The Poems of Thomas Pestell :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis mystick Union, man and Wife,
Yet scarce distinct from Single life,
Till like the Sun, a Son arise,
And set them Both before their eyes:
No sweeter, braver, fairer sight,
Then thus to stand in our own Light.

And such a Son I joy'd: (Ay me!
Was ever such a Son as he?)
And felt what fervent spirits of Love
Orbs of Maternal Bowels move.

I wou'd not shun those outward snares,
Of Shape, of shining eyes and hairs;
Which still the more they catch, or wound,
More pleasing still their power I found.
And it is lawful, godly too,
To love what Gods own fingers do:
Whose Angells still are sweetly fac'd,
Himself with perfect Beauty grac'd.

But eager Vertue from the Clay,
In words and actions making way
To Sense: in All that heard or saw
Became a fierce almighty Law,
And stoop'd all hearts that were not stone,
Or drown'd in Malice; or in Moan,
Like mine. So overgone with Wo,
My very Reason bids it go:
Nor lies it in the power of Wit,
By Reason to recover it.

The Rational Reply.

By Reason to recover it,
Sans forlorn Hope, or wings of Wit,
Who serves you, his main Battel brings.
Heark how the feather'd Tempest sings;
Your clouds of Grief transpiercing quite,
Or hurrying to disordered Flight.
Then (Sorrow vanquisht) on his Herse
Rears Trophies of victorious Verse.
First, let us ask Impatience why
At gentle Death's approach we cry.
Sweet Favourite of heaven, that flies
With Cupids face, but Hermes eyes;
Whose Rods, and Snakes, and seeming harms,
Our souls in slumber wisely charms.
For that poor Spark call'd Life; the brand,
The Rush we carry in our hand;
Which dropping and defiling spends:
Death gives Delight that never ends.
O mad mistake! Sea-tost, a Calm;
And wounded, we reject a Balm:
Rabide for want of Rest, we keep
A bawling, and refuse to sleep:
Dead-weary tir'd, yet scorn to stay;
And, Cripples, hurl our Crutch away.
But these are General: for your pain
Here's water of a Special vein;
Wherein no relish you shall feel
Of Sulph'ry Wit, but Reasons steel.
What cou'd you wish your Son? A pair
Of Dove-like Eyes; as Joseph fair;
Straight as young Mountain-Pines, whose arms
The Sun with early kisses warms:
Guilds, blazons so each Leaf and Limb,
That Paint is dirt, and Metal dim.

He was all this, and all that we
Can fetch from Beauties pedigree.
The Case so bright, what radiance threw
The Jewel that it did indue!
The Queen that held the Throne in state
Of Grace, there drest and re-create:
Till like a Lark from earthly Cage
Enlarg'd, and fir'd with strong new Rage,
She mounts, and sings in heaven. And what?
May we not fall some drops thereat?
Good reason, if the Tears you shed
From joyful brains expansion spread,
Call it not grief; foul Envie 'tis,
To whine at Saints enshrin'd in bliss.
Reflect on all the whole worlds frame,
It climbs and twines to whence it came:
So Beams that shine, and Streams that flow,
Back to their Sun and Ocean go.
To Vernal Flowers, which, at their birth
Thrust up pure crowns from impure Earth,
Grow by degrees full ripe, and then
Must hide them in their Roots agen.

He parted in Perfection's time,
In Golden Number, and in Prime
Of Life, of Love, and White Report
For Vertue; past the ranker sort
Of Flash-green youths; no Vicious Stain
Envenoming his Blood or Brain:
From Duels, Drink, Dice, Cares, Age, Laws,
Faces of Dames, and Eagles Claws,
Exempt: he laughs at us that still
Bleat round the bottom of the hill.

Last, think of your clear open way
To heaven, obstructed by his stay;
While, more than Mer-Maid, face and words

All Ear-wax melts, and breaks all Cords.
Did not his Look, his Voice and Deed,
With full commerce of Pleasure feed
Your Sense and Soul? which now takes wing,
Checks not at ought; nor spies fair thing
Worth stooping at. O let it flie
To Quarries there above the skie