CASTARA:
THE
THIRD PART.
(Cover art)
LONDON
Printed by Tho. Cotes, for
Will. Cooke 1640.
A Holy Man Is onely Happie. For infelicity and sinne were borne twinnes; Or rather like some prodigie with two bodies, both draw and expire the same breath. Catholique faith is the foundation on which he erects Religion; knowing it a ruinous madnesse to build in the ayre of a private spirit, or on the sands of any new schisme. His impietie is not so bold to bring divinity downe to the mistake of reason, or to deny those misteries his apprehension reacheth not. His obedience moves still by direction of the Magistrate: And should conscience informe him that the command is unjust; he judgeth it neverthelesse high treason by rebellion to make good his tenets; as it were the basest cowardize, by dissimulation of religion, to preserve temporall respects. Hee knowes humane pollicie but a crooked rule of action: and therefore by a distrust of his owne knowledge attaines it: Confounding with supernaturall illumination, the opinionated judgment of the wise. In prosperity he gratefully admires the bounty of the Almighty giver, and useth, not abuseth plenty: But in adversity hee remaines unshaken, and like some eminent mountaine hath his head above the clouds. For his happinesse is not meteor-like exhaled from the vapors of this world; but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appeares to fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which tries vertue: Nor how tyrannically soever it usurpe on him, doth he pay to it a sigh or wrinckle: for he who suffers want without reluctancie, may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet waxeth not leane with envie: and when the prosperitie of the impious flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards distinguish not ever the merits of men: and who hath beene of councel with the Æternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from the Sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he disdaines, when he findes it swelling in himselfe; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can any mans error in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement. He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his equalls: but pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man: Esteeming yet no storme of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit. When he lookes on others vices, he values not himselfe vertuous by comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough at home for reprehension: In conversation his carriage is neither plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigor: but so demeanes himselfe as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is Angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse without assistance of inferiour Organs. Lust is the Basiliske he flyes, a Serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with the breath, and carries the most murdering Artillery in the eye: He is ever merry but still modest. Not dissolved into undecent laughter, or trickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he reformes not by invectives but example: In prayer he is frequent not apparent: yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations up to heaven, and never findes himself wearied with the journey: but when the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he esteemes it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his Mistresse on which he is passionately enamord: for that he hath found the most Soveraigne antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He therefore stands every movement prepared to dye: and though he freely yeelds up himself, when age or sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him a martyr.
Twenty-two Poems, chiefly Sacred, with Scripture Text. Domine labia mea aperies David. Noe monument of me remaine, My mem'orie rust In the same marble with my dust: Ere I the spreadingst Laurell gaine, By writing wanton or profane. Ye glorious wonders of the skies, Shine still bright starres, Th' Almighties mystick Characters! Ile not your beautious lights surprise T' illuminate a womans eyes. Nor to perfume her veins, will I In each one set The purple of the violet. The untoucht flowre may grow and dye Safe from my fancies injurie. Open my lippes, great God! and then Ile soare above The humble flight of carnall love. Upward to thee Ile force my pen, And trace no path of vulgar men. For what can our unbounded soules Worthy to be Their object finde, excepting thee? Where can I fixe? since time controules Our pride, whose motion all things roules. Should I my selfe ingratiate T' a Princes smile; How soone may death my hopes beguile? And should I farme the proudest state, I'me Tennant to uncertaine fate. If I court gold; will it not rust? And if my love Toward a female beauty move; How will that surfet of our lust Distast us, when resolv'd to dust? But thou Æternall banquet! where For ever we May feede without satietie! Who harmonie art to the eare, Who art, while all things else appeare! While up to thee I shoote my flame Thou dost dispence A holy death, that murders sence, And makes me scorne all pompes, that ayme All other triumphs than thy name. It crownes me with a victory So heavenly, all That's earth from me away doth fall. And I, from my corruption free, Grow in my vowes even part of thee. Versa est in luctum cythara mea. Job. Love! I no orgies sing Whereby thy mercies to invoke: Nor from the East rich perfumes bring To cloude the Altars with thy precious smoake. Nor while I did frequent Those fanes by lovers rais'd to thee: Did I loose heathenish rites invent, To force a blush from injur'd Chastitie. Religious was the charme I used affection to intice: And thought none burnt more bright or warme, Yet chaste as winter was the Sacrifice. But now I thee bequeath To the soft silken youths at Court: Who may their witty passions breath, To raise their Mistresse smile, or make her sport. They'le smooth thee into rime, Such as shall catch the wanton eare: And win opinion with the time, To make them a high sayle of honour beare. And may a powerfull smile Cherish their flatteries of wit! While I my life of fame beguile And under my owne vine uncounted sit. For I have seene the Pine Famed for its travels ore the Sea: Broken with stormes and age decline, And in some creeke unpittied rot away. I have seene CÆdars fall, And in their roome a Mushrome grow: I have seene Comets, threatning all, Vanish themselves: I have seene Princes so. Vaine triviall dust! weake man! Where is that vertue of thy breath, That others save or ruine can, When thou thy selfe art cal'd t'account by death? When I consider thee The scorne of Time, and sport of fate: How can I turne to jollitie My ill-strung Harpe, and court the delicate? How can I but disdaine The emptie fallacies of mirth; And in my midnight thoughts retaine, How high so ere I spread, my root's in earth? Fond youth! too long I playd The wanton with a false delight. Which when I toucht, I found a shade That onely wrought on th' error of my sight. Then since pride doth betray The soule to flatter'd ignorance: I from the World will steale away And by humility my thoughts advance.
Perdam Sapientiam Sapientum
To the Right Honorable the Lord Windsor. My Lord, Forgive my envie to the World; while I Commend those sober thoughts, perswade you The glorious troubles of the Court. For though The vale lyes open to each overflow, And in the humble shade we gather ill And aguish ayres: yet lightnings oftner kill Oth' naked heights of mountaines, whereon we May have more prospect, not securitie. For when with losse of breath, we have orecome Some steepe ascent of power, and forc'd a roome On the so envi'd hill; how doe our hearts Pant with the labour, and how many arts More subtle must we practise, to defend Our pride from sliding, then we did t' ascend? How doth successe delude the mysteries And all th' involv'd designements of the wise? How doth that Power, our Pollitickes call chance, Racke them till they confesse the ignorance Of humane wit? Which, when 'tis fortified So strong with reason that it doth deride All adverse force oth' sudden findes its head Intangled in a spiders slender thread. Coelestiall Providence! How thou dost mocke The boast of earthly wisdome? On some rocke When man hath a structure, with such art, It doth disdaine to tremble at the dart Of thunder, or to shrinke oppos'd by all The angry winds, it of it selfe doth fall, Ev'n in a calme so gentle that no ayre Breaths loude enough to stirre a Virgins haire! But misery of judgement: Though past time Instruct us by th' ill fortune of their crimes, And shew us how we may secure our state From pittied ruine, by anothers fate; Yet we contemning all such sad advice, Pursue to build though on a precipice. But you (my Lord) prevented by foresight To engage your selfe to such an unsafe height, And in your selfe both great and rich enough Refused t'expose your vessell to the rough Uncertaine sea of businesse: whence even they Who make the best returne, are forc't to say: The wealth we by our worldly traffique gaine, Weighes light if ballanc'd with the feare or paine. Paucitatem dierum meorum nuncia mihi. David. Tell me O great All knowing God! What period Hast thou unto my dayes assign'd? Like some old leafelesse tree, shall I Wither away: or violently Fall by the axe, by lightning, or the Wind? Heere, where I first drew vitall breath Shall I meete death? And finde in the same vault a roome Where my fore-fathers ashes sleepe? Or shall I dye, where none shall weepe My timelesse fate, and my cold earth intombe? Shall I 'gainst the swift Parthians fight And in their flight Receive my death? Or shall I see That envied peace, in which we are Triumphant yet, disturb'd by warre; And perish by th' invading enemie? Astrologers, who calculate Uncertaine fate Affirme my scheme doth not presage Any abridgement of my dayes: And the Phisitian gravely sayes, I may enjoy a reverent length of age. But they are jugglers, and by slight Of art the sight Of faith delude: and in their schoole They onely practise how to make A mistery of each mistake, And teach strange words, credulity to foole. For thou who first didst motion give, Whereby things live And Time hath being! to conceale Future events didst thinke it fit To checke th' ambition of our wit, And keepe in awe the curious search of zeale. Therefore so I prepar'd still be, My God for thee: Oth' sudden on my spirits may Some killing Apoplexie seize, Or let me by a dull disease Or weakened by a feeble age decay. And so I in thy favour dye, No memorie For me a well-wrought tombe prepare, For if my soule be 'mong the blest Though my poore ashes want a chest, I shall forgive the trespasse of my heire. Non nobis Domine. David. No marble statue, nor high Aspiring Piramid be rays'd To lose its head within the skie! What claime have I to memory? God be thou onely prais'd! Thou in a moment canst defeate The mighty conquests of the proude, And blast the laurels of the great. Thou canst make brightest glorie set Oth' sudden in a cloude. How can the feeble workes of Art Hold out 'gainst the assault of stormes? Or how can brasse to him impart Sence of surviving fame, whose heart Is now resolv'd to wormes? Blinde folly of triumphing pride! Æternitie why buildst thou here? Dost thou not see the highest tide Its humbled streame in th' Ocean hide, And nere the same appeare? That tide which did its banckes ore-flow, As sent abroad by the angry sea To levell vastest buildings low, And all our Trophies overthrow; Ebbes like a theefe away. And thou who to preserve thy name Leav'st statues in some conquer'd land! How will posterity scorne fame, When th' Idoll shall receive a maime, And loose a foote or hand? How wilt thou hate thy warres, when he Who onely for his hire did raise Thy counterfet in stone; with thee Shall stand Competitor: and be Perhapes thought worthier praise? No Laurell wreath about my brow! To thee, my God, all praise, whose law The conquer'd doth and conqueror bow! For both dissolve to ayre, if thou Thy influence but withdraw. Solum mihi superest sepulchrum. Job. Welcome thou safe retreate! Where th' injured man may fortifie 'Gainst the invasions of the great: Where the leane slave, who th' Oare doth plye, Soft as his Admirall may lye. Great Statist! tis your doome Though your designes swell high, and wide To be contracted in a tombe! And all your happie cares provide But for your heire authorized pride. Nor shall your shade delight Ith' pompe of your proud obsequies. And should the present flatterie write A glorious Epitaph, the wise Will say, The Poets wit here lyes. How reconcil'd to fate Will grow the aged Villager, When he shall see your funerall state? Since death will him as warme inter As you in your gay sepulcher. The great decree of God Makes every path of mortals lead To this darke common period. For what by wayes so ere we tread, We end our journey 'mong the dead. Even I, while humble zeale Makes fancie a sad truth indite, Insensible a way doe steale: And when I'me lost in deaths cold night, Who will remember, now I write? Et fugit velut umbra. Job.
To the Right Honourable the Lord Kintyre. My Lord That shadow your faire body made So full of sport it still the mimick playde Ev'n as you mov'd and look'd but yesterday So huge in stature; Night hath stolen away. And this is th' emblem of our life: To please And flatter which, we sayle ore broken seas Unfaithfull in their rockes and tides; we dare All the sicke humors of a forraine ayre. And mine so deepe in earth, as we would trie To unlocke hell, should gold there hoarded lie. But when we have built up a Ædefice T' outwrastle Time, we have but built on ice: For firme however all our structures be, Polisht with smoothest Indian Ivory, Rais'd high on marble, our unthankfull heire Will scarce retaine in memory, that we were. Tracke through the ayre the footesteps of the wind, And search the print of ships sayl'd by; then finde Where all the glories of those Monarchs be Who bore such sway in the worlds infancie. Time hath devour'd them all: and scarce can fame Give an account, that ere they had a name. How can he then who doth the world controle And strikes a terror now in either Pole, Th' insulting Turke secure himself that he Shall not be lost to dull Posterity? And though the Superstition of those Times Which deified Kings to warrant their owne crimes Translated CÆsar to a starre; yet they, Who every Region of the skie Survay; In their Coelestiall travaile, that bright coast Could nere discover which containes his ghost. And after death to make that awe survive Which subjects owe their Princes yet alive, Though they build pallaces of brasse and jet And keepe them living in a counterfet; The curious looker on soone passes by And findes the tombe a sickenesse to his eye. Neither when once the soule is gone doth all The solemne triumph of the funerall Adde to her glory or her paine release: Then all the pride of warre, and wealth of peace For which we toild, from us abstracted be And onely serve to swell the history. These are sad thoughts (my Lord) and such as fright The easie soule made tender with delight, Who thinkes that he hath forfetted that houre Which addes not to his pleasure or his powre. But by the friendship which your Lordship daignes Your Servant, I have found your judgement raignes Above all passion in you: and that sence Could never yet demolish that strong fence Which Vertue guards you with: By which you are Triumphant in the best, the inward warre.
Nox nocti indicat Scientiam. David. When I survay the bright Coelestiall spheare: So rich with jewels hung, that night Doth like an Æthiop bride appeare. My soule her wings doth spread And heaven-ward flies, Th' Almighty's Mysteries to read In the large volumes of the skies. For the bright firmament Shootes forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creators name. No unregarded star Contracts its light Into so small a Charactar, Remov'd far from our humane sight: But if we stedfast looke, We shall discerne In it as in some holy booke, How man may heavenly knowledge learne. It tells the Conqueror, That farre-stretcht powre Which his proud dangers traffique for, Is but the triumph of an houre. That from the farthest North; Some Nation may Yet undiscovered issue forth, And ore his new got conquest sway. Some Nation yet shut in With hils of ice May be let out to scourge his sinne 'Till they shall equall him in vice. And then they likewise shall Their ruine have, For as your selves your Empires fall, And every Kingdome hath a grave. Thus those Coelestiall fires, Though seeming mute The fallacie of our desires And all the pride of life confute. For they have watcht since first The World had birth: And found sinne in it selfe accurst, And nothing permanent on earth. Et alta a longÈ cognoscit. David. To the cold humble hermitage (Not tenanted but by discoloured age, Or youth enfeebled by long prayer And tame with fasts) th' Almighty doth repaire. But from the lofty gilded roofe Stain'd with some Pagan fiction, keepes a loofe. Nor the gay Landlord daignes to know Whose buildings are like Monsters but for show. Ambition! whither wilt thee climbe, Knowing thy art, the mockery of time? Which by examples tells the high Rich structures, they must as their owners dye: And while they stand, their tennants are Detraction, flattry, wantonnesse, and care, Pride, envie, arrogance, and doubt, Surfet, and ease still tortured by the gout. O rather may I patient dwell In th' injuries of an ill-cover'd cell! 'Gainst whose too weake defence the haile, The angry winds, and frequent showres prevaile. Where the swift measures of the day, Shall be distinguisht onely as I pray: And some starres solitary light Be the sole taper to the tedious night. The neighbo'ring fountaine (not accurst Like wine with madnesse) shall allay my thirst: And the wilde fruites of Nature give Dyet enough, to let me feele I feele, I live. You wantons! who impoverish Seas, And th' ayre dispeople, your proud taste to please! A greedy tyrant you obey Who varies still its tribute with the day. What interest doth all the vaine Cunning of surfet to your sences gaine? Since it obscure the Spirit must And bow the flesh to sleep disease or lust. While who forgetting rest and fare; Watcheth the fall and rising of each starre, Ponders how bright the orbes doe move, And thence how much more bright the heav'ns above Where on the heads of Cherubins Th' Almightie sits disdaining our bold sinnes: Who while on th' earth we groveling lye Dare in our pride of building tempt the skie. Universum stratum ejus versasti in infirmitate ejus. David. My Soule! When thou and I Shall on our frighted death-bed lye; Each moment watching when pale death Shall snatch away our latest breath, And 'tweene two long joyn'd Lovers force An endlesse sad divorce: How wilt thou then? that art My rationall and nobler part, Distort thy thoughts? How wilt thou try To draw from weake Philosophie Some strength: and flatter thy poor state, 'Cause tis the common fate? How wilt thy spirits pant And tremble when they feele the want Of th' usuall organs; and that all The vitall powers begin to fall? When 'tis decreed, that thou must goe, Yet whither; who can know? How fond and idle then Will seeme the misteries of men? How like some dull ill-acted part The subtlest of proud humane art? How shallow ev'n the deepest sea, When thus we ebbe away? But how shall I (that is My fainting earth) looke pale at this? Disjointed on the racke of paine. How shall I murmur, how complaine; And craving all the ayde of skill, Finde none, but what must kill? Which way so ere my griefe Doth throw my sight to court releese, I shall but meete despaire; for all Will prophesie my funerall: The very silence of the roome Will represent a tombe. And while my Childrens teares, My Wives vaine hopes, but certaine feares, And councells of Divines advance Death in each dolefull circumstance: I shall even a sad mourner be At my owne obsequie. For by examples I Must know that others sorrowes dye Soone as our selves, and none survive To keepe our memories alive. Even our fals tombes, as loath to say We once had life, decay. Laudate Dominum de coelis. David. You Spirits! who have throwne away That enveous weight of clay Which your cÆlestiall flight denyed: Who by your glorious troopes supply The winged Hierarchie, So broken in the Angells pride! O you! whom your Creators sight Inebriates with delight! Sing forth the triumphs of his name All you enamord soules! agree In a loud symphonie: To give expressions to your flame! To him, his owne great workes relate, Who daign'd to elevate You 'bove the frailtie of your birth: Where you stand safe from that rude warre, With which we troubled are By the rebellion of our earth. While a corrupted ayre beneath Here in this World we breath Each houre some passion us assailes: Now lust casts wild-fire in the blood, Or that it may seeme good, It selfe in wit or beauty vailes. Then envie circles us with hate, And lays a siege so streight, No heavenly succor enters in: But if Revenge admittance finde, For ever hath the mind Made forfeit of it selfe to sinne. Assaulted thus, how dare we raise Our mindes to thinke his praise, Who is Æternall and immens? How dare we force our feeble wit To speake him infinite, So farre above the search of sence? O you! who are immaculate His name may celebrate In your soules bright expansion. You whom your venues did unite To his perpetuall light, That even with him you now shine one. While we who t' earth contract our hearts, And onely studie Arts To shorten the sad length of Time: In place of joyes bring humble feares: For hymnes, repentant teares And a new sigh for every crime. Qui quasi flos egreditur.
To the Right Honourable, the Lady Cat. T. Faire Madame! You May see what's man in yond' bright rose. Though it the wealth of Nature owes, It is opprest, and bends with dew. Which shewes, though fate May promise still to warme our lippes, And keepe our eyes from an ecclips; It will our pride with teares abate. Poor silly flowre! Though in thy beauty thou presume, And breath which doth the spring perfume; Thou may'st be cropt this very houre. And though it may Then thy good fortune be, to rest Oth' pillow of some Ladies brest; Thou'lt whither, and be throwne away. For 'tis thy doome However, that there shall appeare No memory that thou grew'st heere, Ere the tempestuous winter come. But flesh is loath By meditation to fore see How loath'd a nothing it must be: Proud in the triumphes of its growth. And tamely can Behold this mighty world decay And weare by th' age of time away: Yet not discourse the fall of man. But Madam these Are thoughts to cure sicke humane pride. And med'cines are in vaine applyed. To bodies far 'bove all disease. For you so live As th' Angels in one perfect state; Safe from the ruines of our fate, By vertues great preservative. And though we see Beautie enough to warme each heart; Yet you by a chaste Chimicke Art, Calcine fraile love to pietie. Quid gloriaris in malicia? David. Swell no more proud man, so high! For enthron'd where ere you sit Rais'd by fortune, sinne and wit: In a vault thou dust must lye. He who's lifted up by vice Hath a neighb'ring precipice Dazeling his distorted eye. Shallow is that unsafe sea Over which you spread your saile: And the Barke you trust to, fraile As the Winds it must obey. Mischiefe, while it prospers, brings Favour from the smile of Kings; Uselesse soone is throwne away. Profit, though sinne it extort, Princes even accounted good, Courting greatnesse nere withstood, Since it Empire doth support. But when death makes them repent They condemne the instrument, And are thought Religious for 't. Pitch'd downe from that height you beare, How distracted will you lye; When your flattering Clients flye As your fate infectious were? When of all th' obsequious throng That mov'd by your eye and tongue, None shall in the storme appeare? When that abject insolence (Which submits to the more great, And disdaines the weaker state, As misfortune were offence) Shall at Court be judged a crime Though in practise, and the Time Purchase wit at your expence. Each small tempest shakes the proud; Whose large branches vainely sprout 'Bove the measure of the roote. But let stormes speake nere so loud, And th' astonisht day benight; Yet the just shines in a light Faire as noone without a cloud. Deus Deus Meus. David. Where is that foole Philosophie, That bedlam Reason, and that beast dull sence; Great God! when I consider thee Omnipotent, Æternall, and imens? Unmov'd thou didst behold the pride Of th' Angels, when they to defection fell? And without passion didst provide To punish treason, rackes and death in hell. Thy Word created this great All, Ith' lower part whereof we wage such warres: The upper bright and sphÆricall By purer bodies tenanted, the starres. And though sixe dayes it thee did please To build this frame, the seventh for rest assigne; Yet was it not thy paine or ease, But to teach man the quantities of Time. This world so mighty and so faire, So 'bove the reach of all dimension: If to thee God we should compare, Is not the slenderst atome to the Sun. What then am I poore nothing man! That elevate my voyce and speake of thee? Since no imagination can Distinguish part of thy immensitie? What am I who dare call thee God! And raise my fancie to discourse thy power? To whom dust is the period, Who am not sure to farme this very houre? For how know I the latest sand In my fraile glasse of life, doth not now fall? And while I thus astonisht stand I but prepare for my own funerall? Death doth with man no order keepe: It reckons not by the expence of yeares, But makes the Queene and beggar weepe, And nere distinguishes betweene their teares. He who the victory doth gaine Falls as he him pursues, who from him flyes, And is by too good fortune slaine. The Lover in his amorous courtship dyes. The states-man suddenly expires While he for others ruine doth prepare: And the gay Lady while sh' admires Her pride, and curles in wanton nets her haire. No state of man is fortified 'Gainst the assault of th' universall doome: But who th' Almightie feare, deride Pale death, and meete with triumph in the tombe.
Quonian ego in flagella paratus sum. David. Fix me on some bleake precipice, Where I ten thousand yeares may stand: Made now a statute of ice, Then by the summer scorcht and tan'd! Place me alone in some fraile boate 'Mid th' horrors of an angry Sea: Where I while time shall move, may floate Despairing either land or day! Or under earth my youth confine To th' night and silence of a cell: Where Scorpions may my limbes entwine. O God! So thou forgive me hell. Æternitie! when I think thee, (Which never any end must have, Nor knew'st beginning) and fore-see Hell is design'd for sinne a grave. My frighted flesh trembles to dust, My blood ebbes fearefully away: Both guilty that they did to lust, And vanity, my youth betray. My eyes, which from each beautious sight Drew Spider-like blacke venome in: Close like the marigold at night Opprest with dew to bath my sin. My eares shut up that easie dore Which did proud fallacies admit: And vow to heare no follies more; Deafe to the charmes of sinne and wit. My hands (which when they toucht some faire Imagin'd such an excellence, As th' Ermines skin ungentle were) Contract themselves, and loose all sence. But you bold sinners! still pursue Your valiant wickednesse, and brave Th' Almighty Justice: hee'le subdue And make you cowards in the grave. Then when he as your judge appeares, In vaine you'le tremble and lament. And hope to soften him with teares, To no advantage penitent. Then will you scorne those treasures, which So fiercely now you doate upon: Then curse those pleasures did bewitch You to this sad illusion. The neighb'ring mountaines which you shall Wooe to oppresse you with their weight: Disdainefull will deny to fall, By a sad death to ease your fate. In vaine some midnight storme at sea To swallow you, you will desire: In vaine upon the wheels you'le pray Broken with torments to expire. Death, at the sight of which you start, In a mad fury then you'le Court: Yet hate th' expressions of your heart, Which onely shall be sigh'd for sport. No sorrow then shall enter in With pitty the great judges eares. This moment's ours. Once dead, his sin Man cannot expiate with teares. Militia est vita hominis.
To Sir Hen. Per. Sir Were it your appetite of glory, (which In noblest times, did bravest soules bewitch To fall in love with danger,) that now drawes You to the fate of warre; it claimes applause: And every worthy hand would plucke a bough From the best spreading bay, to shade your brow. Since you unforc'd part from your Ladies bed Warme with the purest love, to lay your head Perhaps on some rude turfe, and sadly feele The nights cold dampes wrapt in a sheete of steele. You leave your well grown woods; and meadows which Our Severne doth with fruitfull streames enrich. Your woods where we see such large heards of Deere Your meades whereon such goodly flockes appeare. You leave your Castle, safe both for defence And sweetely wanton with magnificence With all the cost and cunning beautified That addes to state, where nothing wants but pride. These charmes might have bin pow'rful to have staid Great mindes resolv'd for action, and betraid You to a glorious ease: since to the warre Men by desire of prey invited are, Whom either sinne or want makes desperate, Or else disdaine of their owne narrow fate. But you, nor hope of fame or a release Of the most sober government in peace, Did to the hazard of the armie bring Onely a pure devotion to the King In whose just cause whoever fights, must be Triumphant: since even death is victory. And what is life, that we to wither it To a weake wrinckled age, should torture wit To finde out Natures secrets; what doth length Of time deserve, if we want heate and strength? When a brave quarrell doth to arms provoke Why should we feare to venter this thin smoke This emptie shadow, life? this which the wise As the fooles Idoll, soberly despise? Why should we not throw willingly away A game we cannot save, now that we may Gaine honour by the gift? since haply when We onely shall be statue of men And our owne monuments, Peace will deny Our wretched age so brave a cause to dye. But these are thoughts! And action tis doth give A soule to courage, and make vertue live: Which doth not dwell upon the valiant tongue Of bold Philosophie, but in the strong Undaunted spirit, which encounters those Sad dangers, we to fancie scarce propose. Yet tis the true and highest fortitude To keepe our inward enemies subdued: Not to permit our passions over sway Our actions, not our wanton flesh betray The soules chaste Empire: for however we To th' outward shew may gaine a victory And proudly triumph: if to conquour sinne We combate not, we are at warre within. Vias tuas Domine demonstra mihi. Where have I wandred? In what way Horrid as night Increast by stormes did I delight? Though my sad soule did often say Twas death and madnesse so to stray. On that false ground I joy'd to tread Which seemed most faire, Though every path had a new snare, And every turning still did lead, To the darke Region of the dead. But with the surfet of delight I am so tyred That now I loath what I admired, And my distasted appetite So 'bhors the meate, it hates the sight. For should we naked sinne discry Not beautified By th' ayde of wantonnesse and pride Like some mishapen birth, 'twould lye A torment to th' affrighted eye. But cloath'd in beauty and respect. Even ore the wise, How powerfull doth it tyrannize! Whose monstrous storme should they detract They famine sooner would affect. And since those shadowes which oppresse My sight begin To cleere, and show the shape of sinne, A Scorpion sooner be my guest, And warme his venome in my brest. May I before I growe so vile By sinne agen, Be throwne off as a scorne to men! May th' angry world decree, t' exile Me to some yet unpeopled Isle. Where while I struggle, and in vaine Labor to finde Some creature that shall have a minde, What justice have I to complaine If I thy inward grace retaine? My God if thou shalt not exclude Thy comfort thence: What place can seeme to troubled sence So melancholly darke and rude, To be esteem'd a solitude. Cast me upon some naked shore Where I may tracke Onely the print of some sad wracke; If thou be there, though the seas rore, I shall no gentler calme implore. Should the Cymmerians, whom no ray Doth ere enlight But gaine thy grace, th' have lost their night: Not sinners at high noone, but they 'Mong their blind cloudes have found the day.
Et Exultavit Humiles. How cheerefully th' unpartiall Sunne Gilds with his beames The narrow streames Oth' Brooke which silently doth runne Without a name? And yet disdaines to lend his flame To the wide channell of the Thames? The largest mountaines barren lye And lightning feare, Though they appeare To bid defiance to the skie; Which in one houre W' have seene the opening earth devoure When in their height they proudest were. But th' humble man heaves up his head Like some rich vale Whose fruites nere faile With flowres, with corne, and vines ore-spread. Nor doth complaine Oreflowed by an ill season'd raine Or batter'd by a storme of haile. Like a tall Barke with treasure fraught He the seas cleere Doth quiet steere: But when they are t' a tempest wrought; More gallantly He spreads his saile, and doth more high By swelling of the waves, appeare. For the Almighty joyes to force The glorious tide Of humane pride To th' lowest ebbe; that ore his course (Which rudely bore Downe what oppos'd it heretofore) His feeblest enemie may stride. But from his ill-thatcht roofe he brings The Cottager And doth preferre Him to th' adored state of Kings: He bids that hand Which labour hath made rough and tand The all commanding Scepter beare. Let then the mighty cease to boast Their boundlesse sway: Since in their Sea Few sayle, but by some storme are lost. Let them themselves Beware, for they are their owne shelves. Man still himselfe hath cast away. Dominus Dominantium. Supreame Divinitie! Who yet Coulde ever finde By the bold scrutinie of wit, The treasurie where thou lock'st up the wind? What Majesty of Princes can A tempest awe; When the distracted Ocean Swells to Sedition, and obeyes no Law? How wretched doth the Tyrant stand Without a boast? When his rich fleete even touching land He by some storme in his owne Port sees lost? Vaine pompe of life! what narrow bound Ambition Is circled with? How false a ground Hath humane pride to build its triumphs on. And Nature how dost thou delude Our search to know? When the same windes which here intrude On us with frosts and onely winter blow: Breath temprate on th' adjoyning earth; And gently bring To the glad field a fruitfull birth With all the treasures of a wanton Spring. How diversly death doth assaile; How sporting kill? While one is scorcht up in the vale The other is congeald oth' neighboring hill. While he with heates doth dying glow Above he sees The other hedg'd in with his snow And envies him his ice although he freeze. Proud folly of pretending Art, Be ever dumbe, And humble thy aspiring heart, When thou findest glorious Reason overcome. And you Astrologers, whose eye Survayes the starres! And offer thence to prophesie Successe in peace, and the event of warres. Throw downe your eyes upon that dust You proudly tread! And know to that resolve you must! That is the scheme where all their fate may read. Cogitabo pro peccato meo. In what darke silent grove Profan'd by no unholy love Where witty melancholy nere Did carve the trees or wound the ayre, Shall I religious leasure winne To weepe away my sinne? How fondly have I spent My youthes unvalued treasure, lent To traffique for Coelestiall joyes? My unripe yeares pursuing toyes; Judging things best that were most gay Fled unobserv'd away. Growne elder I admired Our Poets as from heaven inspired What Obeliskes decreed I fit For Spencers Art, and Sydnyes wit? But waxing sober soone I found Fame but an Idle sound. Then I my blood obey'd And each bright face an Idoll made: Verse in an humble Sacrifice, I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes, But I no sooner grace did win But met the devill within. But growne more polliticke I tooke account of each state tricke: Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise, Who had a conscience fit to rise. Whome soone I found but forme and rule And the more serious foole. But now my soule prepare To ponder what and where we are How fraile is life, how vaine a breath Opinion, how uncertaine death: How onely a poore stone shall beare Witnesse that once we were. How a shrill Trumpet shall Us to the barre as traytors call. Then shall we see too late that pride Hath hope with flattery bely'd And that the mighty in command Pale Cowards there must stand.
Recogitabo tibi omnes annos meos. Isay. Time! where didst thou those years inter Which I have seene decease? My soules at war and truth bids her Finde out their hidden Sepulcher, To give her troubles peace. Pregnant with flowers doth not the Spring Like a late bride appeare? Whose fether'd Musicke onely bring Caresses, and no Requiem sing On the departed yeare? The Earth, like some rich wanton heire, Whose Parents coffin'd lye, Forgets it once lookt pale and bare And doth for vanities prepare, As the Spring nere should dye. The present houre, flattered by all Reflects not on the last; But I, like a sad factor shall T' account my life each moment call, And onely weepe the past. My mem'ry trackes each severall way Since Reason did begin Over my actions her first sway: And teacheth me that each new day Did onely vary sin. Poor banckrout Conscience! where are those Rich houres but farm'd to thee? How carelessely I some did lose, And other to my lust dispose As no rent day should be? I have infected with impure Disorders my past yeares. But Ile to penitence inure Those that succeed. There is no cure Nor Antidote but teares.
Cupio dissolvi. Paule. The soule which doth with God unite, Those gayities how doth she slight Which ore opinion sway? Like sacred Virgin wax, which shines On Altars or on Martyrs shrines How doth she burne away? How violent are her throwes till she From envious earth delivered be, Which doth her flight restraine? How doth she doate on whips and rackes, On fires and the so dreaded Axe, And every murd'ring paine? How soone she leaves the pride of wealth, The flatteries of youth and health And fames more precious breath. And every gaudy circumstance That doth the pompe of life advance At the approach of death? The cunning of Astrologers Observes each motion of the starres Placing all knowledge there: And Lovers in their Mistresse eyes Contract those wonders of the skies, And seeke no higher sphere. The wandring Pilot sweates to find The causes that produce the wind Still gazing on the Pole. The Politician scornes all Art But what doth pride and power impart. And swells the ambitious soule. But he whom heavenly fire doth warme, And 'gainst these powerful follies arme, Doth soberly disdaine All these fond humane misteries As the deceitfull and unwise Distempers of our braine. He as a burden beares his clay, Yet vainely throwes it not away On every idle cause: But with the same untroubled eye Can resolve to live or dye, Regardlesse of th' applause. My God! If 'tis thy great decree That this must the last moment be Wherein I breath this ayre; My heart obeyes joy'd to retreate From the false favours of the great And treachery of the faire. When thou shalt please this soule t' enthrone, Above impure corruption; What shall I grieve or feare. To thinke this breathlesse body must Become a loathsome heape of dust And nere againe appeare. For in the fire when Ore is tryed, And by that torment purified: Doe we deplore the losse? And when thou shalt my soule refine, That it thereby may purer shine Shall I grieve for the drosse? FINIS.
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