The Third Book
The Entertainment.
All you whose better thoughts are newly born
And (rebaptiz'd with holy fire) can scorn
The world's basetrash, whose necks disdain to bear
Th imperious yoke of Satan; whose chast care
No wanton songs of Sirens can surprize
With false delight; whose more then Eagle-eyes
Can view the glorious flames of gold, and gaze
On glitt'ring beams of honour, and not daze;
Whose souls can spurn at pleasure, and deny,
The loose suggestions of the flesh, draw nigh:
And you whose am'rous, whose select desires
Would feel the warmth of those transcendent fires
Which (like the rising Sun) put out the light
Of Venus' starre, and turn 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 souls; that would enjoy
Where neither want can pinch nor fulnesse cloy
Nor double doubt afflicts, nor baser fear
Unflames your courage in pursuit, draw near:
Shake hands with earth, and let your soul respect
Her joyes no further, then her joyes reflect
Upon her Maker's glory: if thou swim
In wealth, see him in all; see all in him:
Sink'st thou in want, and is thy small cruse spent?
See him in want; enjoy him in content:
Conceiv'st him lodg'd in Crosse, or lost in pain?
In Pray'r and Patience find him out again;
Make Heav'n thy Mistresse, let no change remove
Thy loyall heart; be fond; be sick of love:
What if he stop his care, or knit his brow?
At length he'll be as fond, as sick as thou:
Dart up thy soul in grones: Thy secret grone
Shall pierce his care, shall pierce his eare alone:
Dart up thy soul in vowes: Thy sacred vow
Shall find him out, where Heav'n alone shall know:
Dart up thy soul in sighs: Thy whisp'ring sigh
Shall rouse his ears, and fear 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 tears
Unscale his eyes, and scale his conquer'd ears:
Shoot up the bosome-shafts of thy desire,
Feather'd with faith, and double-forkt with fire;
And they wil bit: Fear not, where Heav'n bids come
Heav'n 's never deaf, but when man's heart is dumb.
I.
I SAIAH 29. 6
My soul hath desired thee in the night
Good God! what horrid darknesse doth surround
My groping soul! how are my senses bound
In utter shades; and muffed 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 mortalls; his victorious ray
Can chase the shadows, and restore the day:
Night's bashfull Empresse, though she often wain
As oft repents her darknesse, primes again:
And with her circling horns doth re-embrace
Her brother's 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 bankrupt wain can beg nor borrow light;
Alas, my darknesse is perpetuall night
Falls have their risings, wainings have their primes
And desp'rate sorrows wait their better times;
Ebs 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 vainly grop'd about,
With length'ned arms, to find a passage out,
That I might catch those beams mine eye desires,
And bath my soul in those celestiall fires:
Like as the Haggard, cloyster'd in her mue,
To scowr her downy robes, and to renew
Her broken flags, preparing t' overlook
The tim'rous Mallard at the sliding brook:
Jets oft from perch to perch, from stock to ground
From ground to window; thus surveying round
Her dove-befeath'red Prison, till at length,
(Calling her noble birth to mind, and strength
Whereto her wing was born), her ragged beak
Nips off her dangling jesses, strives to break
Her gingling fetters, and begins to bate
At ev'ry glimpse, and darts at ev'ry grate:
Ev'n so my weary soul, that long has bin
An Inmate in this Tenement of sin,
Lockt up by cloud-brow'd Errour; which invites
My cloystred thoughts to feed on black delights;
Now scorns her shadows, and begins to dart
Her wing'd desires at thee, that onely art
The Sun she seeks; whose rising beams can fright
These duskle clouds that make so dark a night:
Shine forth, great Glory, shine; that I may see
Both how to loath my self, and honour Thee:
But if my weaknesse force thee to deny
Thy flames, yet lend the twilight of thine eye:
If I must want those Beams I wish, yet grant,
That I at least, may wish those Beams I want.
S. AUGUST , Soliloqu cap. 33.
There was a great and dark cloud of vanitie before mine eyes so that I could not see the Sun of Justice, and the Light of Truth. I being the sonne 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 walk from darknesse to darknesse: 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.
E PIG. 1.
My soul, chear up; what if the night be long?
Heav'n finds an care, when sinners find a tongue:
Thy tears are morning show'rs: Heav'n bids me say
When Peter's cock begins to crow, 'tis day.
II
P SALM 69 3.
O Lord, thou knowest my foolishnesse, and my sinnes are not hid from thee.
Seest thou this fulsome Ideot? In what measure
He seems transported with the antick pleasure
Of childish baubles? canst thou but admire
The empty fulnesse of his vain desire?
Canst thou conceive such poore delights as these
Can fill th' insatlate soul of man, or please
The fond aspect of his deluded eye?
Reader, such very fools are thou and I:
False puffs of honour; the deceitfull streams
Of wealth; the idle, vain, and empty dreams
Of pleasure, are our traffick, and ensnare
Our souls, the threefold subject of our care:
We toyl for trash, we barter solid joyes
For airy trifles; sell our Heav'n for toyes:
We snatch at barly grains, whilst pearls stand by
Despis'd; such very fools are thou and I.
Aym'st thou at honour does not the Ideot shake it
In his left hand? fond man, step forth and take it:
Or would'st thou wealth? see how the fool presents thee
With a full basket; if such wealth contents thee:
Wouldst thou take pleasure? if the fool unstride
His prauncing Stallion, thou mayst up and ride;
Fond man, such is the pleasure, wealth, and honour
The earth affords such fools as dote upon her;
Such is the game whereat earth's ideots fly;
Such ideots, ah such fools are thou and I:
Had rebell-man's fool-hardinesse extended
No further then himself, and there had ended,
It had been just; but, thus enrag'd to fly
Upon th' eternall eyes of Majesty,
And drag the Son of Glory from the breast
Of his indulgent Father; to arrest
His great and sacred Person; in disgrace,
To spit and spaul upon his Sun-bright face;
To taunt him with base terms; and being bound,
To scourge his soft, his trembling sides; to wound
His head with thorns; his heart with humane fears:
His hands with nails, and his pale flank with spears:
And then to paddle in the purer stream
Of his spilt blood, is more then most extreme.
Great builder of mankind, canst thou propound
All this to thy bright eyes, and not confound
Thy handy-work? 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:
Tho Hand that form'd us, is enforc'd to be
A Screen set up betwixt thy work and thee:
Look, look 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 between thy gracious eyes and me,
Yet view the scarre; that scarre will countermand
Thy wrath: O read my fortune in thy hand.
S. C HRYS . Hom. 4 Joan.
Fools seem to abound in wealth, when they want all things; they seem to enjoy happinesse, when indeed they are onely most miserable; neither do they understand that they are deluded by their fancy till they be delivered from their folly.
S. G REG . in Mor.
By so much the more are we inwardly foolish by how much we strive to seem outwardly wise.
E PIG . 2
Rebellious fool, what has thy folly done:
Controul'd thy God, and crucifi'd his Sonne?
How sweetly has the Lord of life deceiv'd thee?
Thou shedst his bloud and that shed blood has sav'd thee
III
P SALM 6 2.
Have mercy, Lord, upon me, for I am weak, O Lord, heal me for my bones are vexed.
Soul. Jesus Soul.
Ah, Son of David, help: Jes. What sinfull crie
Implores the Son of David? Soul. It is I: Jes.
Who art thou? Soul. Oh, a deeply wounded breast
That's heavy laden, and would fain have rest. Jes.
I have no scraps, and dogs must not be fed
Like houshold children with the children's bread Soul.
True, Lord; yet tolerate a hungry whelp
To lick their crummes: O Sonne of David, help. Jes.
Poore Soul, what all'st thou? Soul. O I burn, I fry;
I cannot rest, I know not where to fly
To find some ease; I turn my blubber'd face
From man to man; I roul from place to place.
T' avoid my tortures, to obtein relief,
But still am dogg'd and haunted with my grief:
My midnight torments call the sluggish light,
And when the morning's come, they woo the night. Jes.
Surcease thy tears, and speak thy free desires Soul.
Quench, quench my flames, and swage those scorching fires. Jes.
Canst thou believe my hand can cure thy grief? Soul.
Lord, I believe; Lord, help my unbelief. Jes.
Hold forth thy arm, and let my fingers try
Thy pulse: where chiefly doth thy torment lie? Soul.
From head to foot; it reignes in ev'ry part,
But playes the self-law'd tyrant in my heart. Jes.
Canst thou digest; canst, relish wholesome food?
How stands thy last? Soul. To nothing that is good:
All sinfull trash, and earth's unsav'ry stuff
I can digest and relish well enough. Jes.
Is not thy bloud as cold as hot, by turns? Soul.
Cold to what's good; to what is bad it burns. Jes.
How old's thy grief? Soul. I took it at the fall
With eating fruit. Jes. 'Tis Epidemicall:
Thy bloud's infected, and th infection sprung
From a bad liver: 'Tis a feaver strong
And full of death, unlesse with present speed
A vein be op'ned: thou must die, or bleed. Soul.
O I am faint and spent: that, launce that shalt
Let forth my bloud, lets forth my life withall:
My soul wants cordials, and has greater need
Of bloud, then (being spent so far) to bleed:
I faint already: If I bleed, I die. Jes.
'Tis either thou must bleed, sick soul, or I;
My bloud's a cordiall. He that sucks my veins,
Shall cleanse his own, and conquer greater pains
Then these: cheer up: this precious bloud of mine
Shall cure thy grief; my heart shall bleed for thine:
Believe, and view me with a faithfull eye,
Thy soul shall neither languish bleed nor die.
S. A UGUST . lib TO Confess.
Lord, be mercifull unto me: Ah me; Behold, I hide not my wounds: Thou art a Physician, and I am sick; Thou art mercifull and I am miserable.
S. G REG . in Pastoral.
O Wisdome, with how sweet an art doth thy wine and oyl restore health to my healthlesse soul! How powerfully mercifull, how mercifully powerfull art thou! Powerfull for me, mercifull to me!
E PIG . 3.
Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctour by?
Thou canst not live, unlesse thy Doctour die!
Strange kind of grief, that finds no med'cine good
To 'swage her pains, but the Physician's bloud!
IV
P SALM 25 18.
Look upon my affiction and my pain, and forgive all my sinnes
Both work and strokes? both lash and labour too?
What more could Edom, or proud Ashur do?
Stripes after stripes? and blows succeding blows?
Lord, has thy scourge no mercy, and my woes
No end? my pains 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 rhet'rick of my torments move?
Are these the symptomes? 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?
Look on my cloudy brow, how fast it rains
Sad showers of sweat the fruits of fruitlesse pains;
Behold these ridges; see what purple furrows
Thy plow has made; O think upon those sorrows
That once were thine; wilt, wilt thou not be woo'd
To mercy, by the charms of sweat and blood?
Canst thou forget that drowsie mount wherein
Thy dull Disciples slept? was not my sinne
There punish'd in thy soul? did not this brow
Then sweat in thine? were not those drops enow?
Remember Golgotha, where that spring-tide
O'rflow'd thy sovereigne Sacramentall side:
There was no sinne, there was no guilt in Thee,
That caus'd those pains; thou sweat'st, thou bledst for me.
Was there not bloud enough, when one small drop
Had pow'r to ransome thousand worlds, and stop
The mouth of Justice? Lord, I bled before
In thy deep wounds; can Justice challenge more?
Or dost thou vainly labour to hedge in
Thy losses from my sides? my bloud is thin
And thy free bountle scorns such easie thrift:
No, no, thy bloud came not as lone but gift.
But must I ever grind? And must I earn
Nothing but stripes? O wilt thou disaltern
The rest thou gav'st? Hast thou perus'd the curse
Thou laid'st on Adam's fall, and made it worse?
Canst thou repent of mercy? Heav'n thought good
Lost man should feed in sweat; not work in bloud:
Why dost thou would th' already-wounded breast?
Ah me! my life is but a pain at best;
I am but dying dust: my dayes, a span:
What pleasure tak'st thou in the bloud of man?
Spare, spare thy scourge, and be not so austere:
Send fewer stroaks, or lend more strength to bear.
S. B ERN . Hom. 81 in Cant.
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproch 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, beslaved it self to sinne, by assenting to sinne for he that committeth sinne is the servant to sinne.
E PIG . 4
Taxe not thy God: Thine own defaults did urge
This twofold punishment; the mill the scourge,
Thy sin's the authour of thy self-tormenting;
Thou grind'st for sinning; scourg'd for not repenting.
V
J OB 10. 9.
Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me to dust again?
T H us from the bosome of the new made earth
Poore man was delv'd, and had his unborn birth;
The same the stuffe the self-same hand doth trim
The plant that fades, the beast that dies, and him;
One was their sire, one was their common mother
Plants are his sisters, and the beast his brother;
The elder too; beasts draw the self-same breath
Wax old alike, and die the self-same death:
Plants grow as he with fairer robes arrald;
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 Creatour did inspire
My chosen earth with that diviner fire
Of reason; gave me judgement and a will;
That to know good this to chuse good from ill;
He put the rains of pow'r in my free hand
And jurisdiction over sea and land:
He gave me art to lengthen out my span
Of life and make me all, in being man;
I, but thy passion has committed treason
Against the sacred person of thy reason:
Thy judgement is corrupt perverse thy will;
That knows no good, and this makes choice of ill:
The greater height sends down the deeper fall;
And good declin'd turns bad, turns worst of all
Say then, proud inch of living earth, what can
Thy greatnesse claim the more in being man?
O but my soul transcends the pitch of nature,
Born up by th' Image of her high Creatour;
Outbraves the life of reason, and beats down
Her waxen wings, kicks off her brazen crown
My earth's a living Temple t' entertein
The King of Glory, and his glorious train;
How can I mend my title then? where can
Ambition find a higher style then 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 lothed lust, her ornaments prophan'd;
Her oyl-forsaken lamps, and hallow'd tapours
Put out; her incense breaths unsav'ry vapours:
Why swell'st thou then so big thou little span
Of earth? what art thou more in being man?
Eternall Potter, whose blest hands did lay
My course foundation from a sod of clay,
Thou know'st my slender vessel's apt to leak;
Thou know'st my brittle temper's prone to break;
Are my bones brazzil, or my flesh of oake?
O, mend what thou hast made, what I have broke;
Look, look with gentle eyes, and in thy day
Of vengeance Lord remember I am clay.
S. A UGUST Soliloq. 32.
Shall I ask, who made me! It was thou that modest me, without whom nothing was made: Thou art my maker, and I thy work: I thank thee my Lord God, by whom I live and by whom all things subsist, because thou madest me: I thank thee, O my Potter, because thy hands have made me because thy hands have formed me.
E PIG . 5
Why swell'st thou, man, pull up with fame and purse?
Th'art better earth, but born to dig the worse,
Thou cam'st from earth, to earth thou must return
And art but earth cast from the womb to th urn.
VI
J OB 7 20.
I have sinned, what shall I do unto thee O thou preserver of men? why hast thou set me as a mark against thee?
L O rd, I have done; and, Lord, I have misdone;
'Tis folly to contest, to strive with one
That is too strong; 'tis folly to assall
Or prove an arm, that will that must prevail
I've done, I've done; these trembling hands have thrown
Their daring weapons down; the day's thine own:
Forbear to strike where thou hast won the field;
The palm, the palm is thine: I yield I yield.
These treach'rous hands that were so vainly bold
To try a thrivelesse combat, and to hold
Self-wounding weapons up, are now extended
For mercy from thy hand; that knee that bended
Upon her guardlesse guard, doth now repent
Upon his naked floore: See both are bent
And sue for pitty: O my ragged wound
Is deep and desp'rate, it is drench'd and drown'd
In blood and briny tears; It doth begin
To stink without, and putrifie within:
Let that victorious hand, that now appears
Just in my blood, prove gracious to my tears:
Thou great Preserver of Presumptuous man,
What shall I do? what satisfaction can
Poore dust and ashes make? O if that bloud
That yet remains unshed were half as good
As bloud of oxen; if my death might be
An offering to attone my God and me:
I would disdain 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 bloud of man?
No, no, eternall sinne expects for guerdon,
Eternall penance, or eternall pardon:
Lay down thy weapons, turn thy wrath away,
And pardon him that hath no price to pay;
Enlarge that soul, 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 mother's eyes;
Her frowns (half mixt with smiles) may chance to shew
An angry love-trick on his arm, or so;
Where if the babe but make a lip and cry
Her heart begins to melt, and by and by
She coaks his dewy-cheeks; her babe she blisses
And choaks her language with a thousand kisses;
I am that child; lo, here I prostrate lie
Pleading for mercy; I repent and crie
For gracious pardon: let thy gentle ears
Heare that in words, what mothers judge in tears:
See not my frailtles, Lord, but through my fear.
And look on ev'ry trespasse through a tear:
Then calm thy anger and appear more mild:
Remember th art a Father, I a child.
S. B ERN . Ser 21. in Cant
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproch 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 mark 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 repugneth thee, should repugne me: I who am against thee, am against my self.
E PIG . 6.
But form'd and fight? but born, 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
J OB 13 24.
Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemy?
W H y dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Doth that eclipsing hand so long deny
The Sun-shine of thy soul-enliv'ning eye?
Without that Light what light remains in me?
Thou art my Life , my Way , my Light ; in thee
I live I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my Life ; If thou but turn away,
My life 's a thousand deaths: thou art my Way:
Without thee Lord I travel 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 fly:
Thou art my Light : If hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my Life; If thou withdraw, I die.
Mine eyes are blind and dark I cannot see;
To whom, or whether should my darkness flee,
But to the Light? And who's that Light but thee?
My path is lost; my wand'ring 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
Repair? 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;
Speak, art thou angry. Lord or onely try'st me?
Unskreen those Heav'nly lamps, or tell me why
Thou shad'st thy face; perhaps thou thinkst, no eye
Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.
If that be all, shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
Let me behold and die; for my desire
Is Phaenix -like to perish in that fire.
Death-conquer'd Lax'rus was redeem'd by thee;
If I am dead, Lord, set death's pris'nor free;
Am I more spent, or stink I worse then he?
If my pufft light be out, give leave to tine.
My flamelesse snuff at that bright Lamp of thine;
O what 's thy Light the lesse for lighting mine?
If I have lost my Fath , great Shepherd, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtfull way?
Lord, shall a Lamb of Isr'el's sheepfold stray?
Thou art the Pilgrime's Path , the blind man's Eye.
The dead man's Life; on thee my hopes rely;
If thou remove I erre; I grope; I die.
Disclose thy Sun-beams; closo 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. A UGUST Soliloqu. 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.
A NSELM. Med. cap. 5
O excellent hiding which is become my perfection! My God, Thou hidest thy treasure, to kindle my desire; Thou hidest thy pearl, to inflame the seeker: Thou delayest to give, that Thou maist teach me to importune: seem'st not to hear to make me persever.
Epig. 7
If Heav'n's all-quickning eyes vouchsafe to shine
Upon our souls, we slight: If not we whine:
Our Equinoctiall hearts can never lie
Secure beneath the Tropicks of that eye.
VIII
J EREMIAH 9. 1.
O that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night
O That mine eyes were springs, and could transform
Their drops to seas! my sighs into a storm
Of zeal and sacred voilence: wherein
This lab'ring vessel laden with her sinne,
Might suffer sudden shipwreck, and be split.
Upon that rock, where my drencht soul may sit
O'rwhelm'd with plenteous passion; O and there
Drop, drop into an everlasting tear!
Ah me! that ev'ry sliding vein that wanders
Through this vast Isle did work her wild meanders
In brackish tears in stead of bloud, and swell
This flesh with holy dropsies; from whose well,
Made warm with sighs, may fume my wasting breath
Whil'st I dissolve in steams, and reek to death!
These narrow sluces of my dribbling eyes
Are much too strait for those quick springs that rise
And hourely fill my temples to the top:
I cannot shed for ev'ry sinne a drop.
Great builder of mankind, why hast thou sent
Such swelling flouds, and made so small a vent!
O that this flesh had been compos'd of snow,
Instead of earth, and bones of ice, that so
Feeling the fervour of my sinne, and lothing
The fire I feel, I might be thaw'd to nothing!
O thou, that didst with hopefull joy entomb
Me thrice three moons in thy laborious womb,
And then with joyful pain, 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 born: Alas, and what's a man?
A scuttle full of dust, a measur'd span
Of fitting Time; a furnish'd pack, whose wares
Are sullen griefs and soul-tormenting cares:
A vale of tears; a vessel tunn'd with breath,
By sicknesse brocht, to be drawn out by death:
A haplesse, helplesse thing, that born doth cry
To feed; that feeds to live; that lives to die.
Great God and Man whose eyes spent drops so often
For me, that cannot weep enough; O soften
These marble brains, and strike this flintle rock;
Or if the musick of thy Peter's cock
Will more prevail, fill, fill my hearkning ears
With that sweet sound, that I may melt in tears:
I cannot weep, untill thou broch mine eye:
Or give me vent, or else I burst and die.
S. A MBROS . In Psal. 118.
He that committeth sinnes to be wept for, cannot weep for sinnes committed: And being himself most lamentable hath no tears to lament his offences.
N AZIANZ Orat 3.
Tears are the deluge of sinne and the world's sacrifice.
S. H IERON in Esaiam
Prayer appeaseth God, but a tear compelleth him
That moveth him but this constraineth him.
E PIG . 8.
Earth is an Island ported round with fears;
The way to Heav'n is through the Sea of tears,
It is a stormy passage, where is found
The wrack of many a ship, but no man drown'd.
IX
P SALM 18. 5.
The sorrows of hell compassed me about, and the snares of death prevented me.
I S not this Type well cut? In ev'ry part
Full of rich cunning? fill'd with Zeuxian Art?
Are not the hunters, and their Stygian hounds
Limm'd full to th' life? didst ever heare the sounds
The musick, and the lip-divided breaths
Of the strong-winded horn, recheats, and deaths
Done more exact? th' infernall Nimrods hollow?
The lawlesse Purllews? and the game they follow?
The hidden engines? and the snares that lie
So undiscover'd, so obscure to th' eye?
The new-drawn net? and her entangled prey?
And him that closes it? Beholder, say,
Is 't not well done? seem not an em Tous strife
Betwixt the rare cut picture and the life?
These Purllew-men are Devils; and the Hounds,
(Those quick-nos'd Canibals that scour the grounds)
Temptations, and the Game these Fiends pursue
Are human souls, 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, bayfed with treasure
Ambitious honour, and self-wasting pleasure;
Where if the soul but stoop, death stands prepar'd
To draw the net, and drawn, the soul's ensnar'd.
Poore soul! 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 tear thee;
If go, 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 board;
Snares watch thy thoughts, and Snares attach thy word;
Snares in thy quiet; Snares in thy commotion:
Snares in thy diet: 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 Purllews be so full of danger,
Great God of Harts, the world's sole sov'reigne Ranger.
Preserve thy Deere, and let my soul be blest
In thy safe Forrest, where I seek for rest:
Then let the hell-hounds rore; I fear no ill;
Rouze me they may, but have no pow'r to kill.
S. A MBROS . lib. 4. in cap. 4. Lucae.
The reward of honours, the height of power, the delicacle of diet, and the beautie of a harlot are the snares of the devil .
S. A MBROS . de Bono Mortis.
Whilest thou seekest pleasures thou runnest into snares for the eye of the harlot is the snare of the Adulterer .
S AVANAR .
In eating, he settith before us gluttony; In generation, luxury; In labour, sluggishnesse: In conversing, envy, In governing, covetousnesse: In correcting anger; In honour, pride; In the heart; he setteth evil thoughts; In the mouth, evil words; In actions, evil works; When awake, he moveth us to evil actions': when asleep to filthy dreams
E PIG . 9.
Be sad, my Heart, deep dangers wait thy mirth:
Thy soul's way-laid by Sea, by Hell, by Earth:
Hell has her hounds: Earth, snares: the Sea, a shelf;
But most of all, my Heart, beware thy self.
X
P SALM 143 2.
Enter not into judgement with thy servant, for in thy sight shall no man living be justified.
Jesus. Justice. Sinner.
Jes. B R ing forth the prisner Justice. Just. Thy commands
Are done, just Judge; See here the prisner stands.
Jes. What hath tho prisner done? Say, what 's the cause
Of his commitment? Just. He has broke the laws
Of his too gracious God: conspir'd the death
Of that great Majesty that gave him breath.
And heapt transgression Lord upon transgression
Jes. How know'st thou this? Just. Ev'n by his own confession
His sinnes are crying; and they cry'd aloud:
They cry'd to Heav'n; they cry'd to Heav'n for bloud.
Jes. What say'st thou sinner? hast thou ought to plead.
That sentence should not passe? hold up thy head
And shew thy brasen, thy rebellious face,
Sin. Ah me! I dare not: I'm too vile and base
To tread upon the earth, much more to lift
Mine eyes to Heav'n: I need no further shrift
Then mine own conscience: Lord, I must confesse.
I am no more then dust, and no whit lesse
Then my inditement styles me. Ah, if thou
Search too severe, with too severe a brow
What flesh can stand? I have transgrest thy laws;
My merits plead thy vengeance, not my cause.
Just. Lord, shall I strike the blow? Jes. Hold Justice stay:
Sinner, speak on; what hast thou more to say?
Sin. Vile as I am, and of my self abhorr'd
I am thy handy-work, thy creature, Lord,
Stampt with thy glorious Image, and at first
Most like to thee, though now a poore accurst
Convicted catiff, and degen'rous creature,
Here trembling at thy bar. Just. Thy fault's the greater.
Lord, shall I strike the blow? Jes. Hold, Justice, stay:
Speak, sinner; hast thou nothing more to say?
Sin. Nothing but Mercy, Mercy; Lord my state
Is miserably poore and desperate;
I quite renounce my self, the world, and flee
From Lord to Jesus from thy self, to thee.
Just. Cease thy vain hopes; my angry God has vow'd
Abused mercy must have bloud for bloud:
Shall I yet strike the blow? Jes. Stay, Justice, hold;
My bowels yearn, my fainting bloud growes cold.
To view the trembling wretch; me thinks I spy
My Father's image in the prisner's eye.
Just. I cannot hold. Jes. Then turn thy thirsty blade
Into my sides: let there the wound be made:
Chear up, dear soul redeem thy life with mine:
My soul shall smart, my heart shall bleed for thine.
Sin. O ground-lesse deeps! O love beyond degree!
Th' offended dies to set th' offender free!
S. A UGUST .
Lord, if I have done that for which thou maist damne me; thou hast not lost that, whereby thou maist save me: Remember not, sweet Jesus, thy justice against the sinner, but thy benignity towards thy creature: Remember not to proceed against a guilty soul, 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?
A NSELM .
Have respect to what thy Sonne Rath 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.
E PIG . 10.
Mercio of mercles! He that was my drudge
Is now my Advocate, is now my Judge:
Ho suffers, pleads, and sentences, alone:
Three I adore, and yet adore but One.
XI
P SALM 69. 15
Let not the water-flood overflow me, neither let the deeps swallow me up.
T H e world's a Sea; my flesh a Ship that 's mann'd
With lab'ring Thoughts, and steer'd by Reason's hand:
My Heart 's the Sea-man's Card, whereby she sails;
My loose Affections are the greater Sails:
The Top-sail is my Fancie, and the Gusts
That fill these wanton sheets are worldly Lusts
Pray'r is the Cable, at whose end appears
The Anchor Hope, nev'r slipt but in our fears:
My Will 's th' unonstant Pilot, that commands
The stagg'ring Keel; my Sinnes are like the Sands:
Repentance is the Bucket, and mine Eye
The Pump, unus'd (but in extremes) and dry:
My Conscience is the Plummet that doth presse
The deeps, but seldome cries, A fathom tesse:
Smooth Calm 's security; The Gulf, despair:
My Fraught's Corruption, and this Life's my Fair:
My Soul 's the Passenger, confus'dly driven
From fear to fright: her landing-Port is Heaven.
My Seas are stormy, and my Ship doth leak;
My Saylers rude; my Steersman faint and weak:
My Canvace torn, it flaps from side to side;
My Cable 's crakt, my Anchor's slightly ti'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 Gulf too near:
My Wares are slubber'd, and my Fare 's too dear;
My Plummet 's light, it cannot sink nor sound;
O shall my Rock-bethreatned Soul be drown'd?
Lord, still the Seas, and shield my Ship from harm;
Instruct my Sailours, guid my Steersman's arm:
Touch thou my Compasse, and renew my Sails
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 lurk, and where the Quicksands lie;
Guard thou the Gulf with love, my Calms with care;
Cleanse thou my Fraught; 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 obey,
That through the deep gav'st grumbling Isr'ell way;
Say to my Soul, be safe, and then mine eye
Shall scorn grim death, although grim death stand by:
O thou whose strength-reviving Arm did cherish
Thy sinking Peter , at the point to perish;
Reach forth thy hand or bid me tread the wave,
I 'll come, I 'll come: the voyce that calls will save.
S. A MEROS . Apol. post. pro David. cap. 3.
The confluence of Iusts make a great tempest, which in this sea disturbeth the sea-faring soul, that reason cannot govern it .
S. A UGUST . Soliloqu. 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 dangers escaped, we may arrive at our Port secure .
E PIG . II.
My Soul, the seas are rough, and thou a stranger
In these false coasts; O keep aloof; there 's danger:
Cast forth thy plummet; see a rock appears:
Thy ship wants sea-room: make it with thy tears.
XII
J OB 14. 13
O that thou wouldst hide me in the grave, that thou wouldst keep me secret untill thy wrath be past!
O Whither shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?
Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from Thunder? where shall I abide
Untill his flames be quench'd or laid aside?
What, if my feet should take their hasty flight.
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas no shades can blind the God of Light.
What, if my soul 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 entertain
My frighted soul? Can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain?
Nor Sea, nor Shade, nor Shield, nor Rock nor Cave
Nor silent Desarts, nor the sullen Grave,
Where flame-ey'd fury means to smile, can save.
The Seas will part; Graves open; Rocks will split;
The Shield will cleave; the frighted Shadows flit;
Where Justice alms, her fiery darts must hit.
No, no, if stern-brow'd vengeance means to thunder
There is no place above, beneath, nor under
So close but will unlock, or rive in sunder.
'Tis vain to flee; 'tis neither here nor there
Can scape that hand untill that hand forbear;
Ah me! where is he not, that 's everywhere?
'Tis vain to flee; till gentle mercy shew
Her better eye, the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
Th' ingenious child corrected doth not flie
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Shadows are faithlesse, and the rocks are false;
No trust in brasse, no trust in marble walls;
Poore cots are even as safe as Princes halls.
Shadows are faithlesse, and the rocks are false;
No trust in brasse, no trust in marble walls;
Poore cots are even as safe as Princes halls.
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 Justice is thy self; I know,
Just God, thy very self is Mercy too;
If not to thee where? whither should I go?
Then work thy will; If passion hid me flee,
My reason shall obey; my wings shall be
Stretcht out no further then from thee to thee.
S. A UGUST . in Psal. 30.
Whither flie I? To what place can I safely flie? To what mountain? To what den? To what strong house? What castle shall I hold? what wills shall hold me? Whithersoever I go, my self followeth me: For whatsoever thou fliest O man, thou maist but thy own conscience: wheresoever O Lord, I go, I find thee if angry, a Revenger: if appeased, a Redeemer: What way have I, but to flie from thee to thee: That thou maist avoid thy God addresse thee so thy Lord .
E PIG . 12.
Hath vengeance found thee? Can thy fears command
No rocks to shield thee from her thund'ring hand?
Know'st thou not where to scape? I'll tell thee where:
My soul make clean thy conscience: hide thee there.
XIII.
J OB 10. 20.
Are not my dayes few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewail my self a little.
M Y Glasse is half unspent: Forbear t arrest
My thriftlesse day too soon: my poore request
Is that my glasse may run but out the rest.
My time-devoured minutes will be done
Without thy help; see, see how swift they run;
Cut not my thred before my thred be spun.
The gain 's not great I purchase by this stay;
What losse sustain'st thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand years are but a day?
My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged houres; they fly so swift,
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift.
The secret wheels of hurrying Time do give
So short a warning, and so fast they drive
That I am dead before I seem 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
Wears her green plush, and is to morrow hay.
And what 's a Life? A blast sustein'd with clothing.
Maintein'd with food, retein'd with vile self-lothing;
Then weary of it self, again'd to nothing.
Reade on this diall, how the shades devour
My short-liv'd winter's day; houre eats up houre:
Alas, the totall'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 soon they droop, how soon they fade!
Shade not that diall, night will blind too soon:
My nonag'd day already points to noon;
How simple is my suit! how small my boon!
Nor do I beg this slender inch, to while
The time away, or falsely to beguile
My thoughts with joy; here 's nothing worth a smile.
No, no: 'tis not to please my wanton ears.
With frantick mirth, I beg but houres, not years:
And what thou giv'st me I will give to tears.
Draw not that soul which would be rather led;
That Seed has yet not broke my Serpent's head;
O shall I dy 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 Jordan streams (that find supplies
From the deep fountain of my heart) arise,
And cleanse my spots, and clear my leprous eyes.
I have a world of sinnes to be lamented;
I have a sea of tears that must be vented:
O spare till then; and then I die contented.
S. A UGUST , lib. do Olvit, Dol, Cap. 10.
The time wherein we live is taken from the space of our life; and what remaineth is dayly made lesse and lesse, in so much that the time of our life is nothing but a passage to death .
S. G REG . lib. 9, Cap. 44, in Cap. 10. Job.
As moderate afflictions bring tears, so immoderate take away tears; In so much that sorrow becometh no sorrow, which swallowing up the mind of the afflicted, taketh away the sense of the affliction :
E PIG . 13.
Fear'st thou to go, when such an Arm invites thee?
Dread'st thou thy loads of sinne? or what affrights thee?
If thou begin to fear, thy fear begins;
Fool, can he bear thee hence, and not thy sins?
XIV
D EUIERONOMY 32 29.
O that men were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end.
Flesh. Spirit. Fl .
W H at means my sister's eye so oft to passe
Through the long entry of that Optick glasse?
Tell me; what secret virtue doth invite
Thy wrinkled eye to such unknown delight? Sp .
It helps the sight, makes things remote appear
In perfect view; It draws the object near. Fl .
What sense-delighting objects dost thou spie?
What doth that Glasse present before thine eye? Sp .
I see thy foe my reconciled friend,
Grim Death, even standing at the Glasse's end;
His left hand holds a branch of Palm: his right
Holds forth a two-edg'd sword. Fl. A proper sight!
And is this all? doth thy Prospective please
Th' abused fancy with no shapes but these?
Yes, I behold the dark'ned Sun bereav'n
Of all his light; the battlements of Heav'n
Swelt'ring in flames; the Angel-guarded Sonne
Of glory on his high Tribunal-Throne;
I see a Brimstone Sea of boyling fire,
And Fiends, with knotted whips of flaming wire,
Tort'ring poore souls, than gnash their teeth in vain,
And gnaw their flame-tormented tongues for pain.
Look, sister, how the queazy-stomack'd Graves
Vomit their dead, and how the purple waves
Scaild their consumelesse bodyes: strongly cursing
All wombs for bearing, and all paps for nursing
Fl . Can thy distemper'd fancy take delight
In view of tortures? these are showes t' affright:
Look in this glasse triangular: look here,
Here's that will ravish eyes, Sp . What seest thou there?
Fl. The world in colours, colours that distain
The cheeks of Proteus , or the silken train
Of Flora's Nymphs; such various sorts of hiew
As Sun-confronting Iris never knew:
Here, if thou please to beautifie a town,
Thou maist; or with a hand, turn 't upside down;
Here mayst thou scant or widen by the measure
Of thine own will; make short or long at pleasure:
Here mayst thou tire thy fancy, and advise
With shows more apt to please more curious eyes.
Sp. . Ah fool! that dot'st on vain, on present toyes,
And disrespect'st 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 self, so now come hither,
Break that fond glasse, and let's be wise together
B ONAVENT . de Contemptu Secull.
O that men would be wise, understand, and foresse; Be wise to know three things. The multitude of those that are to be damned: 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 .
E PIG . 14.
What, Soul, no further yet? what nev'r commence
Master in Faith? Still batchelour of Sense?
Is 't insufficiency? Or what has made thee
Oreslip thy lost degree? thy lusts have staid thee.
XV.
P SALM 30. 10.
My life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing.
W H at 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 gain
The slender aims of one poore smile, in vain!
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 then night, night worse then day appears
In fears I spend my nights; my dayes in tears:
I mean unpitti'd grone without relief,
There is no end, nor measure of my grief.
The smiling flow'r salutes the day; it growes
Untouch'd with care; it neither spins nor sowes;
O that my tedious life, were like this flow'r,
Or freed from griefe, or finish'd with an houre:
Why was I born? Why was I born a man?
And why proportion'd by so large a span?
Or why suspended by the common lot
And being born to dy, why dy I not?
Ah me! why is my sorrow-wasted breath.
Deni'd the easie priviledge of death?
The branded slave, that tugs the weary care
Obteins the Sabbath of a welcome shore;
His ransom'd stripes are heal'd; his native soyl
Sweetens the mem'ry of his forrein toyl:
But ah! my sorrows are not half so blest;
My labour finds no point, my pains no rest:
I barter sighs for tears, and tears for grones,
Still vainly rolling Sisyphean stones:
Thou just Observer of our flying houres,
That, with thy Adamantine fangs, devours
The brazen monuments of renowned Kings,
Doth thy glasse stand? Or be thy moulting wings
Unapt to fly? If not why dost thou spare
A willing breast; a breast that stands so fair?
A dying breast, that hath 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 hamp'red soul; then should my soul be blest
From all these ills, and wrap her thoughts in rest:
Till then, my dayes are months, my months are years
My years are ages, to be spent in tears:
My grief's entail'd upon my wastfull breath
Which no recov'ry can cut off, but death;
Breath drawn in cottages, puft out in thrones,
Begins continues, and concludes in grones.
Innocent do Vilitate Condit Humanae
O who will give mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I may bewail the miserable ingresse of man's condition; the sinfull progresse of man's conversation, the damnable egresse in man's dissolution? I will consider with tears, whereof man was made, what man doth, and what man is to do: Alas, he is formed of earth, conceived in sinne, born to punishment: He doth evil things, which are not lawfull. He doth filthy things, which are not decent: He doth vain things, which are not expedient .
E PIG . 15.
My heart, Thy life's a debt by Bond which bears
A secret date; the use is Grones and Fears;
Plead not; usurious Nature will have all,
As well the Int'rest as the Principall.
All you whose better thoughts are newly born
And (rebaptiz'd with holy fire) can scorn
The world's basetrash, whose necks disdain to bear
Th imperious yoke of Satan; whose chast care
No wanton songs of Sirens can surprize
With false delight; whose more then Eagle-eyes
Can view the glorious flames of gold, and gaze
On glitt'ring beams of honour, and not daze;
Whose souls can spurn at pleasure, and deny,
The loose suggestions of the flesh, draw nigh:
And you whose am'rous, whose select desires
Would feel the warmth of those transcendent fires
Which (like the rising Sun) put out the light
Of Venus' starre, and turn 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 souls; that would enjoy
Where neither want can pinch nor fulnesse cloy
Nor double doubt afflicts, nor baser fear
Unflames your courage in pursuit, draw near:
Shake hands with earth, and let your soul respect
Her joyes no further, then her joyes reflect
Upon her Maker's glory: if thou swim
In wealth, see him in all; see all in him:
Sink'st thou in want, and is thy small cruse spent?
See him in want; enjoy him in content:
Conceiv'st him lodg'd in Crosse, or lost in pain?
In Pray'r and Patience find him out again;
Make Heav'n thy Mistresse, let no change remove
Thy loyall heart; be fond; be sick of love:
What if he stop his care, or knit his brow?
At length he'll be as fond, as sick as thou:
Dart up thy soul in grones: Thy secret grone
Shall pierce his care, shall pierce his eare alone:
Dart up thy soul in vowes: Thy sacred vow
Shall find him out, where Heav'n alone shall know:
Dart up thy soul in sighs: Thy whisp'ring sigh
Shall rouse his ears, and fear 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 tears
Unscale his eyes, and scale his conquer'd ears:
Shoot up the bosome-shafts of thy desire,
Feather'd with faith, and double-forkt with fire;
And they wil bit: Fear not, where Heav'n bids come
Heav'n 's never deaf, but when man's heart is dumb.
I.
I SAIAH 29. 6
My soul hath desired thee in the night
Good God! what horrid darknesse doth surround
My groping soul! how are my senses bound
In utter shades; and muffed 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 mortalls; his victorious ray
Can chase the shadows, and restore the day:
Night's bashfull Empresse, though she often wain
As oft repents her darknesse, primes again:
And with her circling horns doth re-embrace
Her brother's 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 bankrupt wain can beg nor borrow light;
Alas, my darknesse is perpetuall night
Falls have their risings, wainings have their primes
And desp'rate sorrows wait their better times;
Ebs 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 vainly grop'd about,
With length'ned arms, to find a passage out,
That I might catch those beams mine eye desires,
And bath my soul in those celestiall fires:
Like as the Haggard, cloyster'd in her mue,
To scowr her downy robes, and to renew
Her broken flags, preparing t' overlook
The tim'rous Mallard at the sliding brook:
Jets oft from perch to perch, from stock to ground
From ground to window; thus surveying round
Her dove-befeath'red Prison, till at length,
(Calling her noble birth to mind, and strength
Whereto her wing was born), her ragged beak
Nips off her dangling jesses, strives to break
Her gingling fetters, and begins to bate
At ev'ry glimpse, and darts at ev'ry grate:
Ev'n so my weary soul, that long has bin
An Inmate in this Tenement of sin,
Lockt up by cloud-brow'd Errour; which invites
My cloystred thoughts to feed on black delights;
Now scorns her shadows, and begins to dart
Her wing'd desires at thee, that onely art
The Sun she seeks; whose rising beams can fright
These duskle clouds that make so dark a night:
Shine forth, great Glory, shine; that I may see
Both how to loath my self, and honour Thee:
But if my weaknesse force thee to deny
Thy flames, yet lend the twilight of thine eye:
If I must want those Beams I wish, yet grant,
That I at least, may wish those Beams I want.
S. AUGUST , Soliloqu cap. 33.
There was a great and dark cloud of vanitie before mine eyes so that I could not see the Sun of Justice, and the Light of Truth. I being the sonne 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 walk from darknesse to darknesse: 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.
E PIG. 1.
My soul, chear up; what if the night be long?
Heav'n finds an care, when sinners find a tongue:
Thy tears are morning show'rs: Heav'n bids me say
When Peter's cock begins to crow, 'tis day.
II
P SALM 69 3.
O Lord, thou knowest my foolishnesse, and my sinnes are not hid from thee.
Seest thou this fulsome Ideot? In what measure
He seems transported with the antick pleasure
Of childish baubles? canst thou but admire
The empty fulnesse of his vain desire?
Canst thou conceive such poore delights as these
Can fill th' insatlate soul of man, or please
The fond aspect of his deluded eye?
Reader, such very fools are thou and I:
False puffs of honour; the deceitfull streams
Of wealth; the idle, vain, and empty dreams
Of pleasure, are our traffick, and ensnare
Our souls, the threefold subject of our care:
We toyl for trash, we barter solid joyes
For airy trifles; sell our Heav'n for toyes:
We snatch at barly grains, whilst pearls stand by
Despis'd; such very fools are thou and I.
Aym'st thou at honour does not the Ideot shake it
In his left hand? fond man, step forth and take it:
Or would'st thou wealth? see how the fool presents thee
With a full basket; if such wealth contents thee:
Wouldst thou take pleasure? if the fool unstride
His prauncing Stallion, thou mayst up and ride;
Fond man, such is the pleasure, wealth, and honour
The earth affords such fools as dote upon her;
Such is the game whereat earth's ideots fly;
Such ideots, ah such fools are thou and I:
Had rebell-man's fool-hardinesse extended
No further then himself, and there had ended,
It had been just; but, thus enrag'd to fly
Upon th' eternall eyes of Majesty,
And drag the Son of Glory from the breast
Of his indulgent Father; to arrest
His great and sacred Person; in disgrace,
To spit and spaul upon his Sun-bright face;
To taunt him with base terms; and being bound,
To scourge his soft, his trembling sides; to wound
His head with thorns; his heart with humane fears:
His hands with nails, and his pale flank with spears:
And then to paddle in the purer stream
Of his spilt blood, is more then most extreme.
Great builder of mankind, canst thou propound
All this to thy bright eyes, and not confound
Thy handy-work? 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:
Tho Hand that form'd us, is enforc'd to be
A Screen set up betwixt thy work and thee:
Look, look 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 between thy gracious eyes and me,
Yet view the scarre; that scarre will countermand
Thy wrath: O read my fortune in thy hand.
S. C HRYS . Hom. 4 Joan.
Fools seem to abound in wealth, when they want all things; they seem to enjoy happinesse, when indeed they are onely most miserable; neither do they understand that they are deluded by their fancy till they be delivered from their folly.
S. G REG . in Mor.
By so much the more are we inwardly foolish by how much we strive to seem outwardly wise.
E PIG . 2
Rebellious fool, what has thy folly done:
Controul'd thy God, and crucifi'd his Sonne?
How sweetly has the Lord of life deceiv'd thee?
Thou shedst his bloud and that shed blood has sav'd thee
III
P SALM 6 2.
Have mercy, Lord, upon me, for I am weak, O Lord, heal me for my bones are vexed.
Soul. Jesus Soul.
Ah, Son of David, help: Jes. What sinfull crie
Implores the Son of David? Soul. It is I: Jes.
Who art thou? Soul. Oh, a deeply wounded breast
That's heavy laden, and would fain have rest. Jes.
I have no scraps, and dogs must not be fed
Like houshold children with the children's bread Soul.
True, Lord; yet tolerate a hungry whelp
To lick their crummes: O Sonne of David, help. Jes.
Poore Soul, what all'st thou? Soul. O I burn, I fry;
I cannot rest, I know not where to fly
To find some ease; I turn my blubber'd face
From man to man; I roul from place to place.
T' avoid my tortures, to obtein relief,
But still am dogg'd and haunted with my grief:
My midnight torments call the sluggish light,
And when the morning's come, they woo the night. Jes.
Surcease thy tears, and speak thy free desires Soul.
Quench, quench my flames, and swage those scorching fires. Jes.
Canst thou believe my hand can cure thy grief? Soul.
Lord, I believe; Lord, help my unbelief. Jes.
Hold forth thy arm, and let my fingers try
Thy pulse: where chiefly doth thy torment lie? Soul.
From head to foot; it reignes in ev'ry part,
But playes the self-law'd tyrant in my heart. Jes.
Canst thou digest; canst, relish wholesome food?
How stands thy last? Soul. To nothing that is good:
All sinfull trash, and earth's unsav'ry stuff
I can digest and relish well enough. Jes.
Is not thy bloud as cold as hot, by turns? Soul.
Cold to what's good; to what is bad it burns. Jes.
How old's thy grief? Soul. I took it at the fall
With eating fruit. Jes. 'Tis Epidemicall:
Thy bloud's infected, and th infection sprung
From a bad liver: 'Tis a feaver strong
And full of death, unlesse with present speed
A vein be op'ned: thou must die, or bleed. Soul.
O I am faint and spent: that, launce that shalt
Let forth my bloud, lets forth my life withall:
My soul wants cordials, and has greater need
Of bloud, then (being spent so far) to bleed:
I faint already: If I bleed, I die. Jes.
'Tis either thou must bleed, sick soul, or I;
My bloud's a cordiall. He that sucks my veins,
Shall cleanse his own, and conquer greater pains
Then these: cheer up: this precious bloud of mine
Shall cure thy grief; my heart shall bleed for thine:
Believe, and view me with a faithfull eye,
Thy soul shall neither languish bleed nor die.
S. A UGUST . lib TO Confess.
Lord, be mercifull unto me: Ah me; Behold, I hide not my wounds: Thou art a Physician, and I am sick; Thou art mercifull and I am miserable.
S. G REG . in Pastoral.
O Wisdome, with how sweet an art doth thy wine and oyl restore health to my healthlesse soul! How powerfully mercifull, how mercifully powerfull art thou! Powerfull for me, mercifull to me!
E PIG . 3.
Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctour by?
Thou canst not live, unlesse thy Doctour die!
Strange kind of grief, that finds no med'cine good
To 'swage her pains, but the Physician's bloud!
IV
P SALM 25 18.
Look upon my affiction and my pain, and forgive all my sinnes
Both work and strokes? both lash and labour too?
What more could Edom, or proud Ashur do?
Stripes after stripes? and blows succeding blows?
Lord, has thy scourge no mercy, and my woes
No end? my pains 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 rhet'rick of my torments move?
Are these the symptomes? 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?
Look on my cloudy brow, how fast it rains
Sad showers of sweat the fruits of fruitlesse pains;
Behold these ridges; see what purple furrows
Thy plow has made; O think upon those sorrows
That once were thine; wilt, wilt thou not be woo'd
To mercy, by the charms of sweat and blood?
Canst thou forget that drowsie mount wherein
Thy dull Disciples slept? was not my sinne
There punish'd in thy soul? did not this brow
Then sweat in thine? were not those drops enow?
Remember Golgotha, where that spring-tide
O'rflow'd thy sovereigne Sacramentall side:
There was no sinne, there was no guilt in Thee,
That caus'd those pains; thou sweat'st, thou bledst for me.
Was there not bloud enough, when one small drop
Had pow'r to ransome thousand worlds, and stop
The mouth of Justice? Lord, I bled before
In thy deep wounds; can Justice challenge more?
Or dost thou vainly labour to hedge in
Thy losses from my sides? my bloud is thin
And thy free bountle scorns such easie thrift:
No, no, thy bloud came not as lone but gift.
But must I ever grind? And must I earn
Nothing but stripes? O wilt thou disaltern
The rest thou gav'st? Hast thou perus'd the curse
Thou laid'st on Adam's fall, and made it worse?
Canst thou repent of mercy? Heav'n thought good
Lost man should feed in sweat; not work in bloud:
Why dost thou would th' already-wounded breast?
Ah me! my life is but a pain at best;
I am but dying dust: my dayes, a span:
What pleasure tak'st thou in the bloud of man?
Spare, spare thy scourge, and be not so austere:
Send fewer stroaks, or lend more strength to bear.
S. B ERN . Hom. 81 in Cant.
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproch 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, beslaved it self to sinne, by assenting to sinne for he that committeth sinne is the servant to sinne.
E PIG . 4
Taxe not thy God: Thine own defaults did urge
This twofold punishment; the mill the scourge,
Thy sin's the authour of thy self-tormenting;
Thou grind'st for sinning; scourg'd for not repenting.
V
J OB 10. 9.
Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me to dust again?
T H us from the bosome of the new made earth
Poore man was delv'd, and had his unborn birth;
The same the stuffe the self-same hand doth trim
The plant that fades, the beast that dies, and him;
One was their sire, one was their common mother
Plants are his sisters, and the beast his brother;
The elder too; beasts draw the self-same breath
Wax old alike, and die the self-same death:
Plants grow as he with fairer robes arrald;
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 Creatour did inspire
My chosen earth with that diviner fire
Of reason; gave me judgement and a will;
That to know good this to chuse good from ill;
He put the rains of pow'r in my free hand
And jurisdiction over sea and land:
He gave me art to lengthen out my span
Of life and make me all, in being man;
I, but thy passion has committed treason
Against the sacred person of thy reason:
Thy judgement is corrupt perverse thy will;
That knows no good, and this makes choice of ill:
The greater height sends down the deeper fall;
And good declin'd turns bad, turns worst of all
Say then, proud inch of living earth, what can
Thy greatnesse claim the more in being man?
O but my soul transcends the pitch of nature,
Born up by th' Image of her high Creatour;
Outbraves the life of reason, and beats down
Her waxen wings, kicks off her brazen crown
My earth's a living Temple t' entertein
The King of Glory, and his glorious train;
How can I mend my title then? where can
Ambition find a higher style then 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 lothed lust, her ornaments prophan'd;
Her oyl-forsaken lamps, and hallow'd tapours
Put out; her incense breaths unsav'ry vapours:
Why swell'st thou then so big thou little span
Of earth? what art thou more in being man?
Eternall Potter, whose blest hands did lay
My course foundation from a sod of clay,
Thou know'st my slender vessel's apt to leak;
Thou know'st my brittle temper's prone to break;
Are my bones brazzil, or my flesh of oake?
O, mend what thou hast made, what I have broke;
Look, look with gentle eyes, and in thy day
Of vengeance Lord remember I am clay.
S. A UGUST Soliloq. 32.
Shall I ask, who made me! It was thou that modest me, without whom nothing was made: Thou art my maker, and I thy work: I thank thee my Lord God, by whom I live and by whom all things subsist, because thou madest me: I thank thee, O my Potter, because thy hands have made me because thy hands have formed me.
E PIG . 5
Why swell'st thou, man, pull up with fame and purse?
Th'art better earth, but born to dig the worse,
Thou cam'st from earth, to earth thou must return
And art but earth cast from the womb to th urn.
VI
J OB 7 20.
I have sinned, what shall I do unto thee O thou preserver of men? why hast thou set me as a mark against thee?
L O rd, I have done; and, Lord, I have misdone;
'Tis folly to contest, to strive with one
That is too strong; 'tis folly to assall
Or prove an arm, that will that must prevail
I've done, I've done; these trembling hands have thrown
Their daring weapons down; the day's thine own:
Forbear to strike where thou hast won the field;
The palm, the palm is thine: I yield I yield.
These treach'rous hands that were so vainly bold
To try a thrivelesse combat, and to hold
Self-wounding weapons up, are now extended
For mercy from thy hand; that knee that bended
Upon her guardlesse guard, doth now repent
Upon his naked floore: See both are bent
And sue for pitty: O my ragged wound
Is deep and desp'rate, it is drench'd and drown'd
In blood and briny tears; It doth begin
To stink without, and putrifie within:
Let that victorious hand, that now appears
Just in my blood, prove gracious to my tears:
Thou great Preserver of Presumptuous man,
What shall I do? what satisfaction can
Poore dust and ashes make? O if that bloud
That yet remains unshed were half as good
As bloud of oxen; if my death might be
An offering to attone my God and me:
I would disdain 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 bloud of man?
No, no, eternall sinne expects for guerdon,
Eternall penance, or eternall pardon:
Lay down thy weapons, turn thy wrath away,
And pardon him that hath no price to pay;
Enlarge that soul, 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 mother's eyes;
Her frowns (half mixt with smiles) may chance to shew
An angry love-trick on his arm, or so;
Where if the babe but make a lip and cry
Her heart begins to melt, and by and by
She coaks his dewy-cheeks; her babe she blisses
And choaks her language with a thousand kisses;
I am that child; lo, here I prostrate lie
Pleading for mercy; I repent and crie
For gracious pardon: let thy gentle ears
Heare that in words, what mothers judge in tears:
See not my frailtles, Lord, but through my fear.
And look on ev'ry trespasse through a tear:
Then calm thy anger and appear more mild:
Remember th art a Father, I a child.
S. B ERN . Ser 21. in Cant
Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproch 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 mark 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 repugneth thee, should repugne me: I who am against thee, am against my self.
E PIG . 6.
But form'd and fight? but born, 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
J OB 13 24.
Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemy?
W H y dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Doth that eclipsing hand so long deny
The Sun-shine of thy soul-enliv'ning eye?
Without that Light what light remains in me?
Thou art my Life , my Way , my Light ; in thee
I live I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my Life ; If thou but turn away,
My life 's a thousand deaths: thou art my Way:
Without thee Lord I travel 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 fly:
Thou art my Light : If hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my Life; If thou withdraw, I die.
Mine eyes are blind and dark I cannot see;
To whom, or whether should my darkness flee,
But to the Light? And who's that Light but thee?
My path is lost; my wand'ring 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
Repair? 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;
Speak, art thou angry. Lord or onely try'st me?
Unskreen those Heav'nly lamps, or tell me why
Thou shad'st thy face; perhaps thou thinkst, no eye
Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.
If that be all, shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
Let me behold and die; for my desire
Is Phaenix -like to perish in that fire.
Death-conquer'd Lax'rus was redeem'd by thee;
If I am dead, Lord, set death's pris'nor free;
Am I more spent, or stink I worse then he?
If my pufft light be out, give leave to tine.
My flamelesse snuff at that bright Lamp of thine;
O what 's thy Light the lesse for lighting mine?
If I have lost my Fath , great Shepherd, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtfull way?
Lord, shall a Lamb of Isr'el's sheepfold stray?
Thou art the Pilgrime's Path , the blind man's Eye.
The dead man's Life; on thee my hopes rely;
If thou remove I erre; I grope; I die.
Disclose thy Sun-beams; closo 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. A UGUST Soliloqu. 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.
A NSELM. Med. cap. 5
O excellent hiding which is become my perfection! My God, Thou hidest thy treasure, to kindle my desire; Thou hidest thy pearl, to inflame the seeker: Thou delayest to give, that Thou maist teach me to importune: seem'st not to hear to make me persever.
Epig. 7
If Heav'n's all-quickning eyes vouchsafe to shine
Upon our souls, we slight: If not we whine:
Our Equinoctiall hearts can never lie
Secure beneath the Tropicks of that eye.
VIII
J EREMIAH 9. 1.
O that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night
O That mine eyes were springs, and could transform
Their drops to seas! my sighs into a storm
Of zeal and sacred voilence: wherein
This lab'ring vessel laden with her sinne,
Might suffer sudden shipwreck, and be split.
Upon that rock, where my drencht soul may sit
O'rwhelm'd with plenteous passion; O and there
Drop, drop into an everlasting tear!
Ah me! that ev'ry sliding vein that wanders
Through this vast Isle did work her wild meanders
In brackish tears in stead of bloud, and swell
This flesh with holy dropsies; from whose well,
Made warm with sighs, may fume my wasting breath
Whil'st I dissolve in steams, and reek to death!
These narrow sluces of my dribbling eyes
Are much too strait for those quick springs that rise
And hourely fill my temples to the top:
I cannot shed for ev'ry sinne a drop.
Great builder of mankind, why hast thou sent
Such swelling flouds, and made so small a vent!
O that this flesh had been compos'd of snow,
Instead of earth, and bones of ice, that so
Feeling the fervour of my sinne, and lothing
The fire I feel, I might be thaw'd to nothing!
O thou, that didst with hopefull joy entomb
Me thrice three moons in thy laborious womb,
And then with joyful pain, 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 born: Alas, and what's a man?
A scuttle full of dust, a measur'd span
Of fitting Time; a furnish'd pack, whose wares
Are sullen griefs and soul-tormenting cares:
A vale of tears; a vessel tunn'd with breath,
By sicknesse brocht, to be drawn out by death:
A haplesse, helplesse thing, that born doth cry
To feed; that feeds to live; that lives to die.
Great God and Man whose eyes spent drops so often
For me, that cannot weep enough; O soften
These marble brains, and strike this flintle rock;
Or if the musick of thy Peter's cock
Will more prevail, fill, fill my hearkning ears
With that sweet sound, that I may melt in tears:
I cannot weep, untill thou broch mine eye:
Or give me vent, or else I burst and die.
S. A MBROS . In Psal. 118.
He that committeth sinnes to be wept for, cannot weep for sinnes committed: And being himself most lamentable hath no tears to lament his offences.
N AZIANZ Orat 3.
Tears are the deluge of sinne and the world's sacrifice.
S. H IERON in Esaiam
Prayer appeaseth God, but a tear compelleth him
That moveth him but this constraineth him.
E PIG . 8.
Earth is an Island ported round with fears;
The way to Heav'n is through the Sea of tears,
It is a stormy passage, where is found
The wrack of many a ship, but no man drown'd.
IX
P SALM 18. 5.
The sorrows of hell compassed me about, and the snares of death prevented me.
I S not this Type well cut? In ev'ry part
Full of rich cunning? fill'd with Zeuxian Art?
Are not the hunters, and their Stygian hounds
Limm'd full to th' life? didst ever heare the sounds
The musick, and the lip-divided breaths
Of the strong-winded horn, recheats, and deaths
Done more exact? th' infernall Nimrods hollow?
The lawlesse Purllews? and the game they follow?
The hidden engines? and the snares that lie
So undiscover'd, so obscure to th' eye?
The new-drawn net? and her entangled prey?
And him that closes it? Beholder, say,
Is 't not well done? seem not an em Tous strife
Betwixt the rare cut picture and the life?
These Purllew-men are Devils; and the Hounds,
(Those quick-nos'd Canibals that scour the grounds)
Temptations, and the Game these Fiends pursue
Are human souls, 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, bayfed with treasure
Ambitious honour, and self-wasting pleasure;
Where if the soul but stoop, death stands prepar'd
To draw the net, and drawn, the soul's ensnar'd.
Poore soul! 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 tear thee;
If go, 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 board;
Snares watch thy thoughts, and Snares attach thy word;
Snares in thy quiet; Snares in thy commotion:
Snares in thy diet: 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 Purllews be so full of danger,
Great God of Harts, the world's sole sov'reigne Ranger.
Preserve thy Deere, and let my soul be blest
In thy safe Forrest, where I seek for rest:
Then let the hell-hounds rore; I fear no ill;
Rouze me they may, but have no pow'r to kill.
S. A MBROS . lib. 4. in cap. 4. Lucae.
The reward of honours, the height of power, the delicacle of diet, and the beautie of a harlot are the snares of the devil .
S. A MBROS . de Bono Mortis.
Whilest thou seekest pleasures thou runnest into snares for the eye of the harlot is the snare of the Adulterer .
S AVANAR .
In eating, he settith before us gluttony; In generation, luxury; In labour, sluggishnesse: In conversing, envy, In governing, covetousnesse: In correcting anger; In honour, pride; In the heart; he setteth evil thoughts; In the mouth, evil words; In actions, evil works; When awake, he moveth us to evil actions': when asleep to filthy dreams
E PIG . 9.
Be sad, my Heart, deep dangers wait thy mirth:
Thy soul's way-laid by Sea, by Hell, by Earth:
Hell has her hounds: Earth, snares: the Sea, a shelf;
But most of all, my Heart, beware thy self.
X
P SALM 143 2.
Enter not into judgement with thy servant, for in thy sight shall no man living be justified.
Jesus. Justice. Sinner.
Jes. B R ing forth the prisner Justice. Just. Thy commands
Are done, just Judge; See here the prisner stands.
Jes. What hath tho prisner done? Say, what 's the cause
Of his commitment? Just. He has broke the laws
Of his too gracious God: conspir'd the death
Of that great Majesty that gave him breath.
And heapt transgression Lord upon transgression
Jes. How know'st thou this? Just. Ev'n by his own confession
His sinnes are crying; and they cry'd aloud:
They cry'd to Heav'n; they cry'd to Heav'n for bloud.
Jes. What say'st thou sinner? hast thou ought to plead.
That sentence should not passe? hold up thy head
And shew thy brasen, thy rebellious face,
Sin. Ah me! I dare not: I'm too vile and base
To tread upon the earth, much more to lift
Mine eyes to Heav'n: I need no further shrift
Then mine own conscience: Lord, I must confesse.
I am no more then dust, and no whit lesse
Then my inditement styles me. Ah, if thou
Search too severe, with too severe a brow
What flesh can stand? I have transgrest thy laws;
My merits plead thy vengeance, not my cause.
Just. Lord, shall I strike the blow? Jes. Hold Justice stay:
Sinner, speak on; what hast thou more to say?
Sin. Vile as I am, and of my self abhorr'd
I am thy handy-work, thy creature, Lord,
Stampt with thy glorious Image, and at first
Most like to thee, though now a poore accurst
Convicted catiff, and degen'rous creature,
Here trembling at thy bar. Just. Thy fault's the greater.
Lord, shall I strike the blow? Jes. Hold, Justice, stay:
Speak, sinner; hast thou nothing more to say?
Sin. Nothing but Mercy, Mercy; Lord my state
Is miserably poore and desperate;
I quite renounce my self, the world, and flee
From Lord to Jesus from thy self, to thee.
Just. Cease thy vain hopes; my angry God has vow'd
Abused mercy must have bloud for bloud:
Shall I yet strike the blow? Jes. Stay, Justice, hold;
My bowels yearn, my fainting bloud growes cold.
To view the trembling wretch; me thinks I spy
My Father's image in the prisner's eye.
Just. I cannot hold. Jes. Then turn thy thirsty blade
Into my sides: let there the wound be made:
Chear up, dear soul redeem thy life with mine:
My soul shall smart, my heart shall bleed for thine.
Sin. O ground-lesse deeps! O love beyond degree!
Th' offended dies to set th' offender free!
S. A UGUST .
Lord, if I have done that for which thou maist damne me; thou hast not lost that, whereby thou maist save me: Remember not, sweet Jesus, thy justice against the sinner, but thy benignity towards thy creature: Remember not to proceed against a guilty soul, 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?
A NSELM .
Have respect to what thy Sonne Rath 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.
E PIG . 10.
Mercio of mercles! He that was my drudge
Is now my Advocate, is now my Judge:
Ho suffers, pleads, and sentences, alone:
Three I adore, and yet adore but One.
XI
P SALM 69. 15
Let not the water-flood overflow me, neither let the deeps swallow me up.
T H e world's a Sea; my flesh a Ship that 's mann'd
With lab'ring Thoughts, and steer'd by Reason's hand:
My Heart 's the Sea-man's Card, whereby she sails;
My loose Affections are the greater Sails:
The Top-sail is my Fancie, and the Gusts
That fill these wanton sheets are worldly Lusts
Pray'r is the Cable, at whose end appears
The Anchor Hope, nev'r slipt but in our fears:
My Will 's th' unonstant Pilot, that commands
The stagg'ring Keel; my Sinnes are like the Sands:
Repentance is the Bucket, and mine Eye
The Pump, unus'd (but in extremes) and dry:
My Conscience is the Plummet that doth presse
The deeps, but seldome cries, A fathom tesse:
Smooth Calm 's security; The Gulf, despair:
My Fraught's Corruption, and this Life's my Fair:
My Soul 's the Passenger, confus'dly driven
From fear to fright: her landing-Port is Heaven.
My Seas are stormy, and my Ship doth leak;
My Saylers rude; my Steersman faint and weak:
My Canvace torn, it flaps from side to side;
My Cable 's crakt, my Anchor's slightly ti'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 Gulf too near:
My Wares are slubber'd, and my Fare 's too dear;
My Plummet 's light, it cannot sink nor sound;
O shall my Rock-bethreatned Soul be drown'd?
Lord, still the Seas, and shield my Ship from harm;
Instruct my Sailours, guid my Steersman's arm:
Touch thou my Compasse, and renew my Sails
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 lurk, and where the Quicksands lie;
Guard thou the Gulf with love, my Calms with care;
Cleanse thou my Fraught; 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 obey,
That through the deep gav'st grumbling Isr'ell way;
Say to my Soul, be safe, and then mine eye
Shall scorn grim death, although grim death stand by:
O thou whose strength-reviving Arm did cherish
Thy sinking Peter , at the point to perish;
Reach forth thy hand or bid me tread the wave,
I 'll come, I 'll come: the voyce that calls will save.
S. A MEROS . Apol. post. pro David. cap. 3.
The confluence of Iusts make a great tempest, which in this sea disturbeth the sea-faring soul, that reason cannot govern it .
S. A UGUST . Soliloqu. 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 dangers escaped, we may arrive at our Port secure .
E PIG . II.
My Soul, the seas are rough, and thou a stranger
In these false coasts; O keep aloof; there 's danger:
Cast forth thy plummet; see a rock appears:
Thy ship wants sea-room: make it with thy tears.
XII
J OB 14. 13
O that thou wouldst hide me in the grave, that thou wouldst keep me secret untill thy wrath be past!
O Whither shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?
Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from Thunder? where shall I abide
Untill his flames be quench'd or laid aside?
What, if my feet should take their hasty flight.
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas no shades can blind the God of Light.
What, if my soul 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 entertain
My frighted soul? Can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain?
Nor Sea, nor Shade, nor Shield, nor Rock nor Cave
Nor silent Desarts, nor the sullen Grave,
Where flame-ey'd fury means to smile, can save.
The Seas will part; Graves open; Rocks will split;
The Shield will cleave; the frighted Shadows flit;
Where Justice alms, her fiery darts must hit.
No, no, if stern-brow'd vengeance means to thunder
There is no place above, beneath, nor under
So close but will unlock, or rive in sunder.
'Tis vain to flee; 'tis neither here nor there
Can scape that hand untill that hand forbear;
Ah me! where is he not, that 's everywhere?
'Tis vain to flee; till gentle mercy shew
Her better eye, the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
Th' ingenious child corrected doth not flie
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Shadows are faithlesse, and the rocks are false;
No trust in brasse, no trust in marble walls;
Poore cots are even as safe as Princes halls.
Shadows are faithlesse, and the rocks are false;
No trust in brasse, no trust in marble walls;
Poore cots are even as safe as Princes halls.
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 Justice is thy self; I know,
Just God, thy very self is Mercy too;
If not to thee where? whither should I go?
Then work thy will; If passion hid me flee,
My reason shall obey; my wings shall be
Stretcht out no further then from thee to thee.
S. A UGUST . in Psal. 30.
Whither flie I? To what place can I safely flie? To what mountain? To what den? To what strong house? What castle shall I hold? what wills shall hold me? Whithersoever I go, my self followeth me: For whatsoever thou fliest O man, thou maist but thy own conscience: wheresoever O Lord, I go, I find thee if angry, a Revenger: if appeased, a Redeemer: What way have I, but to flie from thee to thee: That thou maist avoid thy God addresse thee so thy Lord .
E PIG . 12.
Hath vengeance found thee? Can thy fears command
No rocks to shield thee from her thund'ring hand?
Know'st thou not where to scape? I'll tell thee where:
My soul make clean thy conscience: hide thee there.
XIII.
J OB 10. 20.
Are not my dayes few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewail my self a little.
M Y Glasse is half unspent: Forbear t arrest
My thriftlesse day too soon: my poore request
Is that my glasse may run but out the rest.
My time-devoured minutes will be done
Without thy help; see, see how swift they run;
Cut not my thred before my thred be spun.
The gain 's not great I purchase by this stay;
What losse sustain'st thou by so small delay,
To whom ten thousand years are but a day?
My following eye can hardly make a shift
To count my winged houres; they fly so swift,
They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift.
The secret wheels of hurrying Time do give
So short a warning, and so fast they drive
That I am dead before I seem 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
Wears her green plush, and is to morrow hay.
And what 's a Life? A blast sustein'd with clothing.
Maintein'd with food, retein'd with vile self-lothing;
Then weary of it self, again'd to nothing.
Reade on this diall, how the shades devour
My short-liv'd winter's day; houre eats up houre:
Alas, the totall'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 soon they droop, how soon they fade!
Shade not that diall, night will blind too soon:
My nonag'd day already points to noon;
How simple is my suit! how small my boon!
Nor do I beg this slender inch, to while
The time away, or falsely to beguile
My thoughts with joy; here 's nothing worth a smile.
No, no: 'tis not to please my wanton ears.
With frantick mirth, I beg but houres, not years:
And what thou giv'st me I will give to tears.
Draw not that soul which would be rather led;
That Seed has yet not broke my Serpent's head;
O shall I dy 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 Jordan streams (that find supplies
From the deep fountain of my heart) arise,
And cleanse my spots, and clear my leprous eyes.
I have a world of sinnes to be lamented;
I have a sea of tears that must be vented:
O spare till then; and then I die contented.
S. A UGUST , lib. do Olvit, Dol, Cap. 10.
The time wherein we live is taken from the space of our life; and what remaineth is dayly made lesse and lesse, in so much that the time of our life is nothing but a passage to death .
S. G REG . lib. 9, Cap. 44, in Cap. 10. Job.
As moderate afflictions bring tears, so immoderate take away tears; In so much that sorrow becometh no sorrow, which swallowing up the mind of the afflicted, taketh away the sense of the affliction :
E PIG . 13.
Fear'st thou to go, when such an Arm invites thee?
Dread'st thou thy loads of sinne? or what affrights thee?
If thou begin to fear, thy fear begins;
Fool, can he bear thee hence, and not thy sins?
XIV
D EUIERONOMY 32 29.
O that men were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end.
Flesh. Spirit. Fl .
W H at means my sister's eye so oft to passe
Through the long entry of that Optick glasse?
Tell me; what secret virtue doth invite
Thy wrinkled eye to such unknown delight? Sp .
It helps the sight, makes things remote appear
In perfect view; It draws the object near. Fl .
What sense-delighting objects dost thou spie?
What doth that Glasse present before thine eye? Sp .
I see thy foe my reconciled friend,
Grim Death, even standing at the Glasse's end;
His left hand holds a branch of Palm: his right
Holds forth a two-edg'd sword. Fl. A proper sight!
And is this all? doth thy Prospective please
Th' abused fancy with no shapes but these?
Yes, I behold the dark'ned Sun bereav'n
Of all his light; the battlements of Heav'n
Swelt'ring in flames; the Angel-guarded Sonne
Of glory on his high Tribunal-Throne;
I see a Brimstone Sea of boyling fire,
And Fiends, with knotted whips of flaming wire,
Tort'ring poore souls, than gnash their teeth in vain,
And gnaw their flame-tormented tongues for pain.
Look, sister, how the queazy-stomack'd Graves
Vomit their dead, and how the purple waves
Scaild their consumelesse bodyes: strongly cursing
All wombs for bearing, and all paps for nursing
Fl . Can thy distemper'd fancy take delight
In view of tortures? these are showes t' affright:
Look in this glasse triangular: look here,
Here's that will ravish eyes, Sp . What seest thou there?
Fl. The world in colours, colours that distain
The cheeks of Proteus , or the silken train
Of Flora's Nymphs; such various sorts of hiew
As Sun-confronting Iris never knew:
Here, if thou please to beautifie a town,
Thou maist; or with a hand, turn 't upside down;
Here mayst thou scant or widen by the measure
Of thine own will; make short or long at pleasure:
Here mayst thou tire thy fancy, and advise
With shows more apt to please more curious eyes.
Sp. . Ah fool! that dot'st on vain, on present toyes,
And disrespect'st 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 self, so now come hither,
Break that fond glasse, and let's be wise together
B ONAVENT . de Contemptu Secull.
O that men would be wise, understand, and foresse; Be wise to know three things. The multitude of those that are to be damned: 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 .
E PIG . 14.
What, Soul, no further yet? what nev'r commence
Master in Faith? Still batchelour of Sense?
Is 't insufficiency? Or what has made thee
Oreslip thy lost degree? thy lusts have staid thee.
XV.
P SALM 30. 10.
My life is spent with grief, and my years with sighing.
W H at 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 gain
The slender aims of one poore smile, in vain!
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 then night, night worse then day appears
In fears I spend my nights; my dayes in tears:
I mean unpitti'd grone without relief,
There is no end, nor measure of my grief.
The smiling flow'r salutes the day; it growes
Untouch'd with care; it neither spins nor sowes;
O that my tedious life, were like this flow'r,
Or freed from griefe, or finish'd with an houre:
Why was I born? Why was I born a man?
And why proportion'd by so large a span?
Or why suspended by the common lot
And being born to dy, why dy I not?
Ah me! why is my sorrow-wasted breath.
Deni'd the easie priviledge of death?
The branded slave, that tugs the weary care
Obteins the Sabbath of a welcome shore;
His ransom'd stripes are heal'd; his native soyl
Sweetens the mem'ry of his forrein toyl:
But ah! my sorrows are not half so blest;
My labour finds no point, my pains no rest:
I barter sighs for tears, and tears for grones,
Still vainly rolling Sisyphean stones:
Thou just Observer of our flying houres,
That, with thy Adamantine fangs, devours
The brazen monuments of renowned Kings,
Doth thy glasse stand? Or be thy moulting wings
Unapt to fly? If not why dost thou spare
A willing breast; a breast that stands so fair?
A dying breast, that hath 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 hamp'red soul; then should my soul be blest
From all these ills, and wrap her thoughts in rest:
Till then, my dayes are months, my months are years
My years are ages, to be spent in tears:
My grief's entail'd upon my wastfull breath
Which no recov'ry can cut off, but death;
Breath drawn in cottages, puft out in thrones,
Begins continues, and concludes in grones.
Innocent do Vilitate Condit Humanae
O who will give mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I may bewail the miserable ingresse of man's condition; the sinfull progresse of man's conversation, the damnable egresse in man's dissolution? I will consider with tears, whereof man was made, what man doth, and what man is to do: Alas, he is formed of earth, conceived in sinne, born to punishment: He doth evil things, which are not lawfull. He doth filthy things, which are not decent: He doth vain things, which are not expedient .
E PIG . 15.
My heart, Thy life's a debt by Bond which bears
A secret date; the use is Grones and Fears;
Plead not; usurious Nature will have all,
As well the Int'rest as the Principall.
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