY Glasse is halfe unspent: Forbeare t'rrest
My thriftlesse day too soone: My poore request
Is that my glasse may run but out the rest.
My time-devoured minuts will be done
Without thy helpe; See, see how swift they run;
Cut not thy thred before my thred be spun:
The gaine's not great I purchase by this stay;
What losse sustain'st thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand yeares are but a day?
My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged houres; they flye so swift,
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift.
The secret wheeles of hurrying Time doe give
So short a warning, and so fast they drive,
That I am dead before I seeme to live:
And what's a life? A weary Pilgrimage,
Whose glory, in one day, doth fill the stage
With Childhood, Manhood, and decrepit Age.
And what's a Life; the flourishing Array
Of the proud Summer meadow, which to day
Weares her greene plush; and is, to morrow, Hay;
And what's a Life? A blast sustain'd with clothing,
Maintain'd with food; retain'd with vile selfe-loathing,
Then weary of it selfe, again'd to nothing.
Read on this diall, how the shades devoure
My short-liv'd winters day; How'rs eates up howre;
Alas, the total's but from eight to foure.
Behold these Lillies (which thy hands have made
Faire copies of my life, and open laid
To view) how soone they droop, how soone they fade!
Shade not that diall, night will blind too soone;
My nonag'd day already points to noone;
How simple is my suit? How small my Boone!
Not do I beg this slender inch, to while
The time away, or falsly to beguile
My thoughts with joy; Here's nothing worth a smile.
No, no: 'Tis not to please my wanton eares:
With frantick mirth; I beg but howres; not yeares:
And what thou giv'st me, I will give to teares.
Draw not that soule which would be rather led;
That Seed has yet not broke my Serpents head;
O shall I die before my sinnes are dead?
Behold these Rags; Am I a fitting Guest
To tast the dainties of thy royall Feast,
With hands and face unwash'd, ungirt, unblest?
First, let the Iordan streames (that find supplies
From the deepe fountaine of my heart) arise,
And cleanse my spots, and cleare my leprous eyes:
I have a world of sinnes to be lamented;
I have a sea of teares that must be vented;
O spare till then; and then I die, contented.
S. AUGUST. lib. 7. de Civit. Dei cap. 10.
The time wherein we live is taken from the space of our life; and what remaines is daily made lesse and lesse, in somuch that the time of our life is nothing but a passage to death.
S. GREG. lib. 9. mor. Cap. 44. in Cap. 10. Iob.
As moderate afflictions bring teares; so immoderate take away teares; Insomuch that sorrow becomes no sorrow which swallowing up the mind of the afflicted, takes away the sense of the affliction.
EPIG. 13.
Fear'st thou to go, when such an Arme invites thee?
Dread'st thou thy loads of sin? or what affrights thee?
If thou begin to feare, thy feare begins;
Foole, can he beare thee hence, and not thy sins?
XIV.
XIV. DEVT. XXXII.XXIX. O that men were wise, and that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end.
Flesh. Spirit.
Fl.
WHat meanes my sister [...] eye so oft to passe
Through the long entry of that Optick glasse?
Tell me; what secret virtue does invite
Thy wrinckled eye to such unknowne delight?
Sp.
It helps the sight; makes things remote appeare
In perfect view; It drawes the object neare.
Fl.
What sence-delighting objects do'st thou spie?
What does that Glasse present before thine eye?
Sp.
I see thy foe, my reconciled friend,
Grim death, even standing at the Glasses end;
His left hand holds a branch of Palme; his right
Holds forth a two-edg'd sword.
Fl.
A proper sight!
And is this all? does thy Prospective please
Th'abused fancy with no shapes but these?
Sp.
Yes, I behold the dark'ned Sun bereav'n
Of all his light, the battlements of heav'n
Sweltring in Flames; the Angell-guarded Sonne
Of glory on his high Tribunall Throne;
[Page 182]I see a Brimstone Sea of boyling Fire,
And Fiends, with knotted whips of flaming Wyre,
Tort'ring poore soules, that gnash their teeth, in vaine,
And gnaw their flame-tormented tongues, for paine;
Looke sister, how the queazie-stomack'd Graves
Vomit their dead, and how the purple waves
Scal'd their consume lesse bodies, strongly cursing
All wombes for bearing, and all paps for nursing▪
Fl.
Can thy distemper'd fancie take delight
In view of Tortures? These are showes t'affright:
Looke in this glasse-Triangular; looke here,
Here's that will ravish eyes.
Sp.
What seest thou there?
Fl.
The world in colours; colours that distaine
The cheeks of Proteus, or the silken Traine
Of Floras Nymphs; such various sorts of hiew,
As Sun-confronting Iris never knew:
Here, if thou please to beautifie a Towne,
Thou maist; or, with a hand, turn't upside downe;
Here, maist thou scant or widen by the measure
Of thine owne will; make short or long, at pleasure▪
Here maist thou tyre thy fancie, and advize
With showes more apt to please more curious eyes;
Sp.
Ah foole! that dot'st on vaine, on present toyes,
And disrespects those true, those future joyes!
How strongly are thy thoughts befool'd, Alas,
To dote on goods that perish with thy Glasse!
Nay, vanish with the turning of a hand!
Were they but painted colours, it might stand
With painted reason, that they might devote thee;
But things that have no being, to besot thee?
Foresight of future torments is the way
To baulk those ills which present joyes bewray;
As thou hast fool'd thy selfe, so now come hither,
Break that fond glasse, and let's be wise together.
BONAVENT. de contemptu seculi.
O that men would be wise, understand, and foresee: Be wise, to know three things: The multitude of those that are to be damn [...]: the few number of those that are to be saved; and the vanity of transitory things: Vnderstand three things; the multitude of sinnes, the omission of good things, and the losse of time: Foresee three things, the danger of death, the last judgement, and eternall punishment.
EPIG. 14.
What soule, no farther yet? what nev'r commence
Master in Faith? Still Bachelour of Sense?
Is't insufficiency? Or what has made thee
Ore slip thy lost degree; Thy lusts have staid thee.
XV. PSAL. XXX.X. My life is spent with griefe, and my yeares with sighing.
WHat sullen Starre rul'd my untimely birth,
That would not lend my dayes one houre of mirth!
How oft have these bare knees been bent, to gaine
The slender Almes of one poore smile in vaine!
How often, tir'd with the fastidious light,
Have my faint lips implor'd the shades of night?
How often have my nightly Torments praid
For lingring twilight, glutted with the shade!
Day, worse than night, night, worse than day, appeares,
In feares I spend my nights; my dayes, in teares:
I moane, unpitti'd; groane without reliefe,
There is nor end, nor measure of my griefe;
The smiling flow'r salutes the day; it growes
Vntouch'd with care; It neither spins, nor sowes;
O that my tedious life, were like this flow'r,
Or freed from griefe; or furlish'd with an houre:
Why was I borne? Why was I borne a man?
And why proportion'd by so large a Span?
Or why suspended from the common lot,
And being borne to die, why die I not?
Ah me! why is my sorrow-wasted breath
Deny'd the easie priviledge of death?
The branded Slave, that tugs the weary Oare,
Obtaines the Sabbath of a welcome Shore;
His ransom'd stripes are heal'd; His native soyle
[...]weetens the mem'ry of his forreigne toyle▪
But ah! my sorrowes are not halfe so blest;
My labour finds no point; my paines, no rest:
I barter sighs for teares; and teares for Groanes▪
Still vainely rolling Sysiphaean stones:
Thou just Observer of our flying houres,
That, with thy Adarmantine fangs, devours
The brazen Monuments of renowned Kings,
Does thy glasse stand? Or be thy moulting wings
Vnapt to flie▪ If not why dost thou spare
A willing brest; a brest, that stands so faire?
A dying brest, that has but onely breath
To beg a wound; and strength, to crave a death:
O, that the pleased Heav'ns would once dissolve
These fleshly fetters, that so fast involve
My hampred soule; then should my soule be blest
From all these ills▪ and wrapher thoughts in rest:
Till then, my dayes are moneths, my moneths are yeares▪
My yeares are ages, to be spent in teares:
My Grief's entayl'd upon my wastfull breath,
Which no Recov'ry can cut off, but death;
Breath drawne in Cottages, pufft out in Thrones,
Begins continues, and concludes in Grones.
INNOCENT. de vilitate condit humanae.
O who will give mine eyes a fountaine of teares, that I may bewaile the miserable ingresse of mans condition; the sinfull progresse of mans conversation, the damnable egresse in mans dissolution? I will consider with teares, whereof man was made, what man does, and what man is to doe: Alas, he is formed of earth, conceived in sinne, borne to punishment: Hee does evill things, which are not lawfull; He does filthy things, which are not decent; He does vaine things, which are not expedient.
EPIG. 15.
My heart, Thy life's a debt by Bond, which beares
A secret date; The use, is Grones and Teares.
Plead not; Vsurious Nature will have all,
As well the Int'rest, as the Princ [...]pall.
THE FOVRTH BOOKE,
I.
I. ROM. VII.XXIII. I see another Law in my members warring against the Law of my mind, & bringing me into captivitie to the Law of sin.
1
O How my will is hurried to and fro,
And how my unresolv'd resolves do varie!
I know not where to fix; sometimes I goe
This way; then that; and then the quite contrary:
I like, dislike; I lament for what I could not;
I doe; undoe; yet still doe what I should not;
And at the selfe same instant; will the Thing I would not.
2
Thus are my weather-beaten thoughts opprest
With th'earth-bred winds of my prodigious will;
Thus am I hourely tost from East to West
Vpon the rouling streames of Good and Ill:
Thus am I driv'n upon these slippry Sudds,
From reall Ills to false apparent Goods;
My life's a troubled sea, compos'd of Ebbs and Floods.
3
The curious Penman, having trim'd his Page
With the dead language of his dabled Quill,
Lets fall a heedlesse drop, then, in a Rage,
Cashieres the fruit of his unlucky skill;
Ev'n so my pregnant soule in th'infant bud
Of her best thoughts, showres down a Cole-black flood
Of unadvised Ills, and cancels all her Good.
4
Sometimes a sudden flash of sacred heat
Warmes my chill soule, and sets my thoughts in frame:
But soone that fire is shouldred from her seat
By lustfull Cupids much inferiour flame;
I feele two flames, and yet no flame, entire:
Thus are the Mungrill thoughts of mixt desire
Consum'd betweene that heav'nly and this earthly fire.
5
Sometimes my trash-disdaining thoughts out-passe
The common Period of terrene conceit;
O then, me thinkes I scorne the Thing I was,
Whilst I stand ravisht at my new Estate:
But when th'Icarian Wings of my desire
Feele but the warmth of their own native fire,
O then they melt and plunge within their wonted mire.
6
I know the nature of my wav'ring mind;
I know the frailty of my fleshly will:
My Passion's Eagle-ey'd; my Iudgment, blind;
I know what's good, but yet make choice of ill;
When th'Ostrich wings of my desires shall be
So dull, they cannot mount the least degree,
Yet grant my soule desire but of desiring Thee.
S. BERN. Med. 9.
My heart is a vaine heart, a vagabond, and instable heart▪ while it is led by its owne judgement, and wanting divine counsell, cannot subsist in it selfe, and whilst it divers wayes seekes rest, finds none, but remaines miserable through labour, and void of peace: It agrees not with it selfe; it dissents from it selfe; it alters resolutions, changes the judgement, frames new thoughts, puls downe the old, and builds them up againe: It wils and wils not; and never remaines in the same state.
EPIG. 1.
My soule how are thy thoughts disturb'd! confin'd,
Enlarg'd betwixt thy Members, and thy Mind!
Fix here, or there; Thy doubt-depending cause
Can nev'r expect one verdict, twixt two Lawes.
II. PSAL. CXIX.V. O that my wayes were directed to keepe thy statutes.
1
THus I, the object of the worlds disdaine,
With Pilgrim-pace, surround the weary earth;
I onely relish what the world counts vaine:
Her mirth's my griefe; her sullen Griefe, my mirth;
Her light, my darknesse; and her Truth, my Error;
Her freedome is my Iayle; and her delight my Terror:
2
Fond earth! Proportion not my seeming love
To my long stay; let not thy thoughts deceive thee;
Thou art my Prison, and my Home's above;
My life's a Preparation but to leave thee:
Like one that seekes a doore, I walke about thee.
With thee I cannot live; I cannot live without thee.
3
The world's a Lab'rinth, whose anfractious wayes
Are all compos'd of Rub's, and crook'd Meanders;
No resting here; Hee's hurried back that stayes
A thought; And he that goes unguided, wanders;
Her way is dark; her path untrod, unev'n;
So hard's the way from earth; so hard's the way to Heav'n.
4
This gyring Lab'rinth is betrench'd about
On either hand, with streams of sulphrous fire,
Streames closely sliding, erring in and out,
But seeming pleasant to the fond descrier;
Where if his footsteps trust their owne Invention,
He fals without redresse, and sinks beyond Demension,
5
Where shall I seek a Guide? Where shall I meet
Some lucky hand to lead my trembling paces?
What trusty Lanterne will direct my feet
To scape the danger of these dang'rous places?
What hopes have I to passe without a Guide?
Where one gets safely through, a thousand fall beside.
6
An unrequested Starre did gently slide
Before the Wisemen, to a greater Light;
Back-sliding Isr'el found a double Guide;
A Pillar, and a Cloud; by day, by night:
Yet, in my desp'rate dangers, which be farre
More great than theirs, I have nor Pillar, Cloud, nor Starre.
7
O that the pineons of a clipping Dove
Would cut my passage, through the empty Ayre;
Mine eyes being seeld, how would I mount above
The reach of danger, and forgotten Care!
My backward eyes should nev'r commit that fault,
Whose lasting Guilt should build a Monument of Salt.
8
Great God, that art the flowing Spring of Light,
Enrich mine eyes with thy refulgent Ray:
Thou art my Path; direct my steps aright;
I have no other Light, no other Way:
He trust my God, and him alone pursue;
His Law shalbe my Path; his heav'nly Light my Clue.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. cap. 4.
O Lord, who art the Light, the Way, the Truth, the Life; in whom there is no darkenesse, error, vanity, nor death: The light, without which there is darkenesse; The way, without which there is wandring; The Truth, without which there is errour; Life, without which there is death: Say, Lord, let there be light, and I shall see light, and eschue darknesse; I shall see the way, and avoid wandring; I shall see the truth, and shun errour; I shall see life, and escape death; Illuminate, O illuminate my blind soule, which sits in darkenesse and the shadow of death, and direct my feet in the way of peace.
EPIG. 2.
Pilgrim trudge on: What makes thy soule complaine,
Crownes thy complaint. The way to rest is paine:
The Road to Resolution lies by doubt:
The next way Home's the farthest way about.
III. PSAL XVII.V. Stay my steps in thy paths, that my feet do not slide.
1
WHen ere the Old Exchange of Profittings
Her silver Saints-bell of uncertaine gaines,
My merchant soule can stretch both legs and wings;
How I can run, and take unwearied paines!
The Charmes of Profit are so strong, that I
Who wanted legs to go, finde wings to flye.
2
If time-beguiling Pleasure but advance
Her lustfull Trump, and blow her bold Alarms,
O, how my sportfull soule can frisk and daunce,
And hug that Syren in her twined Armes?
The sprightly voyce of sinew-strengthning Pleasure
Can lend my bedrid soule both legs and leasure.
3
If blazing Honour chance to fill my veines
With flattring warmth, and flash of Courtly fire,
My soule can take a pleasure in her paines;
My loftie strutting steps disdaine her paines;
My antick knees can turne upon the hinges
Of Complement, and skrue a thousand Cringes.
4
But when I come to Thee, my God, that art
The royall Mine of everlasting Treasure,
The reall Honour of my better part,
And living Fountaine of eternall pleasure,
How nervelesse are my limbs! how faint and slow:
I have nor wings to flie, nor legs to go.
5
So when the streames of swift-foot Rhene convay
Her upland Riches to the Belgick shore;
The idle vessell slides the watry lay,
Without the blast, or tug, of wind, or Oare;
Her slippry keele divides the silver foame
With ease; So facile is the way from home.
6
But when the home-bound vessell turnes her saile [...]
Against the brest of the resisting streame,
O then she slugs; nor Saile, nor Oare prevailes;
The Streame is sturdy, and her Tides extreme:
Each stroke is losse, and ev'ry Tug is vaine:
A Boat-lengths purchase is a League of paine.
7
Great All in All, that art my Rest, my Home,
My way is tedious, and my steps are slow:
Reach forth thy helpfull hand, or bid me come;
I am thy child, O teach thy child to go:
Conjoyne thy sweet commands to my desire,
And I will venture, though I fall or tire.
S. AUGUST. Ser. 15. de Verb. Apost.
Be alwayes displeased at what thou art, if thou desirest to attaine to what thou art not: For where thou hast pleas'd thy selfe, there thou abidest: But if thou sayest, I have enough, thou perishest: Alwayes add, alwayes walke, alwayes proceed; neither stand still, nor go backe, nor dev [...]e: He that stands still▪ proceeds not; He goes back, that co [...]inues not; He deviates, that revolts: He goes better that creepes, in his way, than hee that runs, out of his way.
EPIG. 3.
Feare not, my soule, to lose for want of cunning;
Weepe not; heav'n is not alwayes got by running:
Thy thoughts are swift, although thy legs be slow;
True love will creepe, not having strength to goe,
IV.
IV. PSAL. CXIX. CXX. My flesh trembleth for feare of thee, and I am afraid of thy judgements.
LEt others boaste of Luck: and goe their wayes
With their faire Game; Know, vengeance seldome playes,
To be too forward; but does wisely frame
Her backward Tables, for an After-Game:
She gives thee leave to venture many a blot;
And, for her owne advantage, hits thee not;
But when her pointed Tables are made faire,
That she be ready for thee, then beware;
Then, if a necessary blot be set.
She hits thee; wins the Game; perchance the Set;
If prosprous Chances make thy Casting high,
Be wisely temp'rate; cast a serious eye
On after-dangers, and keepe back thy Game;
Too forward seed-times make thy Harvest lame:
If left-hand Fortune give thee left-hand chances,
Be wisely patient; let no envious glances
Repine to view thy Gamesters heape so faire;
The hind most Hound takes oft the doubling Hare.
The worlds great Dice are false; sometimes they goe
Extremely high; sometimes, extremely low:
Of all her Gamesters, he that playes the least,
Lives most at ease; playes most secure, and best:
The way to win, is to play faire, and sweare
Thy selfe a servant to the Crowne of Feare:
Feare is the Primmer of a Gamsters skill;
Who feares not Bad, stands most unarm'd to Ill:
The Ill that's wisely fear'd, is halfe withstood;
And feares of Bad is the best foyle to Good:
True Feare'sth' Elixar, which in dayes of old,
Turn'd leaden Crosses into Crownes of Gold:
The World's the Tables; Stakes, Eternall life;
The Gamesters, Heav'n and I; Vnequall strife!
My Fortunes are my Dice, whereby I frame
My indisposed Life: This Life's the Game;
My sins are sev'rall Blo [...]; the Lookers on
Are Angels; and in death, the Game is done:
Lord, I'am a Bungler, and my Game does grow
Still more and more unshap'd; my Dice run low:
The Stakes are great; my carelesse Blots are many;
And yet, thou passest by, and hitst not any:
Thou art too strong; And I have none to guide me
With the least Iogge; The lookers on deride me;
It is a Conquest, undeserving Thee,
To win a Stake from such a Worme as me:
I have no more to lose; If we persever,
'Tis lost; and that, once lost, I'm lost for ever.
Lord, wink at faults, and be not too severe,
And I will play my Game with greater feare;
O give me Feare, ere Feare has past her date:
Whose blot being hit, then feares; fear's then, too late.
S. BERN. Ser. 54. in Cant.
There is nothing so effectuall to obtaine Grace, to retaine Grace, and to regaine Grace, as alwayes to be found before God not over-wise, but to feare: Happy art thou if thy heart be replenished with three feares, a feare for received grace, a greater feare for lost Grace, a greatest feare to recover Grace.
S. AUGUST. super Psalm.
Present feare begets eternall security: Feare God, which is above all, and no need to feare man at all.
EPIG. 4.
Lord shall we grumble, when thy flames do scourge us?
Our sinnes breath fire; that fire returnes to purge us.
Lord, what an Alchymist art thou, whose skill
Transmutes to perfect good, from persect ill!
V. PSAL. CXIX.XXXVII. Turne away mine eyes from regarding vanitie.
1
HOw like to threds of Flaxe
That touch the flame, are my inflam'd desires!
How like to yeelding Waxe,
My soule dissolves before these wanton fires!
The fire, but touch'd; the flame, but felt,
Like Flaxe, I burne; like Waxe, I melt.
2
O how this flesh does draw
My fetter'd soule to that deceitfull fire!
And how th'eternall Law
Is baffled by the law of my desire!
How truly bad, how seeming good
Are all the Lawes of Flesh and Blood!
3
O wretched state of Men,
The height of whose Ambition is to borrow
What must be paid agen,
With griping Int'rest of the next dayes sorrow!
How wild his Thoughts! How apt to range!
How apt to varie! Apt to change!
4
How intricate, and nice
Is mans perplexed way to mans desire!
Sometimes upon the Ice
He slips, and sometimes fals into the fire;
His progresse is extreme and bold,
Or very hot, or very cold.
5
The common food, he doth
Sustaine his soule-tormenting thoughts withall▪
Is honey, in his mouth,
To night; and in his heart, to morrow, Gall;
'Tis oftentimes, within an houre,
Both very sweet, and very sowre.
6
If sweet Corinna smile,
A heav'n of Ioy breaks downe into his heart:
Corinna frownes a while?
Hels Torments are but Copies of his smart:
Within a lustfull heart does dwell
A seeming Heav'n; a very Hell.
7
Thus worthlesse, vaine and void
Of comfort, are the fruits of earths imployment;
Which, ere they be enjoyd,
Distract us; and destroy us in th'enjoyment;
These be the pleasures that are priz'd
When heav'ns cheape pen'worth stands despis'd.
8
Lord quench these hasty flashes,
Which dart as lightning from the thundring skies;
And ev'ry minut, dashes
Against the wanton windowes of mine eyes:
Lord, close the Casement, whilst I stand
Behind the curtaine of thy Hand.
S. AUGUST▪ Soliloq. cap. 4.
O thou Sonne that illuminates both Heaven and Earth; Woe be unto those eyes which doe not behold thee: Woe be unto those blind eyes which cannot behold thee: Woe be unto those which turne away their eyes that they wil not behold thee: Woe be unto those that turne not away their eyes that they may behold vanity.
S. CHRYS. sup. Matth. 19.
What is an evill women but the enemy of friendship, an unavoidable paine, a necessary mischiefe, a naturall tentation, a desiderable calamity, a domestick danger, a delectable inconvenience, and the nature of evill painted over with the colour of good!
EPIG. 5.
'Tis vaine, great God, to close mine eyes from ill,
When I resolve to keepe the old man still:
My rambling heart must cov'nant first with Thee,
Or none can passe betwixt mine eyes and me.
VI.
VI. ESTER. VII.III. If I have found favour in thy sight, and if it please the King, let my life be given me at my petition.
THou art the great Assuerus, whose command
Doth stretch from Pole to Pole; The World's thy Land;
Rebellious Vasht's the corrupted Will▪
Which being cal'd, refuses to fulfill
Thy just command: Hester, whose teares condole
The razed City's the Regen'rate Soule;
A captive maid, whom thou wilt please to grace
With nuptiall Honour in stout Ʋashti's place:
Her kinsman, whose unbended knee did thwart
Proud Hamans glory, is the Fleshly part:
The sober Eunuch, that recal'd to mind
The new-built Gibbet (Haman had divin'd
For his owne ruine) fifty Cubits high,
Is lustfull thought-controlling Chastity;
Insulting H [...]man is that fleshly lust
Whose red-hot fury, for a season, must
Triumph in Pride, and study how to tread
On Mordecay, till royall Hester plead:
Great King, my sent-for Vashti will not come;
O let the oyle o'th blessed Virgins wombe
Cleanse my poore Hester; look, O looke upon her
With gracious eyes; and let thy Beames of honour
So scoure her captive staines, that she may prove
A holy Object of thy heav'nly love:
Annoint her with the Spiknard of thy graces,
Then try the sweetnesse of her chast embraces:
Make her the partner of thy nuptiall Bed,
And set thy royall Crowne upon her head:
If then, ambitious Haman chance to spend
His spleene on Mordecay, that scornes to bend
The wilfull stiffenesse of his stubborne knee,
Or basely crouch to any Lord but Thee;
If weeping Hester should preferre a Grone
Before the high Tribunall of thy Throne,
Hold forth thy Golden Scepter, and afford
The gentle Audience of a gracious Lord:
And let thy royall Hester be possest
Of halfe thy Kingdome, at her deare request:
Curbe lustfull Haman; him, that would disgrace,
Nay, ravish thy faire Queene before thy face:
And as proud Haman was himselfe ensnar'd
On that selfe Gibbet, that himselfe prepar'd,
So nayle my lust, both Punishment and Guilt
On that deare Crosse that mine owne Lusts have built.
S. AUGUST. in Ep.
O holy Spirit, alwayes inspire we with holy works; constraine me, that I may doe: Counsell me that I may love thee; Confirme me, that I may hold thee; Conserve me that I may not lose thee.
S. AUGUST. sup. Ioan.
The Spirit rusts where the flesh rests: For as the flesh is nourished with sweet things, the Spirit is refreshed with sowre.
Ibidem.
Wouldst thou that thy flesh obey thy Spirit? Then let thy Spirit obey God: Thou must be govern'd, that thou mayst governe.
EPIG. 6.
Of Merc' and Iustice is thy Kingdome built;
This plagues my Sin; and that removes my guilt;
When ere I sue, Assuerus like decline
Thy Scepter; Lord, say, Halfe my kingdome's thine.
VII.
VII. CANT. VII.XI. Come my beloved, let us goe forth into the fields, and let us remaine in the villages.
1
Christ. Soule.
Chr. COme, come, my deare, and let us both retire
And whiffe the dainties of the fragrant fields:
Where warbling Phil'mel and the shrill-mouth'd Quire
Chaunt forth their raptures; where the Turtle builds
Her lovely nest; and where the new-borne Bryer
Breaths forth the sweetnesse that her Aprill yeelds:
Come, come, my lovely faire, and let us try
These rurall delicates; where thou and I
May melt in private flames, and feare no stander by.
2
Soul. My hearts eternall Ioy, in lieu of whom
The earth's a blast, and all the world, a Buble;
Our Citie-mansion is the fairer Home,
But Country-sweets are tang'd with lesser Trouble;
Let's try them both, and choose the better; Come;
A change in pleasure makes the pleasure double:
On thy Commands depends my Goe, or Tarie [...];
Ile stirre with Martha; or Ile stay with Marie:
Our hearts are firmly fixt, although our pleasures varie.
3
Chr. Our Country-Mansion (situate on high)
With various Objects, still renewes delight;
Her arched Roofe's of unstain'd Ivory;
Her wals of fiery sparkling Chrysolite;
Her pavement is of hardest Porphery;
Her spacious windowes are all glaz'd with bright
And flaming Carbuncles; no need require
Titans faint rayes, or Vulcans feebler fire;
And ev'ry Gate's a Pearle; and ev'ry Pearle, entire.
4
Soul. Foole, that I was! how were my thoughts deceiv'd!
How falsly was my fond conceit possest!
I tooke it for an Hermitage, but pav'd
And daub'd with neighbring dirt, & thatch'd at best;
Alas, I nev'r expected more, nor crav'd;
A Turtle hop'd but for a Turtles nest:
Come, come, my deare, and let no idle stay
Neglect th'advantage of the head-strong day;
How pleasure grates, that feeles the curb of dull delay!
5
Chr. Come, then my Ioy; let our divided paces
Conduct us to our fairest Territory;
O there wee'l twine our soules in sweet embraces;
Sou. And in thine Armes Ile tell my passion story:
Chr. O there Ile crowne thy head with all my Graces;
Sou. And all those Graces shall reflect thy Glory;
Chr. O there, Ile feed thee with celestiall Manna;
Ile be thy Elkanah.
Soul. And I, thy Hanna.
Chr. Ile sound my Trump of Ioy.
So. And Ile resound Hosanna
S. BERN.
O blessed Contemplation! The death of vices, and the life of virtues! Thee the Law and Prophets admire: Who ever attain'd perfection, if not by thee! O blessed Solitude, the Magazen of celestiall Treasure! by thee things earthly, and transitory, are chang'd into heavenly, and eternall.
S. BERN. in Ep.
Happy is that house, and blessed is that Congregation, where Martha still complaines of Mary.
EPIG. 7.
Mechanick soule; thou must not onely doe
With Martha; but, with Mary, ponder too:
Happy's that house, where these faire sisters vary;
But most, when Martha's reconcil'd to Mary.
VIII.
VIII. CANT. I.III. Draw me, we will follow after thee by the savour of thy Oyntments.
THus like a lump of the corrupted Masse,
I lie secure; long lost, before I was:
And like a Block, beneath whose burthen lies
That undiscover'd Worme that never dies,
I have no will to rouze; I have no pow'r to rise.
Can stinking Lazarus compound, or strive
With deaths entangling Fetters, and revive?
Or can the water-buried Axe implore
A hand to raise it; or, it selfe, restore
And, from her sandy deepes, approach the dry-foot shore?
So hard's the task for sinfull flesh and Blood
To lend the smallest step to what is Good;
My God, I cannot move, the least degree;
Ah! If but onely those that active be
None should thy glory see, none should thy Glory see.
But if the Potter please t'informe the Clay;
Or some strong hand remove the Block away;
Their lowly fortunes soone are mounted higher,
That proves a vessell, which, before, was myre;
And this being hewne, may serve for better use than fire.
And if that life-restoring voice command
Dead Laz'rus forth; or that great Prophets hand
Should charme the sullen waters, and begin
To beckon, or to dart a Stick but in,
Dead Laz'rus must revive, and th' Axe must float againe.
Lord, as I am, I have no powe'r at all
To heare thy voice, to Eccho to thy call;
The gloomy Clouds of mine owne Guilt be night me;
Thy glorious beames, or dainty sweets invite me;
They neither can direct; nor these at all delight me.
See how my Sin-bemangled body lies,
Nor having pow'r, to will; nor will, to rise!
Shine home upon thy Creature, and inspire
My livelesse will with thy regen'rate fire;
The first degree to do, is onely to desire.
Give me the pow'r to will; the will, to doe;
O raise me up, and I will strive to go:
Draw me, O draw me with thy treble twist,
That have no pow'r but meerely to resist;
O lend me strength to do; and then command thy List.
My Soule's a Clock, whose wheels (for want of use
And winding up, being subject to th'abuse
Of eating Rust) wants vigour to fulfill
Her twelve hours taske, and show her makers skill;
But idly sleepes unmoov'd, and standeth vainly still.
Great God, it is thy work: and therefore, Good;
If thou be pleas'd to cleanse it with thy Blood;
And winde it up with thy soule-moving kayes,
Her busie wheeles shall serve thee all her dayes;
Her hand shall point thy pow'r; her Hammer strike thy praise
S. BERN. Serm. 21. in Cant.
Let us run: let us run, but in the savour of thy Oyntments, not in the confidence of our merits, nor in the greatnesse of our strength: we trust to run, but in the multitude of thy mercies, for though we run & are willing, it is not in him that wills, nor in him that runs, but in God that sheweth mercy: O let thy mercy returne, and we will run: Thou, like a Gyant, run'st by thy owne power; We, unlesse thy oyntment breath upon us, cannot run.
EPIG. 8.
Looke not, my Watch, being once repair'd, to stand
Expecting motion from thy makers hand.
H'as wound thee up, and cleans'd thy Coggs with blood:
If now thy wheeles stand still; thou art not good.
IX.
IX. CANT. VIII.I. O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the brests of thy mother, I would find thee without, and I will kisse thee.
1
COme, come my blessed Infant, and immure thee
Within the Temple of my sacred Armes;
Secure mine Armes; mine Armes shall, then, secure thee
From Herods fury, or the High-Priests Harmes;
Or if thy danger'd life sustaine a losse,
My folded Armes shall turne thy dying Crosse.
2
But, ah, what savage Tyrant can behold
The beauty of so sweet a face as this is,
And not himselfe, be, by himselfe, controld,
And change his fury to a thousand kisses?
One smile of thine is worth more mines of treasure
Than there be Myriads in the dayes of Caesar.
3
O, had the Tetrarch, as he knew thy birth,
So knowne thy Stock; he had not sought to paddle
In thy deare Blood; but, prostrate on the earth,
Had vayld his Crowne before thy royall Cradle,
And laid the Scepter of his Glory downe,
And beg'd a heav'nly for an earthly Crowne.
4
Illustrious Babe! How is thy handmaid grac'd
With a rich Armefull! How dost thou decline
Thy Majesty, that wert, so late, embrac'd
In thy great Fathers Armes, and now, in mine!
How humbly gracious art thou, to refresh
Me with thy Spirit, and assume my flesh.
5
But must the Treason of a Traitors Haile
Abuse the sweetnesse of these rubie lips?
Shall marble▪ hearted Cruelty assaile
These Alablaster sides with knotted whips?
And must these smiling Roses entertaine
The blowes of scorne, and Flurts of base disdaine?
6
Ah! must these dainty little sprigs that twine
So fast about my neck, be pierc'd and torne
With ragged nailes? And must these Browes resigne
Their Crowne of Glory for a Crowne of thorne?
Ah, must this blessed Infant tast the paine
Of deaths injurious pangs? nay worse; be slaine?
7
Sweete Babe! At what deare rates do wretched I
Commit a sin! Lord, ev'ry sin's a dart;
And ev'ry trespasse lets a javelin fly;
And ev'ry javelin wounds thy bleeding heart:
Pardon, sweet Babe, what I have done amisse,
And seale that granted pardon with a kisse.
BONAVENT. Soliloq. Cap 1.
O sweet Iesu, I knew not that thy kisses were so sweet, nor thy society so delectable, nor thy attraction so vertuous: For when I love thee, I am cleane; when I touch thee, I am chast; when I receive thee, I am a virgin: O most sweet Iesu, thy embraces defile not, but cleanse; thy attraction pollutes not, but sanctifies: O Iesu, the fountaine of universall sweetnesse, pardon me, that I believed so late, that so much sweetnesse is in thy embraces.
EPIG. 9.
My burthen's greatest: Let not Atlas bost:
Impartiall Reader, judge, which beares the most:
He beares but Heav'n; My folded Armes sustaine
Heav'ns maker, whom heav'ns heav'n cannot containe.
X.
X. CANT. III.I. In my bed, by night, I sought him, that my soule loved; I sought him, but I found him out.
THe learned Cynick, having lost the way
To honest men, did in the height of day,
By Taper-light, divide his steps about
The peopled Streets, to find this dainty out;
But fail'd. The Cynick search'd not where he ought;
The thing he sought for was not where he sought:
The Wisemens taske seem'd harder to be done,
The Wisemen did, by Starre-light seeke the Son,
And found; the Wisemen search'd it where they ought;
The thing they hop'd to find, was where they sought:
One seeks his wishes where he should; but then
Perchance he seeks not as he should, nor when:
Another searches when he should, but there
He failes; not seeking as he should, nor where
Whose soule desires the good it wants, and would
Obtaine; must seek Where, As, and when he should:
How often have my wilde Affections led
My wasted soule to this my widdow'd Bed,
To seek my Lover, whom my soule desires!
(I speak not, Cupid of thy wanton fires;
3
Where have my busie eyes not pry'd? O where,
Of whom hath not my thred-bare tongue demanded?
I search'd this glorious City; Hee's not here;
I sought the Countrey; She stands empty-handed:
I search'd the Court; He is a stranger there:
I ask'd the land; Hee's shipp'd: the sea; hee's landed:
I climb'd the ayre, my thoughts began t'aspire;
But, ah! the wings of my too bold desire,
Soaring too neare the Sun, were sing'd with sacred fire.
4
I moov'd the Merchants eare; alas, but he
Knew neither what I said, nor what to say:
I ask'd the Lawyer; He demands a Fee,
And then demurres me with a vaine delay▪
I ask'd the Schoole-man; His advise was free,
But scor'd me out too intricate a way;
I ask'd the Watch-man (best of all the foure)
Whose gentle answer could resolve no more;
But that he lately left him at the Temple doore.
5
Thus having sought, and made my great Inquest
In ev'ry place, and search'd in ev'ry eare;
I threw me on my Bed; but ah! my rest
Was poyson'd with th'extreames of griefe and feare,
Where, looking downe into my troubled breast,
The Magazen of wounds, I found him there;
Let others hunt, and show their sportfull Art;
I wish to catch the Hare before she start,
As Potchers use to do; Heav'ns Form's a troubled heart.
S. AMBROS. Lib. 3. de Virg.
Christ is not in the market; nor in the streets: For Christ is peace; in the market are strifes: Christ is Iustice; in the market is iniquity: Christ is a Labourer; in the market is idlenesse: Christ is Charity; in the Market is slander: Christ is Faith; in the market is fraud: Let us not therefore seeke Christ, where we cannot find Christ.
S. HIEROM Ep. 22. Eustoch.
Iesus is jealous: He will not have thy face seene: Let foolish virgins ramble abroad; seeke thou thy Love at home.
EPIG. 11.
What lost thy Love? Will neither Bed nor Board
Receive him? Not by teares to be implor'd?
It is the Ship that moves, and not the Coast;
I feare, I feare, my soule, 'tis thou art lost.
XI.
XI. CANT. III.II. I will rise, and go about in the Citie, and will seeke him that my soule loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
1
O How my disappointed soule's perplext!
How restlesse thoughts swarme in my troubled brest!
How vainely pleas'd with hopes; then, crossely vext
With feares! And how, betwixt them both, distrest!
What place is left unransack'd? Oh I Where, next,
Shall I goe seek the Author of my Rest?
Of what blest Angell shall my lips enquire
The undiscover'd way to that entire
And everlasting solace of my hearts desire!
2
Looke how the stricken Hart, that wounded, flies
Ov'r hills and dales, and seeks the lower grounds
For running streames; the whil'st his weeping eyes
Beg silent mercy from the following Hounds,
At length, embost, he droopes, drops downe, and lies
Beneath the burthen of his bleeding wounds:
Ev'n so my gasping soule, dissolv'd in teares,
Doth search for thee, my God, Whose deafned eares
Leave me th'unransom'd Prisner to my panick feares.
Where Thy fires are all but dying sparks to mine;
My flames are full of heav'n, and all divine)
How often have I sought this Bed, by night,
To find that greater, by this lesser light!
How oft has my unwitnest groanes lamented
Thy dearest absence! Ah, how often vented
The bitter Tempests of despairing breath,
And tost my soule upon the waves of death!
How often has my melting heart made choice
Of silent teares, (teares lowder than a voice)
To plead my griefe, and woo thy absent eare!
And yet thou wilt not come; thou wilt not heare:
O is thy wonted love become so cold?
Or do mine eyes not seeke thee where they should▪
Why do I seeke thee, if thou art not here?
Or find thee not, if thou art ev'ry where?
I see my error; 'Tis not strange I could not
Find out my love; I sought him where I should not
Thou art not found in downy Beds of ease;
[...]as, thy musick strikes on harder keyes:
Nor art thou found by that false, feeble light
Of Natures Candle; Our Aegyptian night
Is more than common darkenesse; nor can we
Expect a morning, but what breaks from Thee.
Well may my empty Bed lament thy losse,
When thou art lodg'd upon thy shamefull Crosse:
If thou refuse to share a Bed with me;
Wee'l never part, Ile share a Crosse with Thee.
ANSELM. in Protolog. Cap. 1.
Lord, if thou are not present, where shall I seeke thee absent? If every where, why do I not see thee present? Thou dwellest in light inaccessible; and where is that inaccessible light? Or how shall I have accesse to light inaccessible? I beseech thee, Lord, teach me to seeke thee, and show thy selfe to the seeker, because I can neither seeke thee, unlesse thou teach me, nor find thee, unlesse thou show thy selfe to me: Let me seeke thee, in desiring thee, and desire thee in seeking thee; Let me find thee in loving thee, and love thee in finding thee.
EPIG. 10.
Where shouldst thou seeke for rest, but in thy Bed?
But now thy Rest is gone; thy Rest is fled:
'Tis vaine to seeke him there; My soule, be wise;
Go ask thy sinnes; They'l tell thee where he lies,
XII.
XII. CAN. III.III. Have you seene him whom my soule loveth? When I had past a little from them, then I found him, I tooke hold on him, and left him not.
1
WHat secret corner? What unwonted way
Has scap'd the ransack of my rambling thoughts?
The Fox by night, nor the dull Owle, by day,
Have never search'd those places I have sought,
Whilst thy lamented absence taught my brest
The ready Road to Griefe, without request;
My day had neither comfort, nor my night had rest:
2
How has my unregarded language vented
The sad Tautologies of lavish passion?
How often have I languish'd, unlamented!
How oft have I complain'd without compassion!
I ask the Citie-Watch; but some deny'd me
The common streit, whilst others would misguide me;
Some would debarre me; some, divert me; some, deride me.
3
Mark, how the widow'd Turtle, having lost
The faithfull partner of her loyall Heart,
Stretches her feeble wings from Coast to Coast,
Haunts ev'ry path; thinks ev'ry shade does part
Her absent Love, and her; At length, unsped,
She re-betakes her to her lovely Bed,
And there bewailes her everlasting widow-head;
4
So when my soule had progrest ev'ry place,
That love and deare affection could contrive;
I threw me on my Couch, resolv'd t'embrace
A death for him, in whom I ceas'd to live:
But there injurious Hymen did present
His Lanskip joyes; my pickled eyes did vent
Full streames of briny teares, teares never to be spent.
5
Whilst thus my sorrow-wasting soule was feeding
Vpon the rad'call Humour of her thought,
Ev'n whilst mine eyes were blind, and heart was bleeding,
He that was sought, unfound, was found, unsought;
As if the Sun should dart his Orbe of light
Into the secrets of the black-brow'd night.
Ev'n so appear'd my Love, my sole, my soules delight.
6
O how mine eyes, now ravish'd at the sight
Of my bright Sun, shot flames of equall fire!
Ah! how my soule, dissolv'd with ov'r-delight,
To re-enjoy the Crowne of chast desire!
How sov'raigne joy depos'd and dispossest
Rebellious griefe! And how my ravisht brest
But who can presse those heights, that cannot be exprest?
7
O how these Armes, these greedy Armes did twine,
And strongly twist about his yeelding wast!
The sappy branches of the Thespian vine
Nev'r cling'd their lesse beloved Elme so fast;
Boast not thy flames, blind boy, nor feather'd shot;
Let Himens easie snarles be quite forgot:
Time cannot quench our fires, nor death dissolve our knot.
ORIG. Hom. 10. in divers.
O most holy Lord, and sweetest Master, how good art thou to those that are of upright heart, and humble spirit! O how blessed are they that seeke thee with a simple heart! How happy that trust in thee! It is a most certaine truth, that thou lovest all that love thee, and never forsakest those that trust in thee: For behold thy Love simply sought thee, and undoubtedly found thee: She trusted in thee, and is not forsaken of thee, but hath obtained more by thee, than she expected from thee.
BEDE cap. 3. Cant.
The longer I was in finding whom I sought, the more earnestly I held him being found.
EPIG. 12.
What? found him out? Let strong embraces bind him;
Hee'l fly perchance, where teares can never find him.
New Sins will lose what old Repentance gaines:
Wisedome not onely gets, but got, retaines.
XIII.
XIII. PSAL. LXXII.XXVIII. It is good for me to draw neare to God, I have put my trust in the Lord God.
WHere is that Good, which wisemen please to call
The Chiefest? Does there any such befall
Within mans reach? Or is there such a Good at all?
If such there be: it neither must expire,
Nor change; than which, there can be nothing higher;
Such Good must be the utter point of mans desire:
It is the Mark, to which all hearts must tend,
Can be desired for no other end,
The [...] for it selfe; on which, all other Goods depend:
What may this Exc'lence be? does it subsist
A reall Essence, clouded in the midst
Of curious Art, or cleare to ev'ry eye that list?
Or is't a tart Idea, to procure
An Edge, and keepe the practick soule in ure,
Like that deare Chymick dust, or puzzling Quadrature?
Where shall I seek this Good? Where shall I find
This Cath'licke pleasure, whose extreames may bind
My thoughts, and fill the gulph of my insatiate mind?
Lies it in Treasure? In full heaps untold?
Does gowty Mammons griping hand infold
This secret Saint in sacred Shrines of sov'raigne Gold?
No, no; she lies not there; Wealth often sowrs
In keeping; makes us hers, in seeming ours;
She slides from heav'n indeed, but not in Danaes showrs.
Lives she in Honour? No. The royall Crowne
Builds up a Creature, and then batters downe:
Kings raise thee with a smile, and raze thee with a frowne.
In pleasure? No, Pleasure begins in rage;
Acts the fooles part on earths uncertaine Stage,
Begins the Play in Youth; and Epilogues in Age.
These, these are bastard-goods; the best of these
Torment the soule with pleasing it, and please,
Like water gulp'd in Fevers, with deceitfull ease.
Earths flattring dainties are but sweet distresses:
Mole-hils performe the mountaines she professes;
Alas, can earth confer more good than earth possesses?
Mount, mount my soule; and let thy thoughts cashiere
Earths vaine delights, and make their full careire
At heav'ns eternall joyes; stop, stop thy Courier there.
There shall thy soule possesse uncarefull Treasure;
There shalt thou swim in never-fading pleasure;
And blaze in Honour farre above the frownes of Caesar.
Lord, if my hope dare let her Anchor fall
On thee, the chiefest Good, no need to call
For earths inferiour trash; Thou, thou art All in All.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. cap. 13.
I follow this thing, I pursue that; but am fill'd with nothing. But when I found thee, who art that immutable, individed, and onely good, in my selfe, what I obtained, I wanted not; for what I obtained not, I grieved not; with what I was possest, my whole desire was satisfied.
S. BERN. Ser. 9. sup. beati qui habent, &c.
Let others pretend merit: let him brag of the burthen of the day; let him boast of his Sabbath fasts, and let him glory that he is not as other men: but for me, it is good to cleave unto the Lord, and to put my trust in my Lord God.
EPIG. 13.
Let Boreas blasts, and Neptunes waves be joyn'd,
Thy Eolus commands the waves, the wind:
Feares not the Rocks or worlds imperious waves:
Thou climbst a Rock (my soule) a Rock that saves.
XIV. CANT. II.III. [...] sate under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweete to my taste.
1
LOok how the sheep▪ whose rambling steps doe stray
From the safe blessing of her Shepheards eyes
Eftsoone, becomes the unprotected Prey
To the wing'd Squadron of beleagring flies,
Where, sweltred with the scorching beames of day,
She frisks from Bush to Brak; and wildly flies
From her owne selfe, ev'n of herselfe affraid;
She shrouds her troubled browes in ev'ry Glade,
And craves the mercy of the soft removing shade.
2
Ev'n so my wandring Soule, that has digrest
From her great Shepheard, is the hourely prey
Of all all my Sinnes. These vultures in my Brest
Gripe my Promethian heart both night and day;
I hunt from place to place, but find no rest;
I know not where to go nor where to stay:
The eye of vengeance burnes; her flames invade
My sweltring Soule. My soule has oft assaid
But she can find no shrowd, but she can feele no Shade.
3
I sought the Shades of Mirth, to weare away
My slow pac'd houres of soule-consuming griefe;
I search'd the Shades of Sleepe, to ease my day
Of griping sorrowes with a nights repriefe;
I sought the Shades of Death; thought, there, t'allay
My finall torments with a full reliefe;
But Mirth, nor Sleepe, nor Death can hide my howres
In the false Shades of their deceitfull Bowres;
The first distracts, the next disturbes, the last devours.
4
Where shall I turn? To whom shall I apply me?
Are there no Streames where a faint soule may wade?
Thy Godhead, IESVS, are the flames that fry me;
Has thy All-glorious Deity nev'r a Shade,
Where I may sit, and vengeance never eye me,
Where I might sit refresht, or unaffraid;
Is there no Comfort? Is there no Refection?
Is there no Covert that will give Protection
T'a fainting soule, the subject of thy wraths reflexion?
5
Looke up, my soule; advance thy lowly stature
Of thy sad Thoughts; advance thy humble eye:
See, here's a Shadow found; The humane nature
Is made th'Vmbrella to the Deity,
To catch the Sun-beames of thy just Creator;
Beneath this Covert thou maist safely lie:
Permit thine eyes to climbe this fruitfull Tree,
As quick Zacheus did, and thou shalt see
A Cloud of dying flesh betwixt those Beames and thee.
GUILL. in cap. 2. Cant.
Who can in dure the fierce rayes of the Sunne of Iustice? Who shall not be consumed by his beames? Therefore the Sun of Iustice tooke flesh, that through the conjunction of that Sun and this humane body, a shadow may be made,
S. AUGUST Med. cap. 37.
Lord, let my soule flee from the scorching thoughts of the world under the Covert of thy wings, that being refreshed by the moderation of thy shadow, shee may sing merrily, In peace will I lay me downe and rest.
EPIG. 14.
Ah, treach'rous soule, would not thy Pleasures give
That Lord which made thee living, leave to live?
See, what thy sinnes haue done: Thy sinnes have made
The Sun of Glory now become thy Shade.
XV. PSAL. CXXXVII.IV. How shall we sing a song of the Lord in a strange land?
VRge me no more: This Ayry mirth belongs
To better times: These times are not for songs:
The sprightly Twang of the melodious Lute
Agrees not with my voice: and both unsuit
My untun'd fortunes: The affected measure
Of straines that are constrain'd, affoord no pleasure;
Musick's the Child of mirth: where griefes assaile
The troubled soule, both voice and fingers faile;
Let such as ravill out their lavish dayes
In honourable Ryot; that can raise
Dejected hearts, and conjure up a Sprite
Of madnesse by the Magick of delight;
Let those of Cupids Hospitall that lie
Impatient Patients to a smiling eye,
That cannot rest, untill vaine hope beguile
Their flatter'd Torments with a wanton smile;
Let such redeeme their peace, and salve the wrongs
Of froward Fortune with their frolick Songs:
My grief, my griefe's too great for smiling eyes
To cure, or Counter-charmes to exorzise;
The Ravens dismall Croakes; the midnight howles
Of empty Wolves, mixt with the screech of Owles;
The nine sad knowls of a dull Passing Bell,
With the loud language of a nighty knell,
And horrid out cries of revenged Crimes,
Ioyn'd in a Medley's Musick for these Times;
These are no Times to touch the merry string
Of Orpheus; No, these are no times to sing:
Can hide bound Prisners, that have spent their soules
And famish'd Bodies in the noysome holes
Of hell-black dungeons, apt their rougher throats,
Growne hoarse with begging Almes, to warble notes?
Can the sad Pilgrim, that has lost his way
In the vast desart; there, condemn'd a Prey
To the wild subject, or his Salvage Kings
Ronze up his palsey smitten spir'ts, and sing?
Can I a Pilgrim, and a Prisner too,
(Alas) where I am neither knowne, nor know
Ought but my Torments, an unransom'd stranger
In this strange Climat in a land of danger,
O, can my voyce be pleasant, or my hand,
Thus made a Prisner to a forreigne land?
How can my musick relish in your eares,
That cannot speake for sobs, nor sing for teares?
Ah, if my voyce could, Orpheus-like, unspell
My poore Euridicê, my soule, from hell
Of earths misconstru'd Heav'n, O then my brest
Should warble Ayres, whose Rapsodies should feast
The eares of Serathims, and entertaine
Heav'ns highest Deity with their lofty straine,
A straine well drencht in the true Thespian Well,
Till then; earths Semiquaver, mirth, farewell.
S. AUGUST. Med. cap. 33.
O infinitely happy are those heavenly virtues which are able to praise thee in holinesse and purity, with excessive sweetnesse and inutterable exultation! From thence they praise thee from whence they rejoyce, because they continually see for what they rejoyce, for what they praise thee: But we prest downe with this burthen of flesh farre remov'd from thy countenance in this pilgrimage, and blowne up with wordly vanities, cannot worthily praise thee: We praise thee by faith; not face to face: but those Argelicall Spirits praise thee face to face, and not by faith.
EPIG. 15.
Did I refuse to sing? Said I these times
Were not for Songs? nor musick for these Climes?
It was my Errour: Are not Groanes and teares
Harmonious Raptures in th'Almighties cares?
THE FIFT BOOKE,
I.
I. CANT. V. VIII. I charge you, O daughters of Ierusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of love.
1
YOu holy Virgins, that so oft surround
The Cities Saphyre Wals, whose snowy fe [...]
Measure the pearly Paths of sacred ground,
And trace the new Jerus'lems Iasper street;
Ah you whose care-forsaken hearts are crown'd
With your best wishes; that enjoy the sweet
Of all your Hopes; If ere you chance to spie
My absent Love, O tell him that I lie
Deepe wounded with the flames, that furnac'd from his eye.
2
I charge you, Virgins, as you hope to heare
The heav'nly Musick of your Lovers voice;
I charge you by the solemne faith ye beare
To plighted vowes, and to the loyall choice
Of your affections; or, if ought more deare
You hold; by Hymen; by your marriage joyes,
I charge you tell him, that a flaming dart,
Shot from his Eye, hath pierc'd my bleeding heart;
And I am sick of love, and languish in my smart.
3
Tell him. O tell him, how my panting brest
Is scorch'd with flames, and how my soule is pin'd;
Tell him, O tell him, how I lie opprest
With the full torments of a troubled mind;
O tell him, tell him, that he loves in jest,
But I, in earnest; Tell him, hee's unkind:
But if a discontented frowne appeares
Vpon his angry Brow, accoast his eares
With soft and fewer words, and act the rest in teares.
4
O tell him, that his cruelties deprive
My soule, of peace, while peace, in vaine, she seeks;
Tell him, those Damask roses, that did strive,
With white, both fade, upon my sallow cheeks;
Tell him, no token does proclaime I live,
But teares, and sighs, and sobs, and sudden shreeks;
Thus if your piercing words should chance to bore
His harkning eare, and move a sigh, give ore
To speak; and tell him—Tell him, that I could no more.
5
If your elegious breath should hap to rouze
A happy teare, close harb'ring in his eye,
Then urge his plighted faith, the sacred vowes,
Which neither I can break, nor He deny;
Bewaile the Torments of his loyall Spouse,
That for his sake, would make a sport to die:
O blessed Virgins, how my passion tires
Beneath the burthen of her vaine desires!
Heav'n never shot such flames, Earth never felt such fires.
S. AUGUST. Med. cap. 40.
What shall I say? What shall I doe? Whether shall I goe? Where shall I seeke him? Or when shall I find him? Whom shall I aske? Who will tell my beloved that I am sick of love?
GVLIEL. in Cap. 5. Cant.
I live; But not I: It is my beloved that lives in me: I love my selfe, not with my owne love, but with the love of my beloved, that loves me: I love not my selfe in my selfe, but my selfe in him, and him in me.
EPIG. 1.
Grieve not (my soule) nor let thy love waxe faint,
Weepst thou to lose the cause of thy Complaint?
Hee'l come; Love nev'r was bound to Times nor Lawes:
Till then, thy teares complaine without a Cause.
II.
II. CANT. II.V. Stay me with Flowers, and comfort me with Apples, for I am sicke with love.
1
O Tyrant love! how does thy sov'raigne pow'r
Subject poore soules to thy imperious thrall!
They say, thy Cup's compos'd of sweet and sowre;
They say, thy diet's Honey, mixt with Gall;
How comes it then to passe, these lips of our
Still trade in bitter; taste no sweet at all?
O tyrant love! Shall our perpetuall toyle
Nev'r find a Sabbath, to refresh, a while,
Our drooping soules? Art thou all frowns, and nev'r a smile?
2
You blessed Maids of Honour, that frequent
The royall Courts of our renown'd JEHOVE,
With Flow'rs restore my spirits faint, and spent;
O fetch me Apples from Loves fruitfull Grove,
To coole my palat, and renew my sent,
For I am sick, for I am sick of Love:
These will revive my dry, my wasted pow'rs,
And they, will sweeten my unsav'ry houres;
Refresh me then with Fruit, and comfort me with Flow'rs.
3
O bring me Apples to asswage that fire,
Which, Aetna-like, inflames my flaming brest;
Nor is it ev'ry Apple I desire,
Nor that which pleases ev'ry Palat best:
'Tis not the lasting Deuzan I require,
Nor yet the red-cheek'd Queening I request;
Nor that which, first, beshrewd the name of wife,
Nor that whose beauty caus'd the golden strife;
No, no, bring me an Apple from the Tree of life.
4
Virgins, tuck up your silken laps, and fill ye
With the faire wealth of Floras Magazine;
The purple Vy'let, and the pale-fac'd Lilly;
The Pauncy and the Organ Colombine;
The flowring Thyme, the guilt-boule Daffadilly;
The lowly Pinck, the lofty Eglentine:
The blushing Rose, the Queene of flow'rs, and be
Of Floras beauty; but, above the rest,
Let Iesses sov'raigne Flow'r perfume my qualming brest.
5
Haste, Virgins, haste; for I lie weake and faint,
Beneath the pangs of love; why stand ye mute;
As if your silence neither car'd to grant,
Nor yet your language to deny my suit?
No key can lock the doore of my complaint,
Vntill I smell this Flow'r, or taste that Fruit;
Go, Virgins, seeke this Tree, and search that Bow'r,
O, how my soule shall blesse that happy houre,
That brings to me such fruit, that brings me such a Flow'r?
GISTEEN. in cap. 2. Cant. Expos. 3.
O happy sicknesse! where the infirmity is not to death, but to life, that God may be glorified by it: O happy fever, that proceeds not from a consuming, but a calcining fire! O happy distemper, wherein the soule relishes no earthly things, but onely savours divine nourishment!
S. BERN. Scrm. 51. in Cant.
By flowers understand faith; by fruit, good works: As the flower or blossome is before the fruit, so faith is before goodworks: So neither is the fruit without the flower, nor good works without faith.
EPIG. 2.
Why Apples, O my soule? Can they remove
The Pangs of Griefe, or ease the flames of love;
It was that Fruit which gave the first offence;
That sent him hither; that remov'd him hence.
III.
My Beloued is mine and I am his, Hee feedeth among the Lillies. Cant: 2.16.
Will simpson sculp:
III. CANT. II.XVI. My beloved is mine, and I am his; He feedeth among the Lillies.
1
EV'n like two little bank-dividing brookes,
That wash the pebles with their wanton streames,
And having rang'd and search'd a thousand nookes,
Meet both at length, in silver-brested Thames;
Where, in a greater Current they conjoyne:
So I my Best Beloveds am; so He is mine.
2
Ev'n so we met; and after long pursuit,
Ev'n so we joyn'd; we both became entire;
No need fo [...] either to renew a Suit,
For I wa [...] Flax and he was Flames of fire:
Our firm united soules did more than twine;
So I my Best-Beloveds am; so He is mine.
3
If all those glittring Monarchs that command
The servile Quarters of this earthly Ball,
Should tender, in Exchange, their shares of land,
I would not change my Fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a Counter to my Coyne;
The world's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine.
4
Nay, more; If the faire Thespian Ladies, all
Should heape together their diviner treasure:
That Treasure should be deem'd a price too small
To buy a minuts Lease of halfe my Pleasure;
'Tis not the sacred wealth of all the Nine
Can buy my heart from Him; or His, from being mine:
5
Nor Time, nor place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow
My least desires unto the least remove;
Hee's firmely mine by Oath; I, His, by Vow;
Hee's mine by Faith; and I am His, by Love;
Hee's mine by Water; I am His, by Wine;
Thus I my Best-beloveds am; Thus He is mine.
6
He is my Altar; I, his Holy Place;
I am his Guest; and He, my living Food;
I'm his, by Poenitence; He, mine by Grace;
I'm his, by Purchace; He is mine, by Blood;
Hee's my supporting Elme; and I, his Vine:
Thus I my Best-Beloveds am. Thus He is mine.
7
He gives me wealth: I give him all my Vowes:
I give Him songs; He gives me length of dayes:
With wrethes of Grace he crownes my conqu'ring browes:
And I his Temples, with a Crowne of Praise,
Which be accepts as an everlasting signe,
That I my best-beloveds am; that He is mine.
S. AUGUST. Manu. cap. 24.
O my soule stampt with the Image of thy God; love him, of whom thou art so much beloved: Bend to him that bowes to thee, seeke him that seeks thee: Love thy lover, by whose love thou art prevented, being the cause of thy love: Be carefull with those that are carefull, want with those that want; Bee cleane with the cleane, and holy with the holy: Choose this friend above all friends, who, when all are taken away, remaines onely faithfull to thee: In the day of thy buriall, when all leave thee, he will not deceive thee, but defend thee from the roaring Lions, prepared for their prey.
EPIG. 3.
Sing Hymen to my soule: What? lost and found,
Welcom'd Espous'd, enjoy'd so soone, and crown'd!
He did but climbe the Crosse; and then came downe
To th'Gates of Hell; triumph'd, and fetch'd a Crowne.
IV. CANT. VII.X. I am my Beloveds, and his desire is towards mee.
1
LIke to the Artick needle, that does guide
The wandring shade by his Magneticke pow'r,
And leaves his silken Gnomon to decide
The question of the controverted houre,
First franticks up and downe, from side to side,
And restlesse beats his christall'd Iv'ry case
With vaine impatience; jets from place to place,
And seeks the bosome of his frozen Bride,
At length he slacks his motion, and does rest
His trembling point at his bright Poles beloved Brest.
2
Ev'n so my soule, being hurried here and there,
By ev'ry object that presents delight,
Faine would be setled, but she knowes not where;
She likes at morning what she loaths at night?
She bowes to Honour; then, she lends an eare
To that sweet Swan-like voice of dying Pleasure,
Then tumbles in the scatter'd heapes of Treasure;
Now flatter'd with false hope; now, foyl'd with feare:
Thus finding all the world delights to be
But empty toyes, good GOD, she point's alone to Thee,
But has the virtu'd Steele a pow'r to move?
Or can the untouch'd Needle point aright?
Or can my wandring Thoughts forbeare to rove,
Vnguided by the vertue of thy Spirit?
O has my leaden Soule the Art t'improve
Her wasted Talent; and unrais'd, aspire
In this sad moulting time of her desire?
Not first belov'd have I the pow'r to love?
I cannot stirre, but as thou please to move me,
Nor can my heart returne thee love, untill thou love me.
4
The still Commandresse of the silent night
Borrowes her beames from her bright brothers Eye;
His faire aspect fils her sharp hornes with light,
If he withdraw, her flames are quench'd and die;
Ev'n so the beames of thy enlightning Sp'rite
Infus'd and shot into my dark desire,
Inflame my thoughts, and fill my soule with fire,
That I am ravisht with a new delight;
But if thou shroud thy face, my glory fades,
And I remaine a Nothing, all compos'd of shades.
5
Eternall God, O thou that onely art
The sacred Fountaine of eternall light,
And blessed Loadstone of my better part,
O thou my hearts desire, my soules delight,
Reflect upon my soule; and touch my heart,
And then my heart shall prize no good above thee;
And then my soule shall know thee; knowing, love thee;
And then my trembling thoughts shall never start
From thy commands, or swerve the least degree,
Or once presume to move, but as they move in thee.
S. AUGUST. Med. Cap. 25.
If man can love man with so entire affection, that the one can scarce brooke the others absence? If a Bride can be joyned to her Bride-groome with so great an ardency of mind, that for the extremity of love she can enjoy no rest, not suffering his absence without great anxiety, with what affection, with what fervency ought the soule whom thou hast espoused by faith and compassion, to love thee her true God and glorious Bridegroome?
EPIG. 4.
My soule; thy love is deare; T'was thought a good
And easie pen'worth of thy Saviours Blood:
But be not proud; All matters rightly scan'd,
'Twas over brought: 'Twas sold at second hand.
V. CANT. V.VI. My Soule melted whilst my Beloved spake.
LOrd, has the feeble voice of flesh and blood
The pow'r to worke thine eares into a flood
Of melted Mercy? or the strenth, t'unlocke
The gates of Heav'n, and to dissolve a Rock
Of marbel Clouds into a morning show'r?
Or has the breath of whining dust the pow'r
To stop, or snatch a falling Thunderbolt
From thy fierce hand, and make thy hand revolt
From resolute Confusion, and in stead
Of Vyals, poure full Blessings on our head?
Or shall the wants of famisht Ravens cry,
And move thy mercy to a quick supply?
Or shall the silent suits of drooping flowr's
Woo thee for drops, and be refresh'd with Showr's?
Alas, what marvell then, great GOD, what wonder
If thy Hell-rouzing voice, that splits in sunder
The brazen Portals of eternall death;
What wonder if that life-restoring breath
Which drag'd me from th'infernall shades of night,
Should melt my ravisht soule with ore-delight?
O can my frozen gutters choose but run,
That feele the warmth of such a glorious Sun?
Me thinks his language, like a flaming Arrow,
Doth pierce my bones, and melts their wounded marrow;
Thy flames O Cupid (though the ioyfull heart
Feeles neither tang of griefe, nor feares the smart
Of jealous doubts, but drunk with full desires)
Are torments weigh'd with these celestiall fires;
Pleasures that ravish in so high a measure,
That O I languish in excesse of pleasure:
What ravisht heart, that feeles these melting Ioyes,
Would not despise and loathe the trech'rous Toyes
Of dunghill earth! what soule would not be proud
Of wry-mouth'd scornes, the worst that flesh and blood
Had rancor to divise? Who would not beare
The worlds derision with a thankfull eare?
What palat would refuse full bowles of spight,
To gaine a minuts tast of such delight?
Great spring of light, in whom there is no shade
But what my interposed sinnes have made,
Whose marrow-melting Fires admit no screene
But what my owne rebellions put betweene
Their precious flames, and my obdurate care;
Disperse these plague-distilling Clouds, and cleare
My mungy Soule into a glorious day;
Transplant this screene, remoove this Barre away;
Then, then my fluent soule shall feele the fires
Of thy sweet voice, and my dissolv'd desires
Shall turne a sov'raigne Balsome, to make whole
Those wounds my sinnes inflicted on thy soule.
S. AUGUST. Soliloqu. Chap. 34.
What fire is this that so warmes my heart? What light is this that so enlightens my soule! O fire, that alwayes burnest, and never goest out, kindle me: O light, which ever shinest, and art never darkned, illuminate me: O that I had my heat from thee, most holy fire! How sweetly doest thou burne! How secretly dost thou shine! How desiderably doest thou inflame me!
BONAVENT. Stim. amoris Chap. 8.
It makes God man; and man, God; things temporall, eternall; mortall, immortall; it makes an enemy a friend; a servant a Sonne: vile things, glorious; cold hearts fiery, and hard things liquid.
EPIG. 5.
My soule; Thy gold is true; but full of drosse;
Thy SAVIOURS breath refines thee with some losse,
His gentle Fornace makes thee pure as true;
Thou must be melted, ere th'art cast anew.
VI.
VI. PSAL. LXXIII.XXV. Whom have I in heav'n but Thee? and what desire I on earth in respect of Thee?
1
I Love (and have some cause to love) the earth;
She is my Makers Creature; therefore Good:
She is my Mother; for she gave me birth;
She is my tender Nurse; she gives me food:
But what's a Creature, Lord, compar'd with Thee?
Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?
2
I love the Ayre; her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soule, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouth'd Quire sustaine me with their flesh,
And with their Polyphonian notes delight me:
But what's the Ayre, or all the sweets that she
Can blesse my soule withall, compar'd to Thee?
3
I love the Sea; She is my fellow-Creature;
My carefull Purveyor; She provides me store;
Shee wals me round; She makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a forreigne shore;
But Lord of Oceans, when compar'd with thee,
What is the Ocean, or her wealth, to me?
4
To heav'ns high City I direct my Iourney,
Whose spangled Suburbs entertaine mine eye;
Mine Eye, by Contemplations great Atturney,
Transcends the Chrystall pavement of the sky;
But what is heav'n, great GOD, compar'd to Thee?
Without Thy presence Heav'n's no Heav'n to me.
5
Without Thy presence Earth gives no Refection;
Without Thy presence, Sea affords no treasure;
Without Thy presence Ayre's a rank Infection;
Without Thy presence Heav'n it selfe's no pleasure;
If not possest if not enjoy'd in Thee,
What's Earth, or Sea, or Ayre, or Heav'n to me?
6
The highest Honours that the world can boast
Are subjects farre too low for my desire;
The brightest beames of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of thy living fire:
The proudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nigh [...]ly Glow-wormes, if compar'd to Thee.
7
Without Thy presence, wealth are Bags of Cares;
Wisedome, but Folly; Joy, disquiet sadnesse,
Friendship is Treason, and Delights are snares;
Pleasures but paine, and mirth, but pleasing Madnesse
Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compar'd with Thee.
8
In having all things, and not Thee what have I?
Not having Thee, what have my labours got?
Ler me enjoy but Thee, what farther crave I?
And having Thee alone, what have I not?
I wish nor Sea, nor Land; nor would I be
Possest of Heav'n, Heav'n unpossest of Thee.
BONAVENT. Cap. 1. Soliloq.
Alas my God, now I Vnderstand (but blush to confesse) that the beauty of thy Creatures haue deceived mine eyes; and I have not observed that thou art more amiable than all thy creatures; to which thou hast communicated but one drop of thy inestimable beauty; For who hath adorned the heauens with Starres? Who hath stored the ayre with fowle? the waters, with fish? the earth, with plants and flowers? But what are all these but a small sparke of divine beauty.
S. CHR. Hom. 5. in Ep ad Rom.
In having nothing I have all things, because I have Christ; Having therefore all things in Him, I seeke no other reward, for he is the universall Reward.
EPIG. 6.
Who would not throw his better thoughts about him,
And scorne this drosse within him; that, without him?
Cast up (my soule) thy clearer eye; Behold.
If thou be fully melted: There's the Mold.
VII.
VII. PSAL. CXX.V. Woe is to me! that I remaine in Meshech, and dwell in the Tents of Kedar.
IS Natures course dissolv'd? Does Times glasse stand?
Or has some frolick heart set back the hand
Of Fates perpetuall Clock? Wil't never strike?
Is crazy Time growne lazy, faint, or sick
With very Age? Or has that great Purroyall
Of Adamantine sisters late made tryall
Of some new Trade? Shall mortall hearts grow old.
In sorrow? Shall my weary Armes infold
And underprop my panting sides for ever?
Is there no charitable hand will sever
My well-spun Thred, that my imprison'd soule
May be deliver'd from this dull darke hole
Of dungeon flesh? O shall I, shall I never
Be ransom'd, but remaine a slave for ever?
It is the Lot of man but once to dye,
But ere that death, how many deaths have I?
What humane madnesse makes the world affraid
To entertaine heav'ns joy? because conveig'd
By th'hand of death? Will nakednesse refuse
Rich change of robes, because the man's not spruse
That brought them? Or will Poverty send back
Full bags of gold, because the bringer's black?
Life is a Bubble, blowne with whining breaths,
Fil'd with the torments of a thousand deaths;
Which, being prickt by death (while death deprives
One life) presents the soule a thousand lives:
Of frantick mortall, how has earth bewich'd
Thy Beldam soule, which has so fondly pitch'd
Vpon her false delights! Delights, that cease
Before enjoyment finds a time to please;
Her fickle joyes breed doubtfull feares; her feares
Bring hopfull Grifes; her griefes weep fearefull teares,
Teares coyne deceitfull hopes; hopes, carefull doubt,
And surly passion justles passion out:
To day, wee pamper with a full repast
Of lavish mirth; at night, we weepe as fast:
To night we swim in wealth, and lend; To morrow,
We sink in want, and find no friend to borrow;
In what a Climat does my soule reside!
Where pale-fac'd murther, the first borne of pride,
Sets up her kingdome in the very smiles,
And plighted faiths of men-like Crocadiles
A land, where each embroydred Sattin word
Is lin'd with Fraud; where Mars his lawlesse sword
Exiles Astraeas Balance; where that hand
Now flayes his brother, that new-sow'd his land:
O that my dayes of bondage would expire
In this lewd Soyle! Lord, how my Soule's on fire
To be dissolved! that I might once obtaine
These long'd for joyes, long'd for so oft, in vaine!
If Moses-like I may not live possest
Of this faire Land; Lord, let me see't, at least.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap. 2.
My life is a fraile life; a corruptible life; A life, which the more increases, the more decreases: The farther it goes, the nearer it comes to death: A deceitfull life, and like a shadow; full of the snares of death: Now I rejoyce; now I languish; now I flourish; now infirme; now I live, and straight I dye; now I seeme happy, alwayes miserable; now I laugh, now I weepe: Thus all things are subject to mutability, that nothing continues an houre in one state: O Ioy above Ioy, exceeding all Ioy, without which there is no Ioy, when shall I enter into thee; that I may see my God that dwels in thee?
EPIG. 7.
Art thou so weake? O canst thou not digest
An houre of travell for a night of Rest?
Cheare up, my soule; call home thy spir'ts, and beare
One bad Good-Friday; Full-mouth'd Easter's neare.
VIII.
O wretched Man that I am: who shall deliver me from the body of this Death▪
Rom: 7.24. Will: simpson sculp:
VIII. ROM. VII.XXIV. O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from this body of death?
BEhold thy darling, which thy lustfull care
Pampers; for which thy restlesse thoughts prepare
Such early Cates; For whom thy bubbling brow
So often sweats, and bankrupt eyes doe owe
Such midnight scores to Nature, for whose sake
Base earth is Sainted, the Infernall Lake
Vnfeard; the Crowne of glory poorely rated;
Thy GOD neglected, and thy brother hated:
Behold thy darling, whom thy soule affects
So dearely; whom thy fond Indulgence decks
And puppets up in soft, in silken weeds:
With farre-fetch'd delicates, the deare-bought gainer
Of ill-spent Time, the price of halfe thy paines:
Behold thy darling, who, when clad by Thee,
Derides thy nakednesse; and, when most free,
Proclaimes her lover, slave; and, being fed
Most full, then strikes th'indulgent Feeder dead:
What meanst thou thus, my poore deluded soule,
To love so fondly? Can the burning Cole
Of thy Affection last without the fuell
Of counter-love? Is my Compere so cruell,
And thou so kind, to love unlov'd againe?
Canst thou sow favours, and thus reape disdaine?
Remember, O remember thou art borne
Of royall Blood; remember thou art sworne
A Maid of Honour in the Court of Heav'n;
Remember what a costly price was giv'n
To ransome thee from slav'ry thou wert in;
And wilt thou now, my soule, turne slave agin?
The Son and Heire to Heav'ns Triune JEHOVA
Would faine become a Suitor for thy Love,
And offers for thy dow'r, his Fathers Throne,
To sit, for Seraphims to gaze upon;
Hee'l give thee Honour, Pleasure, Wealth, and Things
Transcending farre the Majesty of Kings:
And wilt thou prostrate to the odious charmes
Of this base Scullion? Shall his hollow Armes
Hugg thy soft sides? Shall these course hands untie
The sacred Zone of thy Virginity?
For shame, degen'rous soule, let thy desire
Be quickned up with more heroick fire;
Be wisely proud; let thy ambitious eye
Read nobler objects; let thy thoughts defie
Such am'rous basenesse; Let thy soule disdaine
Th'ignoble profers of so base a Swaine;
Or if thy vowes be past, and Himens bands
Have ceremonyed your unequall hands,
Annull, at least avoid thy lawlesse Act
With insufficience, or a Prae contract:
Or if the Act be good, yet maist thou plead
A second Freedome; for the flesh is dead.
NAZIANZ. Orat. 16.
How I am joyned to this body, I know not; which when it is healthfull, provokes me to warre, and being damaged by warre, affects me with griefe; which I both love as a fellow servant, and hate as an utter enemy; It is a pleasant Foe, and a perfidious friend: O strange conjunction and Alienation: What I feare I embrace, and what I love I am affraid of; Before I make warre, I am reconcil'd; Before I enjoy peace, I am at variance.
EPIG. 8.
What need that House be daub'd with flesh and blood?
Hang'd round with silks and gold; repair'd with food?
Cost idly spent! That cost does but prolong.
Thy thraldome; Foole, thou mak'st thy I ayle too strong.
IX.
IX. PHIL. I.XXIII. I am in a streight betweene two, having a desire to be dissolved, and to be with Christ.
1
WHat meant our carefull parents so to weare,
And lavish out their ill expended houres,
To purchase for us large possessions, here,
Which (though unpurchas'd) are too truly ours?
What meant they, ah what meant they to indure
Such loads of needlesse labour, to procure,
And make that thing our own, which was our own too sure.
2
What meane these liv'ries and possessive kayes?
What meane these bargaines, and these needlesse sales?
What need these jealous, these suspitious wayes
Of law-divis'd, and law-dissolv'd entailes?
No need to sweat for gold; wherewith, to buy
Estates of high-priz'd land; no need to tie
Earth to their heires, were they but clog'd with earth as I.
3
O were their soules but clog'd with earth, as I,
They would not purchase with so salt an Itch;
They would not take, of Almes, what now they buy;
Nor call him happy, whom the world counts rich:
They would not take such paines, project and prog,
To charge their shoulders with so great a log;
Who has the greater lands, has but the greater clog.
4
I cannot do an act which earth disdaines not;
I cannot thinke a thought which earth corrupts not;
I cannot speake a word which earth prophanes not;
I cannot make a vow earth interrupts not;
If I but offer up an early groane,
Or spread my wings to heav'ns long long'd for Throne,
She darkens my complaints, and drags my Offring downe.
5
Ev'n like the Hawlk, (whose keepers wary hands
Have made a prisner to her wethring stock)
Forgetting quite the pow'r of her fast bands,
Makes a rank Bate from her forsaken Block,
But her too faithfull Leash does soone restraine
Her broken flight, attempted oft in vaine;
It gives her loynes a twitch, and tugs her back againe.
6
So, when my soule directs her better eye
To heav'ns bright Pallace (where my treasure lies).
I spread my willing wings, but cannot flie,
Earth hales me downe, I cannot, cannot rise;
When I but strive to mount the least degree,
Earth gives a jerk, and foiles me on my knee;
LORD, how my soule is rackt, betwixt the world and Thee.
7
Great GOD, I spend my feeble wings, in vaine;
In vaine I offer my extended hands;
I cannot mount till thou unlink my chaine;
I cannot come till thou release my Bands:
Which if thou please to break, and then supply
My wings with spirit, th'Eagle shall not flie
A pitch that's halfe so faire, nor halfe so swift as I.
BONAVENT. cap. 1. Soliloq.
Ah sweet Iesus, pierce the marrow of my soule with the healthfull shafts of thy love, that if may truly burne, and melt, and languish with the onely desire of thee; that it may desire to be dissolv'd, and to be with thee: Let it hunger alone for the bread of life; let it thirst after thee, the spring and fountaine of eternall light, the streame of true pleasure: let it alwayes desire thee, seeke thee, and find thee, and sweetly rest in thee.
EPIG. 9.
What? will thy shackles neither loose, nor breake?
Are they too strong? or is thy Arme too weake?
Art will prevaile where knotty strength denies;
My soule; there's Aquafortis in thine eyes.
X.
X. PSAL. CXLII.VII. Bring my soule out of prison, that I may praise thy Name.
MY Soule is like a Bird; my Flesh the Cage;
Wherein she weares her weary Pilgrimage
Of houres as few as evill, dayly fed
With sacred Wine, and Sacramentall Bread;
The keyes that locks her in, and lets her out,
Are Birth and Death; 'twixt both she hops about
From perch to perch; from Sense to reason; then
From higher Reason, downe to Sense agen:
From Sense she climbs to Faith; where, for a season,
She sits and sings; then downe againe to Reason;
From Reason back to Faith; and straight from thence
She rudely flutters to the Perch of Sense;
From Sense, to Hope; then hops from Hope to Doubt;
From Doubt, to dull Despaire; there, seekes about
For desp'rate Freedome; and at ev'ry Grate,
She wildly thrusts, and begs th'untimely date
Of unexpired thraldome, to release
Th' afflicted Captive, that can find no peace:
Thus am I coop'd within this fleshly Gage,
I weare my youth, and wast my weary Age,
Spending that breath which was ordain'd to chaunt
Heav'ns praises forth, in sighs and sad complaint:
Whilst happier birds can spread their nimble wing
From Shrubs to Cedars, and there chirp and sing,
In choice of raptures, the harmonious story
Of mans Redemption, and his Makers Glory:
You glorious Martyrs; you illustrious Troopes,
That once were cloyster'd in your fleshly Coopes,
As fast as I, what Reth'rick had your tongues?
What dextrous Art had your Elegiak Songs?
What Paul-like pow'r had your admir'd devotion?
What shackle breaking Faith infus'd such motion
To your strong Pray'rs, that could obtaine the boone
To be inlarg'd, to be uncag'd so soone?
When I (poore I) can sing my daily teares,
Growne old in Bondage, and can find no eares:
You great partakers of eternall Glory,
That with your heav'n-prevailing Oratory,
Releas'd your soules from your terrestriall Cage,
Permit the passion of my holy Rage
To recommend my sorrowes (dearely knowne
To you, in dayes of old; and, once, your owne)
To your best thoughts, (but oh't does not befit ye
To moove your pray'rs; you love and joy; not pitie:)
Great LORD of soules to whom should prisners flie,
But Thee? Thou hadst thy Cage, as well as I:
And, for my sake, thy pleasure was to know
The sorrowes that it brought, and feltst them too;
O set me free, and I will spend those dayes,
Which now I wast in begging, in Thy praise.
ANSELM. in Protolog. cap. 1.
O miserable condition of mankind, that has lost that for which he was created! Alas What has he left? And what has hee found? He has lost happinesse for which he was made, and found misery for which he was not made: What is gone? and what is left? That thing is gone, without which hee is unhappy; that thing is left, by which he is miserable: O wretched men! From whence are we expell'd? To what are we impell'd? Whence are we throwne? And whether are we burried? From our home into banishment; from the slight of God into our own blindnesse; from the pleasure of immortality to the bitternesse of death: Miserable change! From how great a good, to how great an evill? Ah me; What have I enterprized? What have I done? Whither did I goe? Whither am I come?
EPIG. 10.
Pauls Midnight voice prevail'd; his musicks thunder
Vnhing'd the prison doores; split bolts in sunder:
And sitst thou here? and hang'st the feeble wing?
And whinst to be enlarg'd? Soule, learne to sing.
XI.
XI. PSAL. XLII.I. As the Hart panteth after the water-brooks, so panteth my soule after thee O God.
1
HOw shall my tongue expresse that hollow'd fire
Which heav'n has kindled in my ravisht heart?
What Muse shall I invoke, that will inspire
My lowly Quill to act a lofty part!
What Art shall I divise t'expresse desire,
Too intricate to be exprest by Art!
Let all the nine be silent; I refuse
Their old in this high task, for they abuse
The flames of Love too much: Assist me Davids Muse.
2
Not as the thirsty soyle desires soft showres,
To quicken and refresh her Embrion graine;
Nor as the drooping Crests of fading flowres
Request the bounty of a morning Raine,
Do I desire my GOD: These, in few houres,
Re-wish, what late their wishes did obtaine,
But as the swift-foot Hart does, wounded, flie
To th' much desired streames, ev'n so do I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom I must find, or die.
3
Before a Pack of deep-mouth'd Lusts I flee;
O, they have singled out my panting heart,
And wanton Cupid, sitting in a Tree,
Hath pierc'd my bosome with a flaming dart;
My soule being spent, for refuge, seeks to Thee,
But cannot find where Thou my refuge art:
Like as the swift-foot Hart does, wounded, flie
To the desired streames, ev'n so do I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom I must find, or die.
4
At length, by flight, I over-went the Pack;
Thou drew'st the wanton dart from out my wound;
The blood, that follow'd, left a purple track,
Which brought a Serpent, but in shape, a Hound;
We strove; He bit me; but Thou brak'st his back,
I left him grov'ling on th'envenom'd ground;
But as the Serpent-bitten Hart does flie
To the long-long'd for streames, ev'n so did I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom I must find, or die.
5
If lust should chase my soule, made swift by fright,
Thou art the streames whereto my soule is bound:
Or if a lav'lin wound my sides in flight,
Thou art the Balsome that must cure my wound:
If poyson chance t'infest my soule, in fight,
Thou art the Treacle that must make me sound;
Ev'n as the wounded Hart, embost, does flie
To th'streames extremely long for, so doe I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom I must finde, or die.
CYRIL. lib. 5. in Ioh. cap. 10.
O precious water, which quenches the noysome thirst of this world, that scoures all the staines of sinnes; that waters the earth of our soules with heavenly showers, and brings backe the thirsty heart of man to his onely God!
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. 35.
O fountaine of life, and veine of living waters, when shall I leave this forsaken, impassible, and dry earth, and tast the waters of thy sweetnesse, that I may behold thy vertue, and thy glory, and slake my thirst with the streames of thy mercy; Lord, I thirst: Thou art the spring of life, satisfie me; I thirst, Lord, I thirst after thee the living God!
EPIG. 11.
The Arrow-smitten Hart, deep wounded, flies
To th' Springs with water in his weeping eyes:
Heav'n is thy Spring: If Sathans fiery dart
Pierce thy faint sides; do so, my wounded Hart.
XII. PSAL. XLII.II. When shall I come and appeare before God?
WHat is my soule the better to be tinde
With holy fire? What boots it to be coynd
With Heav'ns owne stamp? What vantage can there be
To soules of heav'n-descended Pedegree,
More than to Beasts, that grovell? Are not they
Fed by th'Almighties hand? and, ev'ry day,
Fill'd with His Blessing too? Doe they not see
GOD in His Creatures as direct as we?
Doe they not tast Thee? heare Thee? nay, what Sense
Is not partaker of Thine Excellence?
What more doe we? Alas, what serves our reason,
But, like darke lanthornes, to accomplish Treason
With greater closenesse? It affords no light,
Brings Thee no nearer to our pur blind sight;
No pleasure rises up the least degree,
Great GOD, but in the clearer view of Thee:
What priv'ledge more than Sense, has Reason than?
What vantage is it to be borne a Man?
How often has my patience built, (deare LORD)
Vaine Tow'rs of Hope upon Thy gracious Word?
How often has Thy Hope-reviving Grace
Woo'd my suspitious eyes to seeke Thy face!
How often have I sought Thee? Oh how long
Hath expectation taught my perfect tongue
Repeated pray'rs, yet pray'rs could nev'r obtaine;
In vaine I seeke Thee, and I beg in vaine:
If it be high presumption to behold
Thy face, why didst Thou make mine eyes so bo [...]
To seeke it? If that object be too bright
For mans Aspect, why did thy lips invite
Mine eye t'expect it? If it might be seene,
Why is this envious curtaine drawne betweene
My darkned eye and it? O tell me, why
Thou dost command the thing Thou dost deny?
Why dost thou give me so unpriz'd a treasure,
And then deny'st my greedy soule the pleasure
To view thy gift? Alas, that gift is void,
And is no gift, that may not be enjoy'd:
If those refulgent Beames of heav'ns great light
Guid not the day, what is the day, but night?
The drouzie Shepheard sleeps; flowres droop and fade;
The Birds are sullen, and the Beast is sad;
But if bright Titan dart his golden Ray,
And, with his riches, glorifie the day,
The jolly Shepheard pipes; Flowres freshly spring
The beast growes gamesome, and the birds they sing.
Thou art my Sun, great GOD, O when shall I
View the full beames of thy Meridian eye?
Draw, draw this fleshly curtaine, that denies
The gracious presence of thy glorious eyes;
Or give me Faith; and, by the eye of Grace,
I shall behold Thee, though not face to face.
S. AUGUST. in Psal. 39.
Who created all things is better than all things; who beautified all things is more beautifull than all things: who made strength is stronger than all things: who made great things is greater than all things: Whatsoever thou lovest hee is that to thee: Learne to love the workman in his worke; the Creator in his creature: Let not that which was made by Him possesse thee, lest thou lose Him by whom thy selfe was made.
S. AUGUST. Med. cap. 37.
O thou most sweet, most gracious, most amiable, most faire, when shall I see Thee? when shall I be satisfied with thy beauty? When wilt thou lead mee from this darke dungeon, that I may confesse thy name?
EPIG. 12.
How art thou shaded in this vale of night,
Behind thy Curtaine flesh? Thou seest no light,
But what thy Pride does challenge as her owne;
Thy flesh is high: Soule take this Curtaine downe:
XIII.
XIII. PSAL. LVI.VI. O that I had the wings of a Dove, for then I would flee away and be at rest.
1
ANd am I sworne a dunghill slave for ever
To earths base drudg'ry? Shall I never find
A night of Rest? Shall my Indentures never
Be cancel'd? Did injurious nature bind
My soule earths Prentice, with no Clause, to leave her?
No day of freedome? Must I ever grinde?
O that I had the pineons of a Dove;
That I might quit my Bands, and sore above,
And powre my just Complaints before the great JEHOVA!
2
How happy are the Doves, that have the pow'r,
When ere they please, to spread their ayry wings!
Or cloud-dividing Eagles, that can tow'r
Above the Sent of these inferiour things!
How happy is the Lark, that ev'ry howre,
Leaves earth, and then for joy, mounts up and sings!
Had my dull soule but wings as well as they,
How I would spring from earth, and clip away,
As wise Astraea did, and scorne this ball of Clay!
3
O how my soule would spurne this Ball of Clay,
And loath the dainties of earths painefull pleasure!
O how I'de laugh to see men night and day,
Turmoyle, to gaine that Trash they call their treasure!
O how I'de smile to see what plots they lay
To catch a blast, or owne a smile from Caesar!
Had I the pineons of a mounting Dove,
How would I sore and sing, and hate the Love
Of transitory Toyes; and feed on Ioyes above!
4
There should I find that everlasting Pleasure,
Which Change removes not, & which Chance prevents not
There should I find that everlasting Treasure;
Which force deprives not, fortune dis-augments not;
There should I find that everlasting Caesar,
Whose hand recals not, and whose heart repents not:
Had I the pineons of a clipping Dove,
How I would climbe the skies, and hate the Love
Of transitory Toyes, and joy in Things above!
5
No rank-mouth'd flander, there, shall give offence,
Or blast our blooming names, as here they doe;
No liver scalding Lust shall, there, incense
Our boyling veines: There is no Cupids Bow:
LORD, give my soule the milke-white Innocence
Of Doves, and I shall have their pineons too:
Had I the pineons of a sprightly Dove,
How I would quit this earth, and sore above,
And heav'ns blest kingdom find, with heav'ns blest King IEHOVE.
S. AUGUST. in Psal. 38.
What wings should I desire but the two precepts of love, on which the Law and the Prophets depend! O if I could obtaine these wings, I could flye from thy face to thy face, from the face of thy Iustice to the face of thy Mercy: Let us find those wings by love which we have lost by lust.
S. AUGUST. in Psal. 76.
Let us cast off whatsoever hinders, entangles or burthens our flight untill we attaine that which satisfies; beyond which nothing is; beneath which, all things are; of which, all things are.
EPIG. 13.
Tell me, my wishing soule, didst ever trie
How fast the wings of, Red-crost Faith can flie?
Why beg'st thou then the pineons of a Dove?
Faiths wings are swifter, but the swiftest, Love
XIV.
XIV. PSAL. LXXXIV.I. How amiable are thy Tabernacles O God of Hosts.
ANcient of dayes, to whom all times are Now,
Before whose Glory, Seraphims do bow
Their blushing Cheekes, and vale their blemisht faces;
That uncontain'd, at once, dost fill all places,
How glorious, O how farre beyond the height
Of puzzled Quils, or the obtuse conceit
Of flesh and Blood, or the too flat reports
Of mortall tongues, are thy experssesse Courts!
Whose glory to paint forth with greater Art,
Ravish my Fancy, and inspire my heart,
Excuse my bold attempt, and pardon me
For shewing Sence, what Faith alone should see.
Ten thousand Millions, and ten thousand more
Of Angell-measur'd leagues from th'Easterne shore
Of dungeon earth this glorious Palace stands,
Before whose pearly gates, ten thousand Bands
Of armed Angels wait, to entertaine
Those purged soules, for whom the Lamb was slaine,
Whose guiltlesse death, and voluntary yeelding
Of whose giv'n life, gave this brave Court her building;
The lukewarme Blood of this deare Lamb being spilt,
To Rubies turn'd, whereof her posts were built;
And what dropt downe in cold and gelid gore,
Did turne rich Saphyrs, and impav'd her floore:
The brighter flames, that from his eye-balls ray'd,
Grew Chrysolites, whereof her walls were made:
The milder glaunces sparkled on the Ground,
And grunsild ev'ry doore with Diamond:
But, dying, darted upwards, and did fix
A Battlement of purest Sardonix.
Her streets with burnisht Gold are paved round:
Starres lie like pebbles scattred on the ground:
Pearle, mixt with Onyx, and the Iasper stone,
Made gravil'd Causwayes to be trampled on.
There shines no Sun by day; no Moone, by night;
The Pallace glory is the Pallace light:
There is no time to measure motion by,
There, time is swallow'd with Eternity;
Wry-mouth'd disdaine, and corner-haunting lust,
And twy-fac'd Fraud; and beetle-brow'd Distrust;
Soule-boyling Rage; and trouble-state sedition;
And giddy doubt; and goggle-ey'd suspition;
And lumpish sorrow, and degen'rous feare
Are banisht thence, and death's a stranger there:
But simple love, and sempeternall joyes,
Whose sweetnesse neither gluts, nor fulnesse cloyes;
Where face to face, our ravish't eye shall see
Great ELOHIM, that glorious One in Three,
And Three in One, and, seeing Him, shall blesse Him,
And blessing, love Him; and, in love, possesse Him:
Here stay, my soule, and ravish in relation:
Thy words being spent; spend now, in Contemplation.
S. GREG. in Psal. 7. poenitent.
Sweet Iesus, the Word of the Father, the brightnesse of paternall glory, whom Angels delight to view, teach me to do thy will; that, led by thy good Spirit, I may come to that blessed City, where day is eternall, where there is certaine security, and secure eternity, and eternall peace, and peacefull happinesse, and happy sweetnesse, and sweet pleasure; where thou O God with the Father and the holy Spirit livest and raignest world without end.
Ibid.
There is light without darkenesse; Ioy without griefe; desire without punishment; love without sadnesse; satiety without loathing; safety without feare; health without disease; and life without death.
EIPG. 14.
My soule, pry not too nearely; The Complexion
Of Sols bright face is seene, but by Reflexion:
But wouldst thou know what's heav'n? Ile tell thee what;
Think what thou canst not thinke, and Heav'n is that.
XV.
XV. CANT. VIII.XIV. Make hast my Beloved, and be like the Roe. or the young Hart upon the Mountaines of Spices.
GO, Gentle Tyrant, go; thy flames doe pierce
My soule too deep; thy flames are too too fierce;
My marrow melts; my fainting Spirits fry
Ith'torrid Zone of thy Meridian Eye;
Away, away: thy sweets are too perfuming;
Turne, turne thy face; Thy fires are too consuming,
Hast hence; and let thy winged steps out-goe
The frighted Roe-buck, and his flying Roe:
But wilt thou leave me then? O thou that art
Life of my Soule, Soule of my dying heart,
Without the sweet Aspect of whose faire Eyes,
My soule does languish, and her solace dies;
Art thou so easily woo'd? So apt to heare
The frantick language of my foolish feare?
Leave, leave me not; nor turne thy beauty from me,
Looke, looke upon me, though thine e [...]es ov'rcome me.
O how they wound! But, how my wounds content me!
How sweetly these delightfull paines torment me!
How I am tortur'd in excessive measure
Of pleasing cruelties too cruell pleasure!
Turne, turne away; remove thy scorching beames;
I languish with these bitter-sweet extreames:
Hast then, and let thy winged steps out-goe
The flying Roe-buck, and his frighted Roe.
Turne back, my deare; O let my ravisht eye
Once more behold thy face before thou flie;
What; shall we part without a mutuall kisse?
O who can leave so sweet a face as this;
Looke full upon me; for my soule desires
To turne a holy Martyr in those fires:
O leave me not, nor turne thy beauty from me;
Looke, looke upon me, though thy flames ov'rcome me.
If thou becloud the Sun-shine of thine eye,
I freeze to death; and if it shine, I frie;
Which like a Fever, that my soule has got,
Makes me to burne too cold, or freeze too hot:
Alas, I cannot beare so sweet a smart,
Nor canst thou be lesse glorious than thou art:
Hast then, and let thy winged steps out-goe
The frighted Roe-buck, and his flying Roe.
But goe not farre beyond the reach of breath?
Too large a distance makes another death:
My youth is in her Sping; Autumnall vowes
Will make me riper for so sweet a Spouse,
When after-times have burnish'd my desire,
I'le shoot thee flames for flames, and fire for fire.
O leave me not, nor turne thy beauty from me;
Looke, looke upon me, though thy flames ov'rcome me.
Author sealae Paradisi. Tom. 9. Aug Cap 8.
Feare not O Bride, nor despaire; Thinke not thy selfe contemn'd, if thy Bridegroome withdraw his face a while: All things co-operate for the best: Both from his absence, and his presence thou gainest light: He comes to thee, and he goes from thee, He comes, to make thee consolate; He goes, to make thee cautious, lest thy abundant consolation puffe thee up: He comes, that thy languishing soule may be comforted; He goes, left his familiarity should be contemned; and, being absent, to be more desired; and being desired, to be more earnestly sought; and being long sought, to be more acceptably found.
EPIG. 15.
My soule, sinnes monster, whom, with greater ease
Ten thousand fold, thy GOD could make than pleases:
What wouldst thou have? Nor pleas'd with Sun, nor shade?
Heav'n knowes not what to make of what He made.
THE FAREWELL. REVEL. II.X. Be thou faithfull unto death, and I will give thee the crowne of life.
1
BE faithfull? LORD, what's that?
Believe: 'Tis easie to Believe; But what?
That He whom thy hard heart has wounded,
And whom thy scorne has spit upon,
Has paid thy Fine, and has compounded
For those soule deeds thy hands have done.
Believe, that He whose gentle palmes
Thy needle-pointed Sinnes have nail'd,
Hath borne thy slavish load (of Almes)
And made supply where thou hast fail'd:
Did ever mis'ry find so strange Reliefe?
It is a Love too strong for mans Beliefe.
2
Believe that He whose side
Thy crimes have pierc'd with their rebellions, di'd,
To save thy guilty soule from dying,
Ten thousand horrid deaths, from whence
There was no scape, there was no flying,
But through his dearest bloods expence:
Believe, this dying Friend requires
No other thanks for all his paine;
But ev'n the truth of weake desires,
And for his love, but love againe;
Did ever mis'ry find so true a Friend?
It is a love too vast to comprehend.
3
With Floods of teares baptize
And drench these dry, these unregen'rate eyes;
LORD, whet my dull, my blunt beliefe,
And break this fleshly rock in sunder,
That from this heart, this hell of griefe
May spring a Heav'n of love and wonder:
O, if thy mercies will remove
And melt this lead from my beliefe,
My griefe will then refine my love,
My love will then refresh my griefe;
Then weepe mine eyes as He has bled; vouchsafe
To drop for ev'ry drop an Epitaph.
4
But is the Crowde of Glory
The wages of a lamentable Story?
Or can so great a purchase rise
From a salt Humour? Can mine eye
Run fast enough t'obtaine this Prize?
If so; LORD, who's so mad to die?
Thy Teares are Trifles; Thou must doe:
Alas, I cannot; Then endeavour:
I will: But will a tugg or two
Suffice the turne? Thou must persever:
Ile strive till death; And shall my feeble strife
Be crown'd? Ile crowne it with a Crowne of life.
5
But is there such a dearth.
That thou must buy what is thy due by birth?
He whom Thy hands did forme of dust,
And gave him breath upon Condition,
To love his great Creator, must
He now be thine, by Composition?
Art thou a gracious GOD, and mild,
Or head-strong man rebellious rather?
O, man's a base rebellious Child,
And thou a very gracious Father:
The Gift is Thine; we strive; thou crown'st our strife;
Thou giv'st us Faith; and Faith, a Crowne of Life.
THE END.
The minde of the Frontispeece.
This Bubble's Man: Hope, Feare, False Ioy and Trouble, Are those Foure Winds which daily tosse this Bubble.
Hieroglyphica haec de vitâ hominis perlegi, & digna censeo quae typis mandentur.
Ian. 9. 1637.
Tho: Wykes R. P. Episc. Lond. Capell. domest.
Hieroglyphikes of the life of Man
Fra. Quarles
LONDON, Printed by Iohn Dawson, for Francis Eglessield, and are to be sold by him at the signe of the Marigold in Pauls Church-yard. 1639.
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE both in Blood and Virtue; and most accomplisht LADIE, MARY, COVNTESS OF DORSET; LADY GOVERNESS to the most Illustrious, CHARLES, Prince of great BRITAIN, and IAMES, Duke of YORKE.
Excellent Lady,
I Present these Tapours to burne under the safe Protection of your honorable [Page] Name: where, I presume, they stand secure from the Damps of Ignorance, and blasts of Censure: It is a small part of that abundant service, which my thankefull heart owes your incomparable Goodness. Be pleased to honour it with your noble Acceptance, which shall bee nothing but what your own esteem shall make it
Madam
Your Lapps. most humble servant FRA: QVARLES.
To The Reader.
IF you are satisfied with my Emblems, I here set before you a second service. It is an Aegyptian dish, drest on the English fashion: They, at their Feasts, used to present a Deaths-head at their second course; This will serve for both: You need not feare a surfet: Here is but little; And that, light of digestion: If it but please your Palate, I question not your stomack: Fall too; and much good may't doe you.
Covivio addit Minerval. E. B.
‘Rem, Regem, Regimen, Regionem, Relligionem, Exornat, celebrat, laudat, honorat, amat.’
BENEVOLUS.
Behold I was shapen in Iniquity, and in sinne did my mother conceive me. PSAL. 51.5.
MAn is mans ABC: There is none that can
Reade God aright, unlesse he first spell Man:
Man is the Stayres, whereby his knowledge climes
To his Creator; though it oftentimes
Stumbles for want of light, and sometimes trippes
For want of carefull heed; and sometimes slips
Through unadvised hast; and when, at length,
His weary steps have reach'd the top, his strength
Oft fayles to stand; his giddy braines turne round,
And Phaeton-like, falls headlong to the ground:
These stayres are often darke, and full of danger
To him, whom want of practice makes a stranger
To this blind way: The Lamp of nature lends
But a false Light; and lights to her owne ends:
These be the wayes to Heav'n; These paths require
A Light that springs from that diviner fire
Whose humane soule-enlightning sunbeames dart
Through the bright Crannies of th'immortall part.
And here, thou great Originall of Light,
Whose error-chaceing Beames do unbenight
The very soule of Darknesse, and untwist
The Clouds of Ignorance; do thou assist
My feeble Quill; Reflect thy sacred Rayes
Vpon these lines, that they may light the wayes
That lead to thee; So guide my heart, my hand,
That I may doe what others understand,
Let my heart practice what my hand shall write;
Till then, I am a Tapour wanting light.
This golden Precept, Know thy selfe, came downe
From heav'ns high Court; It was an Art unknowne
To flesh and blood. The men of Nature tooke
Great Iournies in it; Their dim eyes did looke
But through a Mist; Like Pilgrims they did spend
Their idle steps, but knew no Iournies end:
The way to know thy selfe, is first to cast
Thy fraile beginning, Progresse, and thy Last:
This is the Summe of Man: But now returne
And view this Tapour standing in this Vrne:
Behold her Substance, sordid, and impure,
Vselesse and raine, and (wanting light) obscure:
Tis but a Span at longest, nor can last
Beyond that Span; ordain'd, and made to wast:
Ev'n such was Man (before his soule gave light
To his vile substance) a meere Child of night;
Ere he had life, estated in his Vrne,
And markt for death; by nature, borne to burne:
Thus livelesse, lightlesse, worthlesse first began
That glorious, that presumptuous thing, call'd Man.
S. AUGUST.
Consider ô men what thou wert before thy Birth, and what thou art from thy birth to thy death, and what thou shalt be after death: Thou wert made of an impure substance, cloathed and nourished in thy Mothers blood.
EPIG. 1.
Forbeare fond Tapour: What thou seek'st, is Fire:
Thy owne destructions lodg'd in thy desire:
Thy wants are farre more safe than their supply:
He that begins to live, begins to die.
Nescius Vnde.
Will. Marshall [...]
And God said, Let there bee light; and there was light. GEN. 1.3.
THis flame-expecting Tapour hath, at length,
Received fyre; and, now, begins to burne:
It hath no vigour yet, it hath no strength;
Apt to be puft and quencht at ev'ry turne:
It was a gracious hand that thus endow'd
This snuffe with flame: But marke, this hand doth shroud
It selfe from mortall eyes, and folds it in a Cloud.
2
Thus man begins to live; An unknowne flame
Quickens his finisht Organs; now, possest
With motion; and which motion doth proclame
An active soule, though in a feeble brest:
But how, and when infus'd, ask not my Pen;
Here flyes a Cloud before the eyes of men:
I cannot tell thee, how; nor canst thou tell mee, when,
3
Was it a parcell of celestiall fire,
Infus'd, by Heav'n, into this fleshly mould?
Or was it (thinke you) made a soule entire?
Then; was it new created? Or of old?
Or is't a propagated Spark, rak'd out
From Natures embers? While we goe about,
By reason, to resolve, the more we raise a doubt.
4
If it be part of that celestiall Flame,
It must be ev'n as pure, as free from spot
As that eternall fountaine whence it came:
If pure, and spotless; then, whence came the blot?
It selfe, being pure could not it selfe defile;
Nor hath unactive Matter pow'r to soile
Her pure and active Forme, as Iarrs corrupt their Oyle.
5
Or, if it were created, tell me, when?
If in the first six dayes, where kept till now?
Or, if the soule were new created, then
Heav'n did not all, at first, he had to doe:
Six dayes expired, all Creation ceast,
All kinds, even from the greatest to the least
Were finisht, and compleat, before the day of Rest.
6
But why should Man, the Lord of Creatures, want
That priviledge which Plants and Beasts obtaine?
Beasts bring forth Beasts, the Plant a perfect Plant;
And every like brings forth her like againe:
Shall fowles, and fishes, beasts and plants convey
Life to their issue? And Man lesse than they?
Shall these get living soules? And Man, dead lumps of clay?
7
Must humane soules be generated then?
My water ebbs; behold, a Rock is nigh:
If Natures worke produce the soules of men,
Mans soule is mortall: All that's borne must die.
What shall we then conclude? What sun-shine will
Disperse this gloomy cloud? Till then, be still,
My vainely striving thoughts; Lie down, my puzzl'd quill.
ISODOR.
Why doest thou wonder, ô man, at the height of the Starres? or the depth of the Sea? Enter into thine owne soule, and wonder there.
The soule by creating is infused; by infusion, created.
EPIG. 2.
What art thou now the better by this flame?
Thou knowst not how, nor when, nor whence it came:
Poore kind of happinesse, that can returne
No more accompt but this, to say, I burne!
The wind passeth over it and it is gone. PSAL. 103.16.
NO sooner is this lighted Tapour set
Vpon the transitory Stage
Of eye-bedarkning night,
But it is straight subjected to the threat
Of envious windes, whose wast full rage
Disturbs her peace full light,
And makes her substance wast, and makes her flame lesse bright.
2
No sooner are we borne, no sooner come
To take possession of this vast,
This soule-afflicting earth;
But Danger meets us at the very wombe,
And Sorrow with her full mouth'd blast,
Salutes our painfull birth,
To put out all our Ioyes, and puffe out all our mirth.
3
Nor Infant Innocence, nor childish teares,
Nor youthfull wit, not manly power,
Nor politick old age,
Nor virgins pleading, nor the widows prayers,
Nor lowely Cell, nor lofty Tower,
Nor Prince, nor Peere, nor Page
Can scape this common blast, or curb her stormy rage.
4
Our life is but a pilgrimage of blasts;
And ev'ry blast brings forth a feare;
And ev'ry feare, a death;
The more it lengthens, ah, the more it wasts:
Were, were we to continue here
The dayes of long lif'd Seth,
Our sorrowes would renew, as we renew our breath:
[...]
[...]
5.
Tost too and fro, our frighted thoughts are driv'n
With ev'ry puffe, with every Tide.
Of self-consuming Care;
Our peacefull flame, that would point up to heav'n,
Is still disturb'd, and turnd aside;
And ev'ry blast of Ayre
Commits such wast in man, as man can not repaire.
6
W'are all borne Detters, and we firmely stand
Oblig'd for our first Parents Det,
Besides our Interest;
Alas we haue no harmelesse Counterband,
And we are, ev'ry hou'r, beset
With threatnings of Arrest,
And till we pay the Det, we can expect no Rest.
7
What may this sorrow-shaken life present
To the false relish of our Tast,
That's worth the name of sweet?
Her minits pleasure's choakt with discontent,
Her glory foyld with ev'ry blast;
How many dangers meet
Poore man, betwixt the Biggin and the Winding sheet!
S. AUGUST.
In this world, not to be grieved, not to be afflicted, not to be in danger, is impossible.
Ibid.
Behold; the world is full of troubles; yet, beloved; What if it were a pleasing world? How wouldst thou delight in her Calmes, that canst so well endure her stormes?
EPIG. 3▪
Art thou consum'd with soule-afflicting crosses?
Disturb'd with griefe? annoy'd with worldly losses
Hold up thy head; the Tapour lifted high
Will brooke the wind, when lower Tapors dye.
The whole need not the Physitian. MAT. 9.12.
ALwayes pruning? alwaies cropping?
Is her brightnesse still obscur'd?
Ever dressing? ever topping?
Alwayes cureing? never cur'd?
Too much snuffing makes a waste;
When the spirits spend too fast,
They will shrinke at ev'ry blast.
2
You that alwaies are bestowing
Costly paines in life repairing,
Are but alwaies overthrowing,
Natures worke, by overcaring:
Nature meeting with her Foe,
In a worke she hath to doe,
Takes a pride to overthrow.
3
Nature knowes her owne perfection,
And her pride disdaines a Tutor,
Can not stoope to Arts correction,
And she scornes a Coadjutor;
Saucy Art should not appeare
Till she Whisper in her eare:
Hagar flees, if Sara beare.
3
Nature worketh for the better,
If not hindred, that she cannot;
Art stand by as her A bettor,
Ending nothing she began not;
If distemper chance to seize,
(Nature foyl'd with the disease)
Art may helpe her if she please.
5
But to make a Trade of trying
Drugs, and Dofies, alwayes pruning,
Is to dye, for feare of dying;
Hee's untun'd, thats alwayes tuneing.
He that often loves to lack
Deare bought Drugs, has found a Knack
To foyle the man, and feede the Quack.
6
O the sad, the fraile Condition
Of the pride of Natures glory!
How infirme his Composition!
And, at best, how Transitory!
When his Ryot doth impayre
Natures weaknesse, then his care
Adds more ruine, by repaire.
7
Hold thy hand, healths Deare maintainer,
Life perchance may burne the stronger:
Having substance to sustaine her,
She, untoucht, may last the longer:
When the Artist goes about
To redresse her flame, I doubt,
Oftentimes he snuffes it out.
NICOCLES.
Physitians of all men are most happy; what good successe soever they have, the world proclaimes, and what faults they commit, the earth covers.
EPIG. 4.
My purse be'ng heavy, if my Light appeare
But Dimme, Quack comes to make all cleare;
Quack, leave thy trade; Thy Dealings are not right,
Thou tak'st our weighty gold, to give us light.
And hee will give his Angels charge over thee. PSAL. 91.
1
O How mine eyes could please themselves, and spend
Perpetuall Ages in this precious sight!
How I could woo Eternity, to lend
My wasting day an Antidote for night!
And how my flesh could with my flesh contend,
That views this object with no more delight!
My work is great, my Tapour spends too fast:
'Tis all I have, and soone would out, or wast,
Did not this blessed Screene protect it from this blast.
2
O, I have lost the Iewell of my soule,
And I must finde it out, or I must dye:
Alas! my sin-made darknesse doth controule
The bright endeavour of my carefull eye:
I must go search, and ransack ev'ry hole;
Nor have I other light to seek it by:
O if this light be spent, my work not done,
My labour's worse than lost; my Iewel's gone,
And I am quite forlorne, and I am quite undone.
3
You blessed Angels, you that doe enjoy
The full fruition of eternall Glory,
Will you be pleas'd to fancy such a Toy
As man, and quit your glorious Territory,
And stoop to earth, vouchsafing to imploy
Your care to guard the dust that lies before yee?
Disdaine you not these lumps of dying Clay,
That, for your paines, doe oftentimes repay
Neglect, if not disdaine, and send you griev'd away?
4
This Tapour of our lifes, that once was plac'd
In the faire Suburbs of Eternity,
Is now, alas, confin'd to ev'ry blast,
And turn'd a May-pole for the sporting Fly;
And will you, sacred Spirits, please to cast
Your care on us, and lend a gracious eye?
How had this slender Inch of Tapour beene
Blasted, and blaz'd, had not this heav'nly Screene
Curb'd the proud blast, and timely stept betweene!
5.
O Godnesse, farre transcending the report
Of lavish tongues! too vast to comprehend I
Amazed Quill, how farre dost thou come short
T'expresse expressions, that so farre transcend!
You blessed Courtiers of th'eternall Court,
Whose full-mouth'd Hallelujahs have no end,
Receive that world of praises that belongs
To your great Sov'raigne; fill your holy tongues
With our Hosannas mixt with your Seraphick Songs.
S. BERN.
If thou desirest the helpe of Angels, flee the comforts of the world, and resist the Temptations of the Devill.
He will give his Angels charge over thee? O what reverence, what love, what confidence deserves so sweet a saying? For their presence, reverence; for their good will, love; for their tuition, confidence.
EPIG. 5.
My flame, art thou disturb'd, diseas'd, and driv'n
To Death with stormes of griefe? Poynt thou to heav'n:
One Angel, there, shall ease thee more, alone,
Then thrice as many thousands of thy owne.
Tempus erit.
Will Marshall. sculpsit.
To every thing there is an appointed time. ECCLES. 3.1.
Time. Death.
Time BEhold the frailty of this slender snuffe;
Alas it hath not long to last:
Without the helpe of either Thiefe, or puffe,
Her weaknesse knowes the way to wast:
Nature hath made her Substance apt enough
To spend it selfe, and spend too fast:
It needs the help of none,
That is so prone
To lavish out, untoucht; and languish all alone.
2
Death. Time, hold thy peace, and shake thy flow pac'd Sand;
Thy idle Minits make no way:
Thy glasse exceeds her how'r, or else does stand,
I can not hold; I can not stay;
Surcease thy pleading, and enlarge my hand,
I surfet with too long delay:
This brisk, this boldfac'd Light
Does burne too bright;
Darknesse adornes my throne; my day is darkest night.
3
Time. Great Prince of darkenesse, hold thy needless hand;
Thy Captiv's fast, and can not flee:
What arme can rescue? Who can countermand,
What pow'r can set thy Pris'ner free?
Or if they could, what close, what forrein land
Can hide that head, that flees from Thee?
But if her harmelesse light
Offend thy sight,
What needst thou snatch at noone, what will be thine at night?
Death. I have outstaid my patience; My quick Trade
Growes dull and makes too flow returne:
This long liv'd det is due, and should bin paid
When first her flame began to burne:
But I have staid too long, I have delayd
To store my vast, my craving Vrne.
My Patent gives me pow'r,
Each day, each how'r,
To strike the Peasants thatch, and shake the Princely Tow'r.
5
Time. Thou count'st too fast: Thy Patent gives no Pow'r
Till Time shall please to say, Amen.
Death. Canst thou appoint my shaft?
Time. Or thou my How'r?
Death. Tis I bid, doe:
Time Tis I bid, When.
Alas, thou canst not make the poorest Flow't
To hang the drooping head, tell then:
Thy shafts can neither Kill,
Nor strike, untill
My power give them wings, and pleasure arme thy will.
S. AUGUST.
Thou knowest not what Time he will come: Wait alwayes, that because thou knowest not the time of his comming, thou maiest be prepared against the time he comes. And for this, perchance, thou knowest not the Time, because thou mayest be prepared against all times.
EPIG. 6.
Expect, but feare not Death: Death cannot Kill,
Till Time, (that first must seale her Patent) will:
Wouldst thou live long? Keepe Time in high esteeme;
Whom, gone, if thou canst not recall, redeeme,
Nec sine, nec Tecum
Will Marshall sculpsit
His light shall be dark, and his candle shall be put out. IOB 18.6.
What ayles our Tapour? Is her luster fled,
Or foyl'd? What dire disaster bred
This Change? that thus she vailes her golden head?
2
It was but very now, she shin'd as faire
As Venus starre: Her glory might compare
With Cynthia, burnisht with her brothers haire.
3
There was no Cave-begotten damp that mought
Abuse her beames; no wind, that went about
To breake her peace; no Puffe, to put her out.
4
Lift up thy wondring thoughts, and thou shalt spye
A Cause, will cleare thy doubts, but cloud thine eye:
Subiects must vaile, when as their Sov'raign's by.
5
Canst thou behold bright Phoebus, and thy sight
No whit impayr'd? The object is too bright;
The weaker yeelds unto the stronger Light.
6
Great God, I am thy Tapour; Thou my Sunne;
From thee the Spring of Light, my Light begun,
Yet if thy Light but shine, my light is done.
7
If thou withdraw thy Light, my light will shine,
If thine appeare, how poore a light is mine!
My light is darknesse, if compar'd to thine.
8
Thy Sun beames are too strong for my weake eye;
If thou but shine, how nothing, Lord, am I!
Ah, who can see thy visage, and not die!
9
If intervening earth should make a night,
My wanton flame would then shine forth too bright;
My earth would ev'n presume t'eclipse thy Light.
10
And if thy Light be shadow'd, and mine fade,
If thine be dark, and my dark light decayd,
I should be cloathed with a double shade.
11
What shall I doe? O what shall I desire?
What help can my distracted thoughts require,
That thus am wasting twixt a double Fire?
12
In what a streight, in what a streight am I?
Twixt two extreames how my rackt fortunes lie?
See I thy face, or see it not, I die.
13
O let the steame of my Redeemers blood,
That breaths fro'my sick soule, be made a Cloud,
T'inter pose these Lights, and be my shroud.
14
Lord, what am I? or what's the light I have?
May it but light my Ashes to their Grave,
And so from thence, to Thee? 'tis all I crave.
15
O make my Light, that all the world may see
Thy Glory by't: If not, It seemes to me
Honour enough, to be put out by Thee.
O Light inaccessible, in respect of which my light is utter darknes; so reflect upon my weaknes, that all the world may behold thy strength. O Majesty incomprehensible, in respect of which my glory is meere shame: so shine upon my misery that all the world may behold thy glory.
EPIG. 7.
Wilt thou complaine, because thou art bereav'n
Of all thy light? Wilt thou vie Lights with Heav'n?
Can thy bright eye not brooke the daily light?
Take heed: I feare, thou art a Child of night.
Nec Virtus obscurapetit.
Will: Marshall sculpsit
Let your light so shine, that men seeing your good workes may glorifie your Father which is in Heaven. MAT. 5.16.
WAs it for this, the breath of Heav'n was blowne
Into the nostrils of this Heav'nly Creature?
Was it for this, that sacred Three in One
Conspir'd to make this Quintessence of Nature?
Did heav'nly Providence intend
So rare a Fabrick for so poore an end?
2
Was Man, the highest Master-peece of Nature,
The curious Abstract of the whole Creation,
Whose soule was copied from his great Creator,
Made to give Light, and set for Observation,
Ordain'd for this? To spend his Light
In a darke-Lanthorne? Cloystred up in night?
3
Tell me, recluse Monastick, can it be
A disadvandtage to thy beames to shine?
A thousand Tapours may gaine light from Thee.
Is thy Light lesse, or worse for lighting mine?
If, wanting Light, I stumble, shall
Thy darknesse not be guilty of my fall?
4
Why dost thou lurk so close? Is it for feare
Some busie eye should pry into thy flame,
And spie a Thiefe or else some blemish there?
Or being spy'd, shrink'st thou thy head for shame?
Come, come, fond Tapour shine but cleare,
Thou needst not shrinke for shame, nor shroud for feare.
5
Remember, O remember, thou wert set,
For men to see the Great Creator by;
Thy flame is not thy owne: It is a Det
Thou ow'st thy Maker; And wilt thou deny
To pay the Int'rest of thy Light?
And skulk in Corners, and play least in sight?
6
Art thou affraid to trust thy easie flame
To the injurious wast of Fortunes puffe?
Ah, Coward, rouze; and quit thy selfe, for shame;
Who dies in service, hath liv'd long enough:
Who shines, and makes no eye partaker,
Vsurps himselfe, and closely robbs his Maker.
7
Take not thy selfe a Pris'ner, that art free:
Why dost thou turne thy Palace to a Iaile?
Thou art an Eagle; And befits it thee
To live immured, like a cloysterd Snaile?
Let Toies seeke Corners: Things of cost
Gaine worth by view: Hid Iewels are but lost.
8
My God, my light is dark enough at lightest,
Encrease her flame, and give her strength to shine:
Tis fraile at best▪ Tis dimme enough at brightest,
But 'tis her glory to be foyld by Thine.
Let others lurke; My light shall be
Propos'd to all men; and by them, to Thee.
S. BERN.
If thou be one of the foolish Virgins, the Congregation is necessary for thee; If thou be one of the wise Virgins, thou art necessary for the Congregation.
HUGO.
Monasticks make Cloysters to inclose the outward man, O would to God they would do the like to restraine the inward Man.
EPIG. 8
Affraid of eyes? What, still play least in sight?
Tis much to be presum'd all is not right:
Too close endeavours, bring forth dark events:
Come forth, Monastick; Here's no Parliaments.
Vt Luna Infantia torpet.
Will. Marshall. sculpsit.
He cometh forth like a Flower and is cut downe. IOB 14.2.
1
Behold
How short a span
Was long enough, of old,
To measure out the life of Man!
In those wel temper'd dayes his time was then
Survey'd, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.
2
Alas
And what is that?
They come & slide and passe
Before my Pen can tell thee, what.
The Posts of Time are swift, which having run
Their sev'n short stages 'ore, their short liv'd task is done.
3
Our dayes
Begun, wee lend
To sleepe, to antick plaies
And Toyes, untill the first stage end:
12. waining Moons, twise 5. times told, we give
To unrecover'd loss: Wee rather breathe, then live.
4
Wee spend
A ten years breath,
Before wee apprehend
What is to live, or feare a death:
Our childish dreams are fil'd with painted joyes,
Wch please our sense a while, & waking, prove but Toies.
5
How vaine.
How wretched is
Poore man, that doth remaine
A slave to such a State as this!
His daies are short, at longest; few, at most;
They are but bad, at best; yet lavisht out, or lost.
6
They bee
The secret Springs,
That make our minits flee
On wheeles more swift thē Eagles wings:
Our life's a Clocke, and ev'ry gaspe of breath
Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time shall strike a death.
7
How soone
Our new-borne Light
Attaines to full-ag'd noone!
And this, how soon to gray-hayr'd night!
Wee spring, we bud, we blossome, and we blast
E're we can count our daies; Our daies they flee so fast.
8
They end
When scarce begun;
And ere wee apprehend
That we begin to live, our life is don:
Man, Count thy daies; And if they flee too fast
For thy dull thoughts to count, count ev'rie day thy last.
Our Infancy is consumed in eating and sleeping; in all which time what differ we from beasts, but by a possibility of reason, and a necessity of sinne?
O misery of man kind, in whom no sooner the Image of God appeares in the act of his Reason, but the Devill blurs it in the corruption of his will!
EIPG. 9. To the decrepit man.
Thus was the first seaventh part of thy few daies
Consum'd in sleep, in food, in Toyish plaies:
Knowst thou what teares thine eies imparted then?
Review thy losse, and weep them o're agen.
Preles tua, Maia, Iuventus
Will. Marshall sculp [...] ▪
His bones are full of the sinnes of his youth. IOB 20.11.
1
THe swift-foot Post of Time hath now begun
His second Stage;
The dawning of our Age
Is lost and spent without a Sun:
The light of Reason did not yet appeare
Within th'Horizon of this Hemispheare.
2
The infant Will had yet none other guide,
But twilight Sense;
And what is gayn'd from thence
But doubtfull Steps, that tread aside?
Reason now draws her Curtaines; Her clos'd
Begin to open, and she calls to rise.
3
Youths now disclosing Bud peeps out, and shower
Her Aprill head;
And, from her grasse greene bed,
Her virgin Primerose early blowes;
Whil'st waking Philomel prepares to sing
Her warbling Sonets to the wanton Spring.
4
His Stage is pleasant, and the way seemes short.
All strow'd with flowers;
The dayes appeare but howers,
Being spent in time-beguiling sport.
Here griefes do neither presse, nor doubts perplex;
Here's neither feare, to curb; nor care, to vex.
5
His downie Cheek growes proud, and now disdaines
The Tutors hand;
He glories to command
The proud neckt Steed with prouder Reynes:
The strong breath'd Horne must now salute his eare,
With the glad downefall of the falling Deare.
6
His quicknos'd Armie, with their deepmouth'd sounds,
Must now prepare
To chase the tim'rous Hare
About his, yet unmorgag'd, Grounds;
The ev'll he hates, is Counsell, and delay,
And feares no mischief, but a rainie day.
7
The thought he takes, is how to take no thought
For bale, nor blisse;
And late Repentance is
The last deare Pen'worth that he bought:
He is a daintie Morning, and he may,
If lust'ore cast him not, b'as faire a Day.
8
Proud Blossom, use thy Time; Times head strong Horse
Will post away:
Trust not the foll'wing day,
For ev'rie day brings forth a worse:
Take time at best: believe't, thy daies will fall
From good, to bad; From bad, to worst of all.
S. AMBR.
Humility is a rare thing in a young man, therefore to be admired: When youth is vigorous, when strength is firme, when blood is hot, when Cares are strangers, when mirth is free, then Pride swells, and humility is despised.
EPIG. 10. To the old Man.
Thy yeares are newly gray: His, newly Greene;
His youth may live to see what thine hath seene:
He is thy Parallel: His present Stage
And thine, are the two Tropicks of Mans Age.
Iam ruit in Venerem
Will: Marshall sculpsit.
Rejoyce O young man, and let thy heart cheare Thee, but know, &c. ECCLES. 11.9.
HOw flux! how alterable is the date
Of transitory things!
How hurry'd on the clipping wings
Of Time, and driv'n upon the wheeles of Fate!
How one Condition brings
The leading Prologue to another State!
No transitory things can last:
Change waits on Time; and Time is wing'd with hast;
Time presents but the Ruins of Time past.
2
Behold how Change hath incht away thy Span,
And how thy light does burne
Nearer and nearer to thy Vrne:
For this deare wast what satisfaction can
Injurious time returne
Thy shortned daies, but this; the stile of Man?
And what's a Man? A cask of Care,
New tunn'd and working; Hee's a middle Staire
Twixt birth and death; A blast of ful ag'd Ayre.
3
His brest is Tinder, apt to entertaine
The sparkes of Cupids fire,
Whose new-blowne flames must now enquire
A wanton Juilippe out, which may restraine
The Rage of his desire,
Whose painefull pleasure is but pleasing paine.
His life's a sicknesse, that doth rise
From a hot Liver, whilst his passion lies
Expecting Cordials from his Mistresse eyes.
His Stage is strowd with Thornes, and deckt with Flowers;
His yeare sometimes appeares
A Minit; and his Minits, yeares;
His doubtfull Weather's sun-shine, mixt with showers;
His traffique, Hopes and Feares:
His life's a Medly made of sweets and sowers;
His paines reward is Smiles, and Pouts;
His diet is faire language mixt with Flouts;
He is a Nothing, all compos'd of Doubts.
5
Doe; wast thy Inch, proud Span of living earth;
Consume thy golden daies
In slavish freedome; Let thy wayes
Take best advantage of thy frolick mirth;
Thy Stock of Time decayes;
And lavish plenty still foreruns a Dearth:
The bird that's flowne may turne at last;
And painefull labour may repaire a wast;
But paines nor price can call thy minits past.
SEN.
Expect great joy when thou shalt lay downe the mind of a Child, and deserve the stile of a wise man; for at those yeares childhood is past, but oftentimes childishness remaines, and what is worse, thou hast the Authority of a Man, but the vices of a Childe.
EPIG. 11. To the declining Man.
Why standst thou discontented? Is not he
As equall distant from the Toppe as thee?
What then may cause thy discontented frowne?
Hee's mounting up the Hill; Thou plodding downe.
Vt Sol ardore Virilj
Will: Marshall sculp [...]t
As thy daies, so shall thy strength be. DEUT. 33.25.
The Post
Of swift foot Time
Hath now, at length, begun
The Kalends of our middle Stage:
The number'd Steps that we have gone, do show
The number of those Steps wee are to goe:
The Buds and blossomes of our Age
Are blowne, decay'd, and gone,
And all our prime
Is lost;
And what wee boast too much, wee have least cause to boast.
Ah mee!
There is no Rest,
Our Time is alwaies fleeing:
What Rein can curb our headstrong hours!
They post away: They passe wee know not how:
Our Now is gone, before wee can say, Now:
Time past and futur's none of ours;
That, hath as yet no Being;
And This hath ceast
To bee:
What is, is onely ours: How short a Time have Wee▪
And now
Apolloes eare
Expects harmonious straines,
New minted frō the Thracian Lyre;
For now the Virtue of the twiforkt Hill
Inspires the ravisht fancy, and doth fill
The veines with Pegasean fire:
And now, those sterill braines
That cannot show,
Nor beare
Some fruits, shall never weare Apollos sacred Bow.
Excesse
And surfet uses
To wait upon these daies:
Full feed, and flowing cups of wine
Conjure the fancy, forcing up a Spright,
By the base Magick of deboy [...]d delight;
Ah pittie twiseborne Bacchus Vine
should starve Apollo's Bayes,
And drown those Muses
That blesse
And calme the peacefull soule, when storms of cares opp [...]
Strong light,
Boast not those beames
That can but onely rise,
And blaze a while, and then away:
There is no Solstice in thy day;
Thy midnight glory lies
Betwixt th' extrems
Of night,
A Glory foyld with shame, and foold with false delight.
Hast thou climbd up to the full age of thy few daies? Look backwards, and thou shalt see the frailty of thy youth; the folly of thy Childhood, and the waste of thy Infancy: Looke forwards; thou shalt see, the cares of the world, the troubles of thy mind, the diseases of thy body.
EPIG. 12. To the middle ag'd.
Thou that art prauncing on the lustie Noone
Of thy full Age, boast not thy selfe too soone:
Convert that breath to wayle thy fickle state;
Take heed; thoul't brag too soone, or boast too late.
Et Martem spirat et arma
Will Marshall. sculpsit.
He must encrease, but I must decrease. IOH. 3.30.
TIme voyds the Table: Dinner's done;
And now our daies declining Sun
Hath hurried his diurnall Loade
To th'Borders of the Westerne roade;
Fierce Phlegon, with his fellow Steeds,
Now puffes and pants, and blowes and bleeds,
And froths, and fumes, remembring still
Their lashes up th'Olympick Hill;
Which having conquerd, now disdaine
The whip, and champs the frothy reyn,
And, with a full Career, they bend
Their paces to their Iournies end:
Our blazing Tapour now hath lost
Her better halfe: Nature hath crost
Her forenoone book, and cleard that score,
But scarce gives trust for so much more:
And now the gen'rous Sappe forsakes
Her seir-grown twig: A breath ev'n shakes
The down-ripe fruit; fruit soone divorc'd
From her deare Branch, untouchd, unforc'd.
Now sanguine Venus doth begin
To draw her wanton colours in;
And flees neglected in disgace,
Whil'st Mars supplies her luke warme place:
Blood turnes to Choler: What this Age
Loses in strength it fines in Rage:
That rich Ennamell, which of old,
Damaskt the downy Cheeke, and told
A harmelesse guilt, unaskt, is now
Worne off from the audacious brow;
Luxurious Dalliance, midnight Revells,
Loose Ryot, and those veniall evils
Which inconsiderate youth of late
Could pleade, now wants an Advocate,
And what appeard in former times
Whispring as faults, now roare as crimes:
And now all yee, whose lippes were wont
To drench their Currall in the Font
Of forkt Parnassus; you that be
The Sons of Phoebus, and can flee
On wings of Fancy, to display
The Flagge of high Invention, stay:
Repose your Quills; Your veines grow sower,
Tempt not your Salt beyond her power:
If your pall'd Fancies but decline,
Censure will strike at every line
And wound your names; The popular eare
Weighs what you are, not what you were.
Thus hackney like, we tire our Age,
Spurgall'd with Change, from Stage to Stage.
Seest thou the daily light of the greater world? When attaind to the highest pitch of Meridian glory, it staieth not, but by the same degrees, it ascended, it descends. And is the light of the lesser world more premanent? Continuance is the Child of Eternity, not of Time.
EPIG. 13: To the young Man.
Young man, rejoyce; And let thy rising daies
Cheare thy glad heart; Thinkst thou these uphill waies
Leade to deaths dungeon? No: but know withall,
Arising is but Prologue to a Fall.
Invidiosa Senectus.
Will▪ Marshall. sculpsit.
Yet a little while is the light with you. IOH. 12.35.
1
THe day growes old; The low pitcht Lamp hath made
No lesse than treble shade:
And the descending damp does now prepare
T'uncurle bright Titans haire;
Whose Westerne Wardrobe, now begins t'unfold
Her purples, fring'd with gold,
To cloath his evening glory; when th'alarmes
Of Rest shall call to rest in restlesse Thetis armes▪
2
Nature now calls to Supper, to refresh
The spirits of all flesh;
The toyling ploughman drives his Thirsty Teames,
To tast the slipp'ry Streames:
The droyling Swineheard knocks away, and feasts
His hungry-whining guests:
The boxbill Ouzle, and the dappled Thrush
Like hungry Rivals meet, at their beloved bush.
3
And now the cold Autumnall dewes are seene
To copwebbe every Greene;
And by the low-shorne Rowins doth appeare
The fast-declining yeare.
The Saplesse Branches d'off their summer Suits
And waine their winter fruits:
And stormy blasts hare forc'd the quaking Trees
To wrap their trembling limbs in Suits of mossie Freeze.
4
Our wasted Tapour now hath brought her light
To the next dore to night;
Her sprightlesse flame, grown great with snuffe, does turn
Sad as her neigbr'ring Vrne:
Her slender Inch, that yet unspent remaines,
Lights but to further paines,
And in a silent language bids her guest
Prepare his wearie limbes to take eternall Rest.
5
Now carkfull Age hath pitcht her painefull plough
Vpon the surrow'd brow;
And snowie blasts of discontented Care
Hath blancht the falling haire:
Suspitious envie mixt with jealous Spight
Disturb's his wearie night:
He threatens youth with age: And, now, alas,
He ownes not what he is, but vaunts the Man he was.
6
Gray haires, peruse thy dayes; And let thy past
Reade lectures to thy last:
Those hastie wings that hurri'd them away
Will give these dayes no Day:
The constant wheeles of Nature scorne to tyre
Vntill her works expire:
That blast that nipt thy youth, will ruine Thee;
That hand that shooke the branch will quickly strike the Tree.
S. CHRYS.
Gray hayres are honorable, when the behaviour suits with gray hayres: But when an ancient man hath childish manners, he becomes more rediculous than a child.
SEN.
Thou art in vaine attained to old yeares, that repeatest thy youthfulnesse.
EPIG. 14. To the Youth.
Seest thou this good old man? He represents
Thy Future; Thou, his Preterperfect Tense;
Thou go'st to labour, He prepares to Rest:
Thou break'st thy Fast; He suppes: Now which is best▪
Plumbeus in terram
Will Marshall sculpsit
The dayes of our yeares are threescore years and ten PSAL. 90.10.
1
SO have I seene th'illustrious Prince of Light
Rising in glory from his Crocean bed,
And trampling downe the horrid shades of night,
Advancing more and more his conq'ring head,
Pause first; decline; at length, begin to shroud
His fainting browes within a cole black cloud.
2
So have I seene a well built Castle stand
Vpon the Tiptoes of a lofty Hill,
Whose active pow'r commands both Sea and Land,
And curbs the pride of the Beleag'rers will;
At length her ag'd Foundation failes her trust,
And layes her tottring ruines in the Dust.
3
So have I seene the blazing Tapour shoot
Her golden head into the feeble Ayre;
Whose shadow-gilding Ray, spread round about,
Makes the foule face of black brow'd darkenesse faire;
Till at the length her wasting glory fades,
And leaves the night to her invet'rate shades.
4
Ev'n so this little world of living Cloy,
The pride of Nature, glorified by Art,
Whom earth adores, and all her hosts obay,
Ally'd to Heav'n by his Diviner part,
Triumphs a while, then droops, and then decayes,
And worne by Age, death cancells all his dayes.
5
That glorious Sun, that whilom shone so bright,
Is now ev'n ravisht from our darkned eyes;
That sturdy Castle, man'd with so much might,
Lyes now a Monument of her owne disguize:
That blazing Tapour, that disdain'd the puffe
Of troubled Ayre, scarce ownes the name of Snuffe.
6
Poore bedrid Man! where is that glory now,
Thy Youth so vaunted? Where that Majesty
Which sat enthron'd upon thy manly brow?
Where, where that braving Arme? that daring eye?
Those buxom tunes? Those Bacchanalian Tones?
Those swelling veynes? those marrow-flaming bones?
7
Thy drooping Glory's blurrd, and prostrate lyes
Grov'ling in dust; And frightfull Horror, now,
Sharpens the glaunces of thy gashfull eyes,
Whilst feare perplexes thy distracted brow:
Thy panting brest vents all her breath by groanes,
And Death enervs thy marrow-wasted bones.
8
Thus Man, that's borne of woman can remaine
But a short tine; His dayes are full of sorrow;
His life's a penance, and his death's a paine,
Springs like a flow'r to day, and fades to morrow?
His breath's a bubble, and his dayes a Span:
Tis glorious misery to be borne a Man.
CYPR.
When eyes are dimme, eares deafe, visage pale, teeth decaied, skin withered; breath tainted, pipes furred, knees trembling, hands fumbling; feet fayling, the sudden downefall of thy fleshy house is neare at hand.
S. AUGUST.
All vices wax old by Age: Covetousnesse done, growes young
EPIG. 15. To the Infant.
What he doth spending in groanes, thou spendst in teares?
Iudgement and strength's alike in both your yeares;
Hee's helpesse; so art thou; What difference than?
Hee's an old Infant; Thou, a young old Man.
THE END.
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