Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Doth Hist'ry then, and sage Chronologie,
(The Index, pointing to Antiquity,)
So firmly grounded on deepe Iudgement, guarded,
And kept by so much Miracle, rewarded
With so great glory, serve, but as slight Fables,
To edge the dulnesse of mens wanton Tables,
And claw their itching eares? Or doe they, rather
Like a concise Abridgement, serve to gather
Mans high Adventures, and his transitory
Atchievements to expresse his Makers glory?
Acts, that have blown the lowdest Trumpe of Fame
Are all, but humours, purchas't in His name.

Is he, that (yesterday) went forth, to bring
His Fathers Asses home, (to day) crown'd King?

Did hee, that now on his brave Palace stood,
Boasting his Babels beauty, chew the cud
An hower after? Have not Babes beene crown'd,
And mighty Monarchs beaten to the ground?
Man undertakes, heaven breathes successe upon it;
What good, what evill is done, but heavē hath done it?

The Man to whom the world was not asham'd
To yeeld her Colours, he that was proclam'd
A God in humane shape, whose dreadfull voyce
Did strike men dead like Thunder, at the noyse;
Was rent away, from his Imperiall Throne,
Before his flowre of youth was fully blowne,
His race was rooted out, his Issue slaine,
And left his Empire to another straine.

Who that did e're behold the ancient Rome,
Would rashly, given her glory such a doome,

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Or thought her subject to such alterations,
That was the Mistresse, and the Queen of Nations?

Egypt, that in her wals, had once engrost
More Wisdome, than the world besides, hath lost
Her senses now: Her wisest men of State,
Are turn'd, like Puppets, to be pointed at:
If Romes great power, and Egypts wisdome can
Not ayde themselves how poore a thing is Man?
God plaies with Kingdomes, as with Tennis-balls,
Fells some that rise, and raises some that fals:
Nor policy can prevent, nor secret Fate,
Where Heaven hath pleas'd to blow upon a State.
If States be not secure, nor Kingdomes, than
How helpelesse (Ah!) how poore a thing is Man!
Man's like a flower, the while he hath to last,
Hee's nipt with frost, and shooke with every blast,
Hee's borne in sorrow, and brought up in teares,
He lives a while in sinne, and dyes in feares.

Lord, I'le not boast, what e're thou give unto me,
Lest e're my brag be done, thou take it from me.
No man may boast but of his owne, I can
Then boast of nothing, for I am a Man.