 | Miscellaneous works of George Wither |  |
A Meditation whilst he was taking a Pipe of Tobbacco.
Though some, perhaps will think the things I do,
Much less then Idleness, amount unto;
Yet, to have no work troubles me, at least,
As much, as therewith to be overprest;
And, then to be quite Idle, I had rather
Pick strawes, catch Flies, or shells, and Pebles gather,
Or, (as I sometimes do) the time to pass,
Number my steps, or tell the panes of glass,
And often when a trifling act is done,
Make some good use of that, which promis'd none.
Much less then Idleness, amount unto;
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As much, as therewith to be overprest;
And, then to be quite Idle, I had rather
Pick strawes, catch Flies, or shells, and Pebles gather,
Or, (as I sometimes do) the time to pass,
Number my steps, or tell the panes of glass,
And often when a trifling act is done,
Make some good use of that, which promis'd none.
Here, all alone, I by my self have took,
An Emblem of my Self, a Pipe of Smoke:
For, I am but a little piece of Clay
Fill'd with a Smoke that quickly fumes away.
This Vanity, our Clymat never knew
Till near the time, in which, first breath I drew;
And otherwhile, it is of wholsome use
(Though, for the most part subject to abuse:)
Since first I smookt it, after (it came hither)
I laid it by, nigh thirty years together,
And for my healths sake, then, did reassume
That Bauble wherewith we Tobbacco fume;
(Not hitherto disabled to forgo it,
If any way offensive I should know it)
And, that in mind, as well as bodily
I might he someway profited thereby,
Such Meditations come into my thought,
As these, which now, unto my mind are brought.
An Emblem of my Self, a Pipe of Smoke:
For, I am but a little piece of Clay
Fill'd with a Smoke that quickly fumes away.
This Vanity, our Clymat never knew
Till near the time, in which, first breath I drew;
And otherwhile, it is of wholsome use
(Though, for the most part subject to abuse:)
Since first I smookt it, after (it came hither)
I laid it by, nigh thirty years together,
And for my healths sake, then, did reassume
That Bauble wherewith we Tobbacco fume;
(Not hitherto disabled to forgo it,
If any way offensive I should know it)
And, that in mind, as well as bodily
I might he someway profited thereby,
Such Meditations come into my thought,
As these, which now, unto my mind are brought.
Ev'n as this Pipe was formed out of Clay,
And may be shapeless Earth again this day,
So may I too. So brittle, that one touch
May break it, this is; I, am also such.
When it is broke, made whole it cannot be
By Humane Art; so will it fare with me
When I to dust shall be reduc'd by Death,
Until reviv'd by an Eternal Breath.
This brittle ware, we, oft have strangely seen
Preserv'd from breaking: and so I have been.
When foul it growes, it must be purifi'd,
By Fire; I, in like manner must abide
Those Fiery-Tryals, which will purge away
That filth which is contracted every day.
Moreover, when therein, this Herb's calcin'd,
Such things as these, it brings into mind;
That Custom, by degrees, prevaileth still,
To draw us, both to what is Good and Ill;
For, when this customarily is taken,
It can by very few, be quite forsaken,
Or, heeded, how they turn unto abuse,
That, which is otherwise, of some good use;
Yea, so it them deludes, that oft they think
That, is well scented, which doth alway stink;
Yet, me it makes, with thankfulness to heed,
How, GOD wraps up, a Blessing in a Weed:
And, how (when I have weighed things together)
He makes one vanity to cure another;
Turns that to Good, which was, perhaps, for Evil,
At first, sent in among us, by the Devil.
It minds me too, that, as this Herb by fire
Must be consum'd, so, must all our desire
Of Earthly things; and, that wherein we took
Most pleasure, turn to Ashes and to Smoke.
When I had writ thus much, of what I thought,
My Candle, and Tobbacco were burnt out.
And may be shapeless Earth again this day,
So may I too. So brittle, that one touch
May break it, this is; I, am also such.
When it is broke, made whole it cannot be
By Humane Art; so will it fare with me
When I to dust shall be reduc'd by Death,
Until reviv'd by an Eternal Breath.
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Preserv'd from breaking: and so I have been.
When foul it growes, it must be purifi'd,
By Fire; I, in like manner must abide
Those Fiery-Tryals, which will purge away
That filth which is contracted every day.
Moreover, when therein, this Herb's calcin'd,
Such things as these, it brings into mind;
That Custom, by degrees, prevaileth still,
To draw us, both to what is Good and Ill;
For, when this customarily is taken,
It can by very few, be quite forsaken,
Or, heeded, how they turn unto abuse,
That, which is otherwise, of some good use;
Yea, so it them deludes, that oft they think
That, is well scented, which doth alway stink;
Yet, me it makes, with thankfulness to heed,
How, GOD wraps up, a Blessing in a Weed:
And, how (when I have weighed things together)
He makes one vanity to cure another;
Turns that to Good, which was, perhaps, for Evil,
At first, sent in among us, by the Devil.
It minds me too, that, as this Herb by fire
Must be consum'd, so, must all our desire
Of Earthly things; and, that wherein we took
Most pleasure, turn to Ashes and to Smoke.
When I had writ thus much, of what I thought,
My Candle, and Tobbacco were burnt out.
| Miscellaneous works of George Wither | |