Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God ::

Ambitious bellowes with the wind of honour
Puffe up the swelling heart, that dotes upon her:
Which fill'd with empty vanity breaths forth
Nothing, but such things as are nothing worth.

Ode. 5.

1

The bane of kingdomes, worlds disquieter,
Hells heire apparent, Satans eldest sonne,
Abstract of ills, refined Elixir,
And quintessence of sinne, Ambition,
Sprung from th' infernall shades, inhabits here,
Making mans heart its horrid mansion,
Which, though it were of vast content before,
Is now puft up, and swells still more and more.

2

Whole armies of vaine thoughts it entertaines,
Is stuft with dreames of kingdomes and of Crownes,
Presumes of profit without care or paines,
Threatens to baffle all its foes with frownes,

In ev'ry bargaine makes account of gaines,
Fancies such frolicke mirth, as choakes and drownes
The voyce of conscience, whose loud alarmes
Cannot be hard for pleasures countercharmes.

3

Wer't not for anger and for pity, who
Could choose but smile to see vaineglorious men
Racking their wits, straining their sinewes so,
That thorow their transparent thinnesse, when
They mete with Wind and Sun, they quickly grow
Riv'led and dry, shrinke till they crack againe,
And all but to seeme greater then they are:
Stretching their strength they lay their weaknesse bare

4

See how hells Fueller his bellowes plies,
Blowing the fire, that burnt too fast before:
See how the furnace flames, the sparkles rise
And spread themselves abroad still more and more:
See how the doating soule hath fixt her eyes
On her deare fooleries, and doth adore
With hands and heart lift up those trifling toyes,
Wherewith the devill cheates her of her joyes.

5

Alas, thou art deceiv'd, that glitt'ring crowne,
On which thou gazest, is not gold but grief,
That scepter sorrow: if thou take them downe,
And try them, thou shalt find what poore relief
They could afford thee, though they were thine owne,
Didst thou command ev'n all the world in chief,
Thy comforts would abate, thy cares encrease,
And thy perplexed thoughts disturbe thy peace.

6

Those pearles so thorow pierc'd, and strung together,

Though jewells in thine eyes they may appeare,
Will prove continu'd perills, when the weather
Is clouded once, which yet is faire and cleare.
What will that fanne, though of the finest feather,
Steed thee, the brunt of windes and stormes to beare?
Thy flagging colours hang their drooping head,
And the shrill trumpets sound shall strike thee dead.

7

Were all those balls, which thou in sport dost tosse,
Whole worlds, and in thy power to command,
The gaine would never countervaile the losse,
Those slipp'ry globes will glide out of thine hand,
Thou canst have no fast hold but of the crosse,
And thou wilt fall, where thou dost thinke to stand.
Forsake these follies then, if thou wilt live:
Timely repentance may thy death reprive.

University of Virginia Library

The vanity of the Heart.

Epigr. 5.

Ode. 5.

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