University of Virginia Library

THE THIRD BOOKE.

The Entertainment.

I. ISIAH XXIX. VI.

My soule hath desired thee in the night.

Good God! what horrid darknesse do's surround
My groping soule! How are my Senses bound
In utter shades; and, muffled from the light,
Lusk in the bosome of eternall night!
The bold-fac'd Lamp of heav'n can set and rise;
And, with his morning glory, fill the eyes
Of gazing Mortals; his victorious Ray
Can chase the shadowes, and restore the day:
Nights bashfull Empresse, though she often wayne;
As oft repents her darknesse; primes againe;
And with her circling Hornes does re-embrace
Her brothers wealth, and orbs her silver face.
But, ah, my Sun, deep swallow'd in his Fall,
Is set, and cannot shine, not rise at all.
My bankerupt Waine can beg nor borrow light:
Alas, my darknesse is perpetuall night.
Fals have their Risings; Wanings have their Primes,
And desp'rate sorrowes wait their better times,
Ebbs have their Floods, and Autumns have their Springs;
All States have Changes hurried with the swings
Of Chance, and Times, still tiding to and fro:
Terrestriall Bodies and Celestiall too:
How often have I vainly grop'd about,
With lengthned Armes, to find a passage out,
That I might catch those Beames mine eye desires,
And bathe my soule in those Celestiall fires:
Like as the Hagard, cloyster'd in her Mue,
To scowre her downy Robes, and to renew
Her broken Hags, preparing t'overlooke
The tim'rous Malard at the sliding Brooke.
Jets oft from Perch to Perch; from Stocks to ground;
From ground to Window, thus surveying round
Her dove-befeatherd Prison, till, at length,
(Calling her noble Birth to mind, and strength
Whereto her wing was borne) her ragged Beake
Nips off her dangling Jesses, strives to breake
Her gingling Fetters, and begins to bate
At ev'ry glimpse, and darts at ev'ry grate:
Ev'n so my wearie soule, that long has bin
An Inmate in this Tenement of Sin,
Lockt up by Cloud-brow'd Error, which invites
My cloystred Thoughts to feed on black delights,
Now scornes her shadowes, and begins to dart
Her wing'd desires at Thee, that onely art
The Sun she seeks, whose rising beames can fright
These duskie Clouds that make so dark a night:
Shine forth, great Glory, shine; that I may see
Both how to loath my selfe, and honour Thee:
But if my weaknesse force Thee to deny
Thy Flames, yet lend the Twilight of thine Eye:
If I must want those Beames I wish, yet grant,
That I, at least, may wish those Beames I want.

S. AUGUST. Soliloq. cap. 33.

There was a great and darke cloud of vanity before mine eyes, so that I could not see the Sun of Justice, and the light of Truth: I being the Son of darknesse, was involved in darknesse: I loved my darknesse, because I knew not thy Light: I was blind, and loved my blindnesse, and did walke from darkenesse to darkenesse: But Lord, thou art my God, who hast led me from darknesse, and the shadow of death; hast called me into this glorious light, and behold, I see.

EPIGRAM 1.

[My soule, cheare up: What if the night be long?]

My soule, cheare up: What if the night be long?
Heav'n finds an eare, when sinners find a tongue:
Thy teares are Morning show'rs: Heav'n bids me say,
When Peters Cock begins to crow, 'tis Day.

II. PSALMS LXIX. III.

O Lord, thou knowest my foolishnesse, and my sinnes are not hid from thee.

Seest thou this fulsome Ideot? In what measure
He seemes transported with the antick pleasure
Of childish Baubles? Canst thou but admire
The empty fulnesse of his vaine desire?
Canst thou conceive such poore delights as these
Can fill th'insatiate soule of Man, or please
The fond Aspect of his deluded eye?
Reader, such very fooles are thou and I:
False puffs of Honour; the deceitfull streames
Of wealth; the idle, vaine, and empty dreames
Of pleasure, are our Traffick, and ensnare
Our soules; the threefold subject of our Care:
We toyle for Trash, we barter solid Joyes
For ayry Trifles; sell our Heav'n for Toyes:
We snatch at Barly graines, whilst Pearles stand by
Despis'd; Such very Fooles are Thou and I:
Aym'st thou at Honour? Does not th'Ideot shake it
In his left hand? Fond man, step forth and take it:
Or wouldst thou Wealth? See how the foole presents thee
With a full Basket; if such Wealth contents thee:
Wouldst thou take pleasure? If the Foole unstride
His prauncing Stallion, thou mayst up, and ride:
Fond man: Such is the Pleasure, Wealth, and Honour
That earth affords such Fooles as dote upon her;
Such is the Game whereat earths Ideots flie;
Such Ideots, ah, such Fooles are thou and I:
Had rebell-mans Foole-hardinesse extended
No further than himselfe, and there, had ended,
It had been Just; but, thus, enrag'd to flie
Upon th'eternall eyes of Majesty,
And drag the Son of Glory, from the brest
Of his indulgent Father: to arrest
His great and sacred Person; in disgrace,
To spit and spaule upon his Sun-bright face;
To taunt him with base termes; and, being bound,
To scourge his soft, his trembling sides; to wound
His head with Thornes; his heart, with humane feares;
His hands, with nayles; and his pale Flanck with speares;
And, then, to paddle in the purer steame
Of his spilt Blood, is more than most extreame:
Great Builder of mankind, canst thou propound
All this to thy bright eyes, and not confound
Thy handy-work? O, canst Thou choose but see,
That mad'st the Eye? Can ought be hid from Thee?
Thou seest our persons, LORD, and not our Guilt;
Thou seest not what thou maist, but what thou wilt:
The Hand, that form'd us, is enforc'd to be
A Screene set up betwixt thy Work and Thee:
Looke, looke upon the Hand, and thou shalt spy
An open wound, a Throughfare for thine Eye;
Or if that wound be clos'd, that passage be
Deny'd betweene Thy gracious eyes, and me,
Yet view the Scarre; That Scarre will countermand
Thy Wrath: O read my Fortune in thy Hand.

S. CHRYS. Hom. 4. Ioan.

Fooles seeme to abound in wealth, when they want all things; they seeme to enjoy happinesse, when indeed they are onely most miserable; neither do they understand that they are deluded by their fancy, till they be delivered from their folly.

S. GREG. in mo.

By so much the more are we inwardly foolish by how much we strive to seeme outwardly wise.

EPIGRAM 2.

[Rebellious foole, what has thy Folly done?]

Rebellious foole, what has thy Folly done?
Controld thy GOD, and crucified His Son:
How sweetly has the LORD of life deceiv'd thee?
Thou fledst His Blood, and that shed Blood has sav'd thee.

III. PSALMS VI. II.

Have mercy, Lord, upon me, for I am weak; O Lord heale me, for my bones are vexed.

Soule. Jesus.
Soule:
Ah, Son of David, help:

Jesus:
What sinfull crie
Implores the Son of David?

Soule:
It is I:

Jesus:
Who art thou?

Soule:
Oh, a deeply wounded brest
That's heavy laden, and would faine have rest.

Jesus:
I have no scraps, and dogs must not be fed
Like household Children, with the childrens bread:

Soule:
True Lord; yet tolerate a hungry whelp
To lick their crums: O, Son of David, help.

Jesus:
Poore Soule, what ail'st thou?

Soule:
O I burne, I fry;
I cannot rest; I know not where to fly
To find some ease; I turne my blubber'd face
From man to man; I roule from place to place,
T'avoid my tortures, to obtaine reliefe,
But still am dogg'd and haunted with my griefe:
My midnight torments call the sluggish light,
And when the morning's come, they woo the night.

Jesus:
Surcease thy teares, and speake thy free desires;

Soule:
Quench, quench my flames, and swage these scorching fires:

Jesus:
Canst thou believe my hand can cure thy griefe;

Soule:
Lord, I believe; Lord, help my unbelefe:

Jesus:
Hold forth thy Arme, and let my fingers try
Thy Pulse; where (chiefly) does the torment lie?

Soule:
From head to foot; it raignes in ev'ry part
But playes the selfe-law'd Tyrant in my heart.

Jesus:
Canst thou digest? canst relish wholsome food?
How stands thy tast?

Soule:
To nothing that is good:
All sinfull trash, and earths unsav'ry stuffe
I can digest, and relish well enough:

Jesus:
Is not thy bloud as cold as hot, by turnes?

Soule:
Cold to what's good; to what is bad, it burnes:

Jesus:
How old's thy griefe?

Soule:
I tooke it at the Fall
With eating Fruit.

Jesus:
'Tis Epidemicall;
Thy blood's infected, and th'Infection sprung
From a bad Liver: 'Tis a Fever strong,
And full of death, unlesse, with present speed,
A veine be op'ned; Thou must die, or bleed.

Soule:
O I am faint, and spent. That Launce that shall
Let forth my bloud, lets forth my life withall;
My soule wants Cordialls, and has greater need
Of blood, than (being spent so farre) to bleed;
I faint already: If I bleed, I die;

Jesus:
'Tis either thou must bleed, sicke soule, or I:
My blood's a cordiall: He that suckes my veines,
Shall cleanse his owne, and conquer greater paines
Than these: Cheere up: this precioius Blood of mine
Shall cure thy Griefe; my heart shall bleed for thine:
Believe, and view me with a faithfull eye;
Thy soule shall neither languish, bleed, nor die

S. AUGUST. lib. 10. Confess.

Lord, Be mercifull unto me: Ah me: Behold, I hide not my wounds: Thou art a Physitian, and I am sicke; Thou art mercifull, and I am miserable.

S. GREG. in Pastoral.

O Wisedome, with how sweet an art does thy wine and oyle restore health to my healthlesse soule! How powerfully mercifull, how mercifully powerfull art thou! Powerfull, for me, Mercifull, to me!

EPIGRAM 3.

[Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctor by?]

Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctor by?
Thou canst not live, unlesse thy Doctor die:
Strange kind of griefe, that finds no med'cine good
To swage her paines, but the Physitians Blood!

IV. PSALMS XXV. XVIII.

Looke upon my affliction and my paine, and forgive all my sinnes.

Both worke, and stroakes? Both lash, and labour too?
What more could Edom, or proud Ashur doe?
Lord, has thy scourge no mercy, and my woes
No end? My paines no ease? No intermission?
Is this the state? Is this the sad condition
Of those that trust thee? Will thy goodnesse please
T'allow no other favours? None but these?
Will not the Rethrick of my torments move?
Are these the symptoms? these the signs of love?
Is't not enough, enough that I fulfill
The toylsome task of thy laborious Mill?
May not this labour expiate, and purge
My sinne, without th'addition of thy scourge?
Looke on my cloudy brow, how fast it raines
Sad showers of sweat, thus the fruits of fruitlesse paines:
Behold these ridges; see what purple furrowes
Thy plow has made; O think upon those sorrowes,
That once were thine; wilt, wilt thou not be woo'd
To mercy, by the charmes of sweat and blood?
Canst thou forget that drowsie Mount, wherein
Thy dull Disciples slept? Was not my sinne
There, punish'd in thy soule? Did not this brow
Then sweat in thine? Were not those drops enow?
Remember Golgotha, where that spring-tide
Oreflow'd thy sov'raigne Sacramentall side;
There was no sinne; there was no guilt in Thee,
That call'd those paines; Thou sweatst; thou bledst for me:
Was there not blood enough, when one small drop
Had pow'r to ransome thousand worlds, and stop
The mouth of Justice? Lord, I bled before,
In thy deepe wounds: Can Justice challenge more?
Or doest thou vainly labour to hedge in
Thy losses from my sides? My blood is thin;
And thy free bounty scornes such easie thrift;
No, no, thy blood came not as lone, but gift:
But must I ever grinde? And must I earne
Nothing but stripes? O, wilt thou disalterne
The rest thou gav'st? Hast thou perus'd the curse
Thou laidst on Adams fall, and made it worse?
Canst thou repent of mercy? Heav'n thought good
Lost man should feed in sweat; not work in blood:
Why dost thou wound th'already wounded brest?
Ah me; my life is but a paine at best?
I am but dying dust: my dayes, a span;
What pleasure tak'st thou in the blood of man?
Spare, spare thy scourge, and be not so austere;
Send fewer stroakes, or lend more strength to beare.

S. BERN. Hom. 81 in Cant.

Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproach of this shamefull bondage? I am a miserable man; but a free man: free, because a man; Miserable, because a servant: In regard of my bondage, miserable; In regard of my will, inexcusable: For my will, that was free, beslaved it selfe to sinne, by assenting to sinne; for he that commits sin, is the servant to sinne.

EPIGRAM 4.

[Taxe not thy God: Thine owne defaults did urge]

Taxe not thy God: Thine owne defaults did urge
This twofold punishment; the Mill, the Scourge:
Thy sin's the Author of thy self-tormenting:
Thou grind'st for sinning; scourg'd for not repenting.

V. JOB X. IX.

Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me to dust againe?

Thus from the bosome of the new-made earth
Poore man was delv'd, and had his unborne birth:
The same the stuff; the selfe-same hand does trim
The Plant that fades; the Beast that dies; and Him:
One was their Syre; one was their common mother:
Plants are his sisters; and the Beast; his brother,
The elder too, Beasts draw the selfe-same breath,
Waxe old alike, and die the selfe same-death:
Plants grow as he, with fairer robes arraid;
Alike they flourish, and alike they fade:
The beast, in sense, exceeds him; and, in growth,
The three-ag'd Oake doth thrice exceed them both:
Why look'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth? What art thou more, in being man?
I; but my great Creator did inspire
My chosen earth with that diviner fire
Of Reason; gave me Judgement, and a Will;
That, to know good; this, to chuse good from ill:
He puts the raines of pow'r in my free hand,
And juridiction over sea and land:
He gave me art, to lengthen out my span
Of life, and made me all, in being man:
I; but thy Passion has committed treason
Against the sacred person of thy Reason:
Thy Judgement is corrupt; peverse thy Will;
That knowes no good; and this makes choice of ill:
The greater height sends downe the deeper fall,
And good, declin'd, turnes bad; turnes worst of all.
Say then, proud inch of living earth, what can
Thy greatnesse claime the more in being man?
O, but my soule transcends the pitch of nature,
Borne up by th'image of her high Creator;
Out-braves the life of reason, and beats downe
Her waxen wings, kicks off her brazen Crowne;
My earth's a living Temple t'entertaine
The King of Glory, and his glorious traine:
How can I mend my Title then? where can
Ambition find a higher stile than man?
Ah, but that Image is defac'd and soil'd;
Her Temple raz'd, her altars all defil'd;
Her vessels are polluted, and distain'd
With loathed lust; her ornaments prophan'd;
Her oyle-forsaken lamps, and hallow'd Tapours
Put out; her incense breaths unsav'ry vapours:
Why swel'st thou then so big, thou little span
Of earth? What art thou more in being man?
Eternall Potter, whose blest hands did lay
My course foundation from a sod of clay,
Thou know'st my slender vessell's apt to leake:
Thou know'st my brittle Temper's prone to breake;
Are my Bones Brazzill, or my Flesh of Oake?
O, mend what thou hast made, what have I broke:
Looke, looke with gentle eyes, and in thy day
Of vengeance, Lord, remember I am clay.

S. AUGUST. Soliloq. 32.

Shall I ask, who made me? It was thou that madest me, without who nothing was made: Thou art my Maker, and I thy worke: I thank thee my Lord God, by whom I live, and by whom all things subsist, because thou madest me: I thank thee O my Potter, because thy hands have made me, because thy hands have formed me.

EPIGRAM 5.

[Why swell'st thou, Man, puft up with Fame, and Purse?]

Why swell'st thou, Man, puft up with Fame, and Purse?
Th'art better earth, but borne to dig the worse:
Thou cam'st from earth, to earth thou must returne;
And art but earth, cast from the wombe, to th'urne.

VI. JOB VII. XX.

Lord I have sinned: What shall I do unto thee, O thou preserver of men; why hast thou set me as a marke against thee?

Lord I have done: and Lord, I have misdone;
'Tis folly to contest, to strive with one,
That is too strong; 'tis folly to assaile
Or prove an Arme, that will, that must prevaile?
I've done, I've done; these trembling hands have throwne
Their daring weapons downe: The day's thine owne;
Forbeare to strike, where thou hast won the field;
The palme, the palme is thine: I yeeld, I yeeld.
These treach'rous hands, that were so vainly bold
To try a thrivelesse combat, and to hold
Selfe-wounding weapons up, are now extended
For mercy from thy hand; that knee that bended
Upon her guardlesse guard, does now repent
Upon this naked floore; See, both are bent,
And sue for pitie; O, my ragged wound
Is deep and desp'rate; it is drench'd and drown'd
In blood, and briny teares: It does begin
To stink without, and putrifie within:
Let that victorious hand, that now appeares
Just in my blood, prove gracious to my teares:
Thou great Preserver of presumptuous man,
What shall I do? What satisfaction can
Poore dust and ashes make? O, if that blood
That yet remaines unshed, were halfe as good
As the blood of Oxen; if my death might be
An offring to attone my God and me,
I would disdaine injurious life, and stand
A suiter, to be wounded from thy hand:
But may thy wrongs be measur'd by the span
Of life? or balanc'd with the blood of man?
No, no, eternall sin expects, for guardon,
Eternall penance, or eternall pardon:
Lay downe thy weapons; turne thy wrath away;
And pardon him that hath no price to pay;
Enlarge that soule, which base presumption binds;
Thy justice cannot loose what mercy finds:
O thou that wilt not bruise the broken reed,
Rub not my sores, nor prick the wounds that bleed:
Lord, if the peevish Infant fights, and flies,
With unpar'd weapons, at his mothers eyes,
Her frownes (halfe mixt with smiles) may chance to show
An angry love-trick on his arme, or so;
Where, if the babe but make a lip and cry,
Her heart begins to melt; and, by and by,
She coakes his deawy cheeks; her babe she blisses
And choaks her language with a thousand kisses:
I am that child; loe, here I prostrate lie,
Pleading for mercy: I repent, and cry
For gracious pardon: let thy gentle eares
Heare that in words, what mothers judge in teares:
See not my frailties, Lord, but through my feare,
And looke on ev'ry trespasse through a teare:
Then calme thy anger, and appeare more mild:
Remember, th'art a Father; I, a child.

S. BERN. Ser. 21 in Cant.

Miserable man! Who shall deliver me from the reproach of this shamefull bondage? I am miserable man, but a free man: Free, because like to God, miserable, because against God: O keeper of mankind, why hast thou set me as a marke against thee? Thou hast set me, because thou hast not hindred me: It is just that thy enemy should be my enemy, and that he who repugnes thee, should repugne me: I who am against thee, am against my self.

EPIGRAM 6.

[But form'd, and fight? But borne, and then rebell?]

But form'd, and fight? But borne, and then rebell?
How small a blast will make a bubble swell?
But dare the floore affront the hand that laid it?
So apt is dust to fly in's face that made it.

VII. JOB XIII. XXIV.

Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thy enemie?

S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap.1.

Why dost thou hade thy face? Happily thou wilt say, none can see thy face and live: Ah Lord, let me die, that I may see thee; let me see thee, that I may die: I would not live, but die; That I may see Christ. I desire death; that I may live with Christ, I despise life.

ANSELM. Med. Cap. 5.

O excellent hiding, which is become my perfection! My God, thou hidest thy treasure, to kindle my desire; Thou hidest thy pearle, to inflame the seeker; thou delay'st to give, that thou maist teach me to importune: seem'st not to heare, to make me persevere.

EPIGRAM 7.

[If heav'ns all-quickning Eyes vouchsafe to shine]

If heav'ns all-quickning Eyes vouchsafe to shine
Upon our soules, we slight; If not, we whine;
Our Eqinoctiall hearts can never lie
Secure, beneath the Tropicks of that eye.

VIII. JEREMIAH IX. I.

O that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountaine of teares, that I might weepe day and night.

O that mine eyes were springs, and could transforme
Their drops to seas! My sighs, into a storme
Of Zeale, and sacred Violence, wherein
This lab'ring vessell, laden with her sin,
Might suffer sodaine shipwracke, and be split
Upon that Rock, where my drench'd soule may sit
Orewhelm'd with plenteous passion; O, and there
Drop, drop into an everlasting teare!
Ah me! that ev'ry sliding veine that wanders
Through this vast Isle, did worke her wild Meanders
In Brackish teares, instead of blood, and swell
This flesh with holy Dropsies, from whose Well,
Made warme with sighs, may fume my wasting breath,
Whilst I dissolve in steames, and reeke to death!
These narrow sluces of my dribling eyes
Are much too streight for those quick springs that rise,
And hourely fill my Temples to the top;
I cannot shed for ev'ry sin a drop;
Great builder of mankind, why hast thou sent
Such swelling floods, and made so small a vent?
O that this flesh had been compos'd of snow,
Instead of earth; and bones of Ice, and so,
Feeling the Fervor of my sin; and lothing
The fire I feele, I might be thaw'd to nothing!
O thou, that didst, with hopefull joy, entombe
Me thrice three Moones in thy laborious wombe,
And then, with joyfull paine, brought forth a Son,
What worth thy labour, has thy labour done?
What was there? Ah! what was there in my birth
That could deserve the easiest smile of mirth?
A man was borne: Alas, and what's a man?
A scuttle full of dust, a measur'd span
Of flitting Time; a furnish'd Pack, whose wares
Are sullen griefs, and soule-tormenting Cares:
A vale of teares; a vessell tunn'd with breath,
By sicknesse broacht, to be drawne out by death:
A haplesse, helplesse thing; that, borne, does cry
To feed; that feeds to live; that lives to die.
Great God and Man, whose eyes spent drops so often
For me, that cannot weepe enough; O soften
These marble braines, and strike this flinty rock;
Or if the musick of thy Peters Cock
Will more prevaile, fill, fill my hearkning eares
With that sweet sound, that I may melt in teares:
I cannot weepe, untill thou broach mine eye;
Or give me vent, or els I burst, and die.

S. AMBROS. in Psal. 118.

He that commits sinnes to be wept for, cannot weepe for sinnes committed: And being himselfe most lamentable, hath no teares to lament his offences.

NAZIANZ. Orat. 3.

Teares are the deluge of sinne, and the worlds sacrifice.

S. HIEROM. in Esaiam.

Prayer appeases God, but a teare compels him: That moves him but this constraines him.

EPIGRAM 8.

[Earth is an Island ported round with Feares]

Earth is an Island ported round with Feares;
The way to Heav'n is through the Sea of teares:
It is a stormy passage, where is found
The wracke of many a ship, but no man drown'd.

IX. PSALMS XVIII. V.

The sorrowes of hell compassed me about, and the snares of death prevented me.

Is not this Type well cut? In ev'ry part
Full of rich cunning? fil'd with Zeuxian Art?
Are not the Hunters, and their Stygean Hounds
Limm'd full to th'life? Didst ever heare the sounds,
The musicke, and the lip-divided breaths
Of the strong-winded Horne, Recheats, and deaths
Done more exact? Th'infernall Nimrods hollow?
The lawlesse Purliews? and the Game they follow?
The hidden Engines? and the snares that lie
So undiscover'd, so obscure to th'eye?
The new-drawne net? and her entangled Pray?
And him that closes it? Beholder, say,
Is't not well-done? seemes not an em'lous strife
Betwixt the rare cut picture, and the life?
These Purlieu-men are Devils; And the Hounds,
(Those quick-nos'd Canibals that scoure the grounds)
Temptations; and the Game these Fiends pursue,
Are humane soules, which still they have in view;
Whose Fury if they chance to scape, by flying,
The skilfull Hunter plants his net, close lying
On th'unsuspected earth, baited with treasure,
Ambitions honour, and selfe-wasting pleasure;
Where if the soule but stoope, death stands prepar'd
To draw the net, and drawne, the soule's ensnar'd.
Poore soule! how art thou hurried to and fro?
Where canst thou safely stay? where safely go?
If stay; these hot-mouth'd Hounds are apt to teare thee,
If goe; the snares enclose, the nets ensnare thee:
What good in this bad world has pow'r t'invite thee
A willing Guest? wherein can earth delight thee?
Her pleasures are but Itch; Her wealth, but Cares;
A world of dangers, and a world of snares:
The close Pursuers busie hands do plant
Snares in thy substance; Snares attend thy want;
Snares in thy credit; Snares in thy disgrace;
Snares in thy high estate; Snares in thy base;
Snares tuck thy bed; and Snares arround thy boord;
Snares watch thy thoughts; and Snares attache thy word;
Snares in thy quiet; Snares in thy Commotions;
Snares in thy diet; Snares in thy devotion;
Snares lurk in thy resolves; Snares, in thy doubt;
Snares lie within thy heart, and Snares, without;
Snares are above thy head, and Snares, beneath;
Snares in thy sicknesse; Snares are in thy death:
O, if these Purlieus be so full of danger,
Great God of Harts, the worlds sole sov'raigne Ranger,
Preserve thy Deere, and let my soule be blest
In thy safe Forrest, where I seeke for rest:
Then let the Hell-hounds roare; I feare no ill;
Rouze me they may, but have no pow'r to kill.

S. AMBROS. Lib. 4 in Cap. 4 Lucae.

The reward of honours, the height of power, the delicacie of diet, and the beauty of a harlot are the snares of the Devill.

S. AMBROS. de bono mortis.

Whilst thou seekest pleasures, thou runnest into snares, for the eye of the harlot is the snare of the Adiulterer.

SAVANAR.

In eating, he sets before us Gluttony; In generation, luxury; In labour, sluggishnesse; In conversing, envy; in governing, covetousnesse; In correcting, anger; In honour, pride; In the heart, he sets evill thoughts; In the mouth, evill words; in actions evill workes; when awake, he moves us to evill actions; when asleepe, to filthy dreames.

EPIGRAM 9.

[Be sad, my Heart, Deep dangers wait thy mirth]

Be sad, my Heart, Deep dangers wait thy mirth;
Thy soule's way-laid by sea; by Hell; by earth;
Hell has her hounds; Earth, snares; the Sea, a shelfe;
But most of all, my heart, beware thy selfe.

X. PSALMS CXLIII. II.

Enter not into judgement with thy servant, for in thy sight shall no man living bee justified.

Jesus. Justice. Sinner.
Jesus:
Bring forth the prisner, Justice.

Justice:
Thy comands
Are done, just Judge; See, here the prisner stands

Jesus:
What has the prisner done? Say; what's the cause
Of his committment?

Justice:
He has broken the lawes
Of his too gracious God; conspir'd the death
Of that great Majesty that gave him breath.
And heapes transgression, Lord, upon transgression:

Jesus:
How know'st thou this?

Justice:
Ev'n by his own confession:
His sinnes are crying; and they cry'd aloud;
They cry'd to heav'n; they cry'd to heav'n for blood:

Jesus:
What sayst thou sinner? Hast thou ought to plead,
That sentence should not passe? Hold up thy head,
And shew thy brazen, thy rebellious face.

Sinner:
Ah me! I dare not: I'm too vile, and base,
To tread upon thy earth, much more, to lift
Mine eyes to heav'n; I need no other shrift
Than mine owne conscience; Lord, I must confesse,
I am no more than dust, and no whit less
Than my Inditement stiles me; Ah, if thou
Search too severe, with too severe a Brow,
What Flesh can stand? I have transgrest thy lawes;
My merits plead thy vengeance; not my cause.

Justice:
Lord shall I strike the blow?

Jesus:
Hold, Justice, stay,
Sinner, speake on; what hast thou more to, say?

Sinner:
Vile as I am, and of my selfe abhor'd,
I am thy handy-worke, thy creature, Lord,
Stampt with thy glorious Image, and first,
Most like to thee, though now a poore accurst
Convicted Caitiffe, and degen'ous creature,
Here trembling at thy Bar.

Justice:
Thy fault's the greater;
Lord shall I strike the blow?

Jesus:
Hold, Justice, stay,
Speake, sinner; hast thou nothing more to say?

Sinner:
Nothing but Mercy, Mercy; Lord, my state
Is miserably poore, and desperate;
I quite renounce my selfe, the world, and flee
From Lord to Jesus; from thy selfe, to Thee,

Justice:
Cease thy vaine hopes; my angry God has vow'd:
Abused mercy must have blood for blood:
Shall I yet strike the blow?

Jesus:
Stay, Justice, hold;
My bowels yearne, my fainting blood growes cold,
To view the trembling wretch; Me thinks, I spye
My fathers Image in the prisners eye:

Justice:
I cannot hold.

Jesus:
Then turne thy thirsty blade
Into my sides: let there the wound be made
Cheare up, deare soule; Redeeme thy life with mine:
My soule shall smart; My heart shall bleed for thine.

Sinner:
O ground-lesse deepes! O love beyond degree!
Th'offended dies, to set th'offender free.

S. AUGUST.

Lord, if I have done that, for which thou mayest damne me: thou hast not lost that, whereby thou mayest save me: Remember not, sweet Jesus, thy Justice against the sinner, but thy benignity towards thy Creature: Remember not to proceed against a guilty soule, but remember thy mercy towards a miserable wretch: Forget the insolence of the provoker, and behold the misery of the invoker; for what is Jesus but a Saviour.

ANSELM.

Have respect to what thy Sonne hath done for me, and forget what my sinnes have done against thee: My flesh hath provoked thee to vengeance; let the flesh of Christ move thee to mercy: It is much that my rebellions have deserved; but it is more that my Redeemer hath merited.

EPIGRAM 10.

[Mercy of mercies! He that was my drudge]

Mercy of mercies! He that was my drudge
Is now my Advocate, is now my Judge:
He suffers, pleads, and sentences, alone;
Thee I adore, and yet adore but One.

XI. PSALMS LXIX. XV.

Let not the water-flood over-flow me, neither let the deepes swallow me up.

The world's a Sea; my flesh, a ship, that's man'd
With lab'ring Thoughts; and steer'd by Reasons hand:
My heart's the Sea-mans Card, whereby she sailes;
My loose Affections are the greater Sailes:
The Top-saile is my Fancy; and the Gusts
That fill these wanton Sheets, are worldly Lusts.
Pray'r is the Cable, at whose end appeares
The Anchor Hope, nev'r slipt but in our feares:
My Will's th'unconstant Pilot, that commands
The staggring Keele; my Sinnes are like the Sands.
Repentance is the Bucket; and mine Eye
The Pumpe, unus'd (but in extreames) and dry.
My conscience is the Plummet, that does presse
The deepes, but seldome cryes, A fathom lesse:
Smooth Calm's security; The Gulph, despaire;
My Freight's Corruption, and this Life's my Fare:
My soule's the Passenger, confusedly driven
From feare to fright; her landing Port, is Heaven.
My seas are stormy, and my Ship does leake;
My Saylers rude: My Steersman faint and weake:
My Canvace torne, it flaps from side to side;
My Cable's crackt; my Anchor's slightly ty'd;
My Pilot's craz'd; my shipwrack sands are cloak'd;
My Calm's deceitfull; and my Gulph too neare;
My wares are slubber'd; and my Fare's too deare:
My Plummet's light, it cannot sink nor sound;
O shall my Rock-bethreatned Soule be drown'd?
Lord still the seas, and shield my ship from harme;
Instruct my saylours; guide my Steersmans Arme;
Touch thou my Compasse, and renew my Sailes;
Send stiffer courage, or send milder gales;
Make strong my Cable; bind my Anchor faster;
Direct my Pilot, and be thou his Master;
Object the Sands to my more serious view,
Make sound my Bucket; bore my Pumpe anew;
New cast my Plummet, make it apt to try
Where the Rocks lurke, and where the Quicksands lie;
Guard thou the Gulph, with love; my Calmes, with Care;
Cleanse thou my Freight; accept my slender Fare;
Refresh the sea-sick passenger; cut short
His Voyage; land him in his wished Port:
Thou, thou, whom winds and stormy seas obay,
That, through the deeps, gav'st grumbling Isr'ell way,
Say to my soule, be safe; and then mine eye
Shall scorne grim death, although grim death stand by;
O thou whose strength-reviving Arme did cherish
Thy sinking Peter, at the point to perish,
Reach forth thy hand, or bid me tread the Wave,
Ile come, Ile come, The voice that cals will save.

S. AMBROS. Apol. post. pro David. Cap. 3.

The confluence of lusts makes a great Tempest, which in this sea disturbes the sea-faring soule, that reason cannot governe it.

S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap. 35.

We labour in a boysterous sea: Thou standest upon the shore and seest our dangers: Give us grace to hold a middle course betwixt Scylla and Charybdis, that both dangers escaped, we may arrive at our Port, secure.

EPIGRAM 11.

[My soule; the seas are rough; and thou a stranger]

My soule; the seas are rough; and thou a stranger
In these false coasts; O keep aloofe; there's danger:
Cast forth thy Plummet; see a rock appeares;
Thy ship wants sea-roome; Make it with thy teares.

XII. JOB XIV. XIII.

O that thou wouldst hide me in the grave, and thou wouldst keepe me secret untill thy wrath be past.

S. AUGUST. in Psal. 30.

Whether flie I? To what place can I safely flie? To what mountaine? To what den? To what strong house? What Castle shall I hold? What wals shall hold me? Whethersoever I go, myself followes me: For whatsoever thou flyest, O man, thou mayst, but thy owne Conscience: wheresoever O Lord I go, I find thee, if angry, a Revenger; if appeas'd, a Redeemer: What way have I, but to flee from thee, to thee: That thou maist avoid thy God, address thee to thy Lord.

EPIGRAM 12.

[Hath vengeance found thee? Can thy feares command]

Hath vengeance found thee? Can thy feares command
No Rocks to shield thee from her thundring hand?
Know'st thou not where to scape? Ile tell thee where;
My soule make cleane thy Conscience; Hide thee there.

XIII. JOB X. XX.

Are not my dayes few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewaile my selfe a little.

S. AUGUST. lib. 7 de Civit. Dei cap. 10.

The time wherein we live is taken from the space of our life; and what remaines is daily made lesse and lesse, insomuch that the time of our life is nothing but a passage to death.

S. GREG. lib. 9 mor cap. 44 in Cap. 10 Job.

As moderate afflictions bring teares; so immoderate take away teares; Insomuch that sorrow becomes no sorrow which swallowing up the mind of the afflicted, takes away the sense of the affliction.

EPIGRAM 13.

[Fear'st thou to go, when such an Arme invites thee?]

Fear'st thou to go, when such an Arme invites thee?
Dread'st thou thy loads of sin? or what affrights thee?
If thou begin to feare, thy feare begins;
Foole, can he beare thee hence, and not thy sinnes?

XIV. DEUTERONOMY XXXII. XXIX.

O that men were wise, and that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end.

Flesh. Spirit.
Flesh:
What meanes my sisters eyes so oft to passe
Through the long entry of that Optick glasse?
Tell me; what secret virtue does invite
Thy wrinckled eye to such unknowne delight?

Spirit:
It helps the sight; makes things remote appeare
In perfect view; It drawes the object neare.

Flesh:
What sense-delighting objects doest thou spie?
What does that Glasse present before thine eye?

Spirit:
I see thy foe, my reconciled friend,
Grim death, even standing at the Glasses end;
His left hand holds a branch of Palme; his right
Holds forth a two-edg'd sword.

Flesh:
A proper sight!
And is this all? does thy Prospective please
Th'abused fancy with no shapes but these?

Spirit:
Yes, I behold the dark'ned Sun bereav'n
Of all his light, the battlements of heav'n
Sweltring in Flames; the Angell-guarded Sonne
Of glory on his high Tribunall Throne;
I see a Brimstone Sea of boyling Fire,
And Fiends, with knotted whips of flaming Wyre,
Tort'ring poore soules, that gnash their teeth, in vaine,
And gnaw their flame-tormented tongues, for paine;
Looke sister, how the queazie-stomack'd Graves
Vomit their dead, and how the puple waves
Scal'd their consumelesse bodies, strongly cursing
All wombes for bearing, and all paps for nursing:

Flesh:
Can thy distemper'd fancie take delight
In view of Tortures? These are showes t'affright:
Looke in this glasse-Triangular; looke here,
Here's that will ravish eyes.

Spirit:
What seest thou there?

Flesh:
The world in colours; colours that distaine
The cheeks of Proteus, or the silken Traine
Of Floras Nymphs; such various sorts of hiew,
As Sun-confronting Iris never knew:
Here, if thou please to beautifie a Towne,
Thou maist; or, with a hand, turn't upside downe;
Here, maist thou scant or widen by the measure
Of thine owne will; make short or long, at pleasure:
Here maist thou tyre they fancie, and advize
With showes more apt to please more curious eyes;

Spirit:
Ah foole! that dot'st on vaine, on present toyes,
And disrespects those true, those future joyes!
How strongly are thy thoughts befool'd, Alas,
To dote on goods that perish with thy Glasse!
Nay, vanish with the turning of a hand!
Were they but painted colours, it might stand
With painted reason, that they might devote thee;
But things that have no being, to besot thee?
Foresight of future torments is the way
To baulk those ills which present joyes bewray;
As thou hast fool'd thy selfe, so now come hither,
Break that fond glasse, and let's be wise together.

BONAVENT. de contemptu seculi.

O that men would be wise, understand, and foresee: Be wise, to know three things: The multitude of those that are to be damned; the few number of those that are to be saved; and the vanity of transitory things: Understand three things: the multitude of sinnes, the omission of good things, and the losse of time: Foresee three things, the danger of death, the last judgement, and eternall punishment.

EPIGRAM 14.

[What soule, no father yet? what nev'r commence]

What soule, no father yet? what nev'r commence
Master in Faith? Still Batchelour of Sense?
Is't insufficiency? Or, what has made thee
Oreslip thy lost degree? Thy lusts have staid thee.

XV. PSALMS XXX. X.

My life is spent with griefe, and my yeares with sighing.

What sullen Starre rul'd my untimely birth,
That would not lend my dayes one houre of mirth!
How oft have these bare knees been bent, to gaine
The slender Almes of one poore smile, in vaine!
How often, tir'd with the fastidious light,
Have my faint lips implor'd the shades of night?
How often have my nightly Torments praid
For lingring twilight, glutted with the shade!
Day, worse than night; night, worse than day, appeares;
In feares I spend my nights; my dayes; in teares:
I moane, unpitti'd; groane without reliefe,
There is nor end, nor measure of my griefe;
The smiling flow'r salutes the day; it growes
Untouch'd with care; It neither spins, nor sowes;
O that my tedious life were, like this flow'r,
Or freed from griefe; or finish'd with an houre:
Why was I borne? Why was I borne a man?
And why proportion'd by so large a Span?
Or why suspended from the common lot,
And being borne to die, why die I not?
Ah me! why is my sorrow-wasted breath
Deny'd the easie priviledge of death?
The branded Slave, that tugs the weary Oare,
Obtaines the Sabbath of a welcome Shore;
His ransom'd stripes are heal'd; His native soile
Sweetens the mem'ry of his forreigne toyle:
But ah! my sorrowes are not halfe so blest;
My labour finds no point; my paines, no rest:
I barter sighs for teares; and teares for Grones,
Still vainly rolling Sysiphaean stones:
Thou just Observer of our flying houres,
That, with thy Adamantine fangs, devoures
The brazen Monuments of renowned Kings,
Does thy glasse stand? Or be thy moulting wings
Unapt to flie? If not, why dost thou spare
A willing brest; a brest, that stands so faire?
A dying brest, that has but onely breath
To beg a wound; and strength, to crave a death:
O, that the pleased Heav'ns would once dissolve
These fleshly fetters, that so fast involve
My hampred soule; then should my soule be blest
From all these ills, and wrap her thougts in rest:
Till then, my dayes are moneths, my moneths are yeares;
My yeares are ages, to be spent in teares:
My Grief's entayl'd upom my wastfull breath,
Which no Recov'ry can cut off, but death;
Breath drawne in Cottages, pufft out in Thrones,
Begins, continues, and concludes in Grones.

INOCENT. de vilitate condit. humanae.

O who will give mine eyes a fountaine of teares, that I may bewaile the miserable ingresse of mans condition; the sinfull progresse of mans conversation, the damnable egresse in mans dissolution? I will consider with teares, whereof man was made, what man does, and what man is to do: Alas, he is formed of earth, conceived in sinne, borne to punishment; He does evill things, which are not lawfull; He does filthy things, which are not decent: He does vaine things, which are not expedient.

EPIGRAM 15.

[My heart, Thy life's a debt by Bond, which beares]

My heart, Thy life's a debt by Bond, which beares
A secret date; The use, is Grones and teares:
Plead not; Usurious Nature will have all,
As well the Int'rest, as the Principall.