What will ye do in the day of your visitation? to whom will ye flie for help, and
where will ye leave your glory?
1
Is this that jolly God, whose Cyprian Bow
Has shot so many flaming darts,
And made so many wounded Beauties goe
Sadly perplext with whimpring hearts?
Is this that Sov'raigne Deity that brings
The slavish world in awe, and stings
The blundring sould of swains, and stoops the hearts of kings.
2
What Circean Charme? what Hecatean spight
Has thus abus'd the God of love?
Great Jove was vanquisht by his greater might;
(And who is stronger-arm'd than Jove?)
Or has our lustfull God perfom'd a Rape,
And (fearing Argus eyes) would scape
The view of jealous earth, in this prodigious shape?
3
Where be those Rosie Cheeks, that lately scorn'd
The malice of injurious Fates?
Ah, where's that pearle Percullis, that adorn'd
Those dainty two-leav'd Ruby gates?
Where be those killing eyes, that so controld
The world? And locks, that did infold
Like knots of flaming wyre, like Curles of burnisht Gold?
4
No, no: 'Twas neither Hecatean spite
Nor Charme below, nor pow'r above;
'Twas neither Circes spell, nor Stygian sprite,
That thus transform'd our God of Love;
'Twas owle-ey'd Lust (more potent far than they)
Whose eyes and actions hate the day;
Whom all the world observe; whom all the world obay.
5
See how the latter Trumpets dreadfull blast
Affrights stout Mars his trembling Son!
See, how he startles! how he stands agast,
And scrambles from his melting Throne!
Hark, how the direfull hand of vengeance teares
The sweltring Clouds, whilst heav'n appeares
A Circle fil'd with flame, and centerd with his feares.
6
This is that day, whose oft report hath worne
Neglected Tongues of Prophets bare;
The faithlesse subject of the worldlings scorne,
The summe of men and Angels pray'r:
This, this the day whose All-descerning light
Ransacks the secret dens of night,
And severs Good from Bad, true Joyes from false Delight.
7
You grov'ling Worldlings, you whose wisdome trades,
Where light nev'r shot his Golden Ray;
That hide your Actions in Cymerian shades,
How will your eyes indure this day?
Hils wilbe deafe, and mountaines will not heare;
There be no Caves, no Corners there,
To shade your souls from fire, to shield your hearts from feare.
HUGO.
O the extreame loathsomnesse of fleshly lust, which not onely effeminates
the mind, but enerves the body; which not onely distaines the soule, but
disguises the person! It is usher'd with fury and wantonnesse. It is accompanied
with filthinesse and uncleannesse, and it is followed with griefe and repentance.
