Fons Lachrymarum or a fountain of tears: From whence doth flow Englands Complaint, Jeremiahs Lamentations paraphras'd with Divine Meditations and an elegy Upon that Son of Valor Sir Charles Lucas. Written by John Quarles |
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Meditatio in Capitulum. |
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 | Fons Lachrymarum |  |
Meditatio in Capitulum.
Complaining, what is that? will that relieve
Impris'ned souls, or teach the how to grieve?
Tell me, sad Soul, can greater wants converse
With flesh and blood? nay, what more lasting curse
Can be entail'd on man, then to complain
To such an ear as will not once retain
The least expression of a grief, but cry,
Let wo attend him to Eternity?
Oh dismal sentence! and if this be all,
'Twould grieve a man, that e're he griev'd at all,
To be thus harshly answer'd, and excluded
From hopes of mercy; Be not thus deluded
Despairing Soul.
Impris'ned souls, or teach the how to grieve?
Tell me, sad Soul, can greater wants converse
With flesh and blood? nay, what more lasting curse
Can be entail'd on man, then to complain
To such an ear as will not once retain
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Let wo attend him to Eternity?
Oh dismal sentence! and if this be all,
'Twould grieve a man, that e're he griev'd at all,
To be thus harshly answer'd, and excluded
From hopes of mercy; Be not thus deluded
Despairing Soul.
Jerusalem, 'tis true, she did complain;
And was that all? Oh no, her tongue did chain
A prayer to her petition, and her eyes
Were dayly trickling for her miseries.
Where is that man, that if he chance to be
Deprived of his goods by robberie,
Will sit complaining by himself, and try
No lawful means for a recovery
Of what he lost? should we not deem him mad,
To lose that good, which might be easily had,
If sought? This proverb calls it to my mind,
He that will spare to seek, must spare to find.
Even so, if Satan, whose depriving pow'r
Shall take a watch'd advantage, and devour
The Manna of our Souls, shall we then say,
'Tis gone, 'Tis gone, Satan has stoln't away?
And ah, can these, these naked words recal
A lost estate? Oh no, 'twill but inthral
Our happiness the more; and make our grief
The more extream, admitting no relief.
My Soul, if Satan e're shall make attempt
Vpon thy weakness, lab'ring to exempt
And win thee from thy self; go and make known
Thy cause to Heav'ns Judg-Advocate: bemoan
Thy self with tears; complain, confess, and pray:
God loves confession, but abhors delay.
Run, run unto him, that thou mayst prevent
The wrath and censure of his Parliament.
Go, go, for there thou shalt be sure to find
Abundance link'd together in one mind.
There is no faction, no divisions there,
But all are setl'd in one hemisphære
Of true opinion: There is none t'expect
A bribe; or else without a bribe neglect
To agitate thy business, or exact
Upon thy guiltless conscience, or enact
Their several humors: There is none to bring
Thy Soul in danger, 'cause th'ast lov'd thy King,
Thy heav'nly King, by whom thou shalt possess
A true and no excised happiness.
Oh endless joy! a joy that far transcends
The deepest thoughts; a joy that never ends.
Be ravish'd, Oh my Soul! and meditate
Upon Jerusalem: Let her sad state
Be as a caveat to thee; let her fall
Teach thee to stand: let her detested gall
Prove honey to thee; so mayst thou derive
Thy welfare from her sorrows, and survive
In everlasting bliss: Peace beyond measure
Shall crown thee with vicssiitude of pleasure.
Play well thy game, and so will Heav'n extend
His liberal grace, and bless thee in the End.
And was that all? Oh no, her tongue did chain
A prayer to her petition, and her eyes
Were dayly trickling for her miseries.
Where is that man, that if he chance to be
Deprived of his goods by robberie,
Will sit complaining by himself, and try
No lawful means for a recovery
Of what he lost? should we not deem him mad,
To lose that good, which might be easily had,
If sought? This proverb calls it to my mind,
He that will spare to seek, must spare to find.
Even so, if Satan, whose depriving pow'r
Shall take a watch'd advantage, and devour
The Manna of our Souls, shall we then say,
'Tis gone, 'Tis gone, Satan has stoln't away?
And ah, can these, these naked words recal
A lost estate? Oh no, 'twill but inthral
Our happiness the more; and make our grief
The more extream, admitting no relief.
My Soul, if Satan e're shall make attempt
Vpon thy weakness, lab'ring to exempt
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Thy cause to Heav'ns Judg-Advocate: bemoan
Thy self with tears; complain, confess, and pray:
God loves confession, but abhors delay.
Run, run unto him, that thou mayst prevent
The wrath and censure of his Parliament.
Go, go, for there thou shalt be sure to find
Abundance link'd together in one mind.
There is no faction, no divisions there,
But all are setl'd in one hemisphære
Of true opinion: There is none t'expect
A bribe; or else without a bribe neglect
To agitate thy business, or exact
Upon thy guiltless conscience, or enact
Their several humors: There is none to bring
Thy Soul in danger, 'cause th'ast lov'd thy King,
Thy heav'nly King, by whom thou shalt possess
A true and no excised happiness.
Oh endless joy! a joy that far transcends
The deepest thoughts; a joy that never ends.
Be ravish'd, Oh my Soul! and meditate
Upon Jerusalem: Let her sad state
Be as a caveat to thee; let her fall
Teach thee to stand: let her detested gall
Prove honey to thee; so mayst thou derive
Thy welfare from her sorrows, and survive
In everlasting bliss: Peace beyond measure
Shall crown thee with vicssiitude of pleasure.
Play well thy game, and so will Heav'n extend
His liberal grace, and bless thee in the End.
| Fons Lachrymarum | |