University of Virginia Library

An Elegie.

['Tis true, I'm broke! Vowes, Oathes, and all I had]

'Tis true, I'm broke! Vowes, Oathes, and all I had
Of Credit lost. And I am now run madde:
Or doe upon my selfe some desperate ill;
This sadnesse makes no approaches, but to kill.
It is a Darknesse hath blockt up my sense,
And drives it in to eat on my offence,
Or there to sterve it, helpe O you that may
Alone lend succours, and this furie stay,
Offended Mistris, you are yet so faire,
As light breakes from you, that affrights despaire,
And fills my powers with perswading joy,
That you should be too noble to destroy.
There may some face or menace of a storme
Looke forth, but cannot last in such forme.
If there be nothing worthy you can see
Of Graces, or your mercie here in me
Spare your owne goodnesse yet; and be not great
In will and power, only to defeat.
God, and the good, know to forgive, and save.
The ignorant, and fooles, no pittie have.
I will not stand to justifie my fault,
Or lay the excuse upon the Vintners vault;
Or in confessing of the Crime be nice,
Or goe about to countenance the vice,
By naming in what companie 'twas in,
As I would urge Authoritie for sinne.
No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be
The Subject of your Grace in pardoning me,
And (Stil'd your mercies Creature) will live more
Your honour now, then your disgrace before,
Thinke it was frailtie, Mistris, thinke me man,
Thinke that your selfe like heaven forgive me can,
Where weaknesse doth offend, and vertue grieve,
There greatnesse takes a glorie to relieve.
Thinke that I once was yours, or may be now,
Nothing is vile, that is a part of you:
Errour and folly in me may have crost
Your just commands; yet those, not I be lost.
I am regenerate now, become the child
Of your compassion; Parents should be mild:
There is no Father that for one demerit,
Or two, or three, a Sonne will dis-inherit,
That is the last of punishments is meant;
No man inflicts that paine, till hope be spent:
An ill-affected limbe (what e're it aile)
We cut not off, till all Cures else doe faile:
And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone;
Would live his glory that could keepe it on:
Doe not despaire my mending; to distrust
Before you prove a medicine, is unjust,
You may so place me, and in such an ayre
As not alone the Cure, but scarre be faire.
That is, if still your Favours you apply,
And not the bounties you ha'done, deny.
Could you demand the gifts you gave, againe!
Why was't? did e're the Cloudes aske back their raine?
The Sunne his heat, and light, the ayre his dew?
Or winds the Spirit, by which the flower so grew?
That were to wither all, and make a Grave
Of that wise Nature would a Cradle have?
Her order is to cherish, and preserve,
Consumptions nature to destroy, and sterve.
But to exact againe what once is given,
Is natures meere obliquitie! as Heaven
Should aske the blood, and spirits he hath infus'd
In man, because man hath the flesh abus'd.
O may your wisdome take example hence,
God lightens not at mans each fraile offence,
He pardons, slips, goes by a world of ills,
And then his thunder frights more, then it kills.
He cannot angrie be, but all must quake,
It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake.
And how more faire, and lovely lookes the world
In a calme skie; then when the heaven is horl'd
About in Cloudes, and wrapt in raging weather,
As all with storme and tempest ran together.
O imitate that sweet Serenitie
That makes us live; not that which calls to die
In darke, and sullen mornes; doe we not say
This looketh like an Execution day?
And with the vulgar doth it not obtaine
The name of Cruell weather, storme, and raine?
Be not affected with these markes too much
Of crueltie, lest they doe make you such.
But view the mildnesse of your Makers state,
As I the penitents here emulate:
He when he sees a sorrow such as this,
Streight puts off all his Anger, and doth kisse
The contrite Soule, who hath no thought to win
Upon the hope to have another sin
Forgiven him; And in that lyne stand I
Rather then once displease you more, to die
To suffer tortures, scorne, and Infamie,
What Fooles, and all their Parasites can apply;
The wit of Ale, and Genius of the Malt
Can pumpe for; or a Libell without salt
Produce; though threatning with a coale, or chalke
On every wall, and sung where e're I walke.
I number these as being of the Chore
Of Contumelie, and urge a good man more
Then sword, or fire, or what is of the race
To carry noble danger in the face:
There is not any punishment, or paine,
A man should flie from, as he would disdaine.
Then Masters here, here let your rigour end,
And let your mercie make me asham'd t'offend.
I will no more abuse my vowes to you,
Then I will studie falshood, to be true.
O, that you could but by dissection see
How much you are the better part of me;
How all my Fibres by your Spirit doe move,
And that there is no life in me, but love.
You would be then most confident, that tho
Publike affaires command me now to goe
Out of your eyes, and be awhile away;
Absence, or Distance, shall not breed decay.
Your forme shines here, here fixed in my heart
I may dilate my selfe, but not depart.
Others by common Stars their courses run,
When I see you, then I doe see my Sun,
Till then 'tis all but darknesse, that I have,
Rather then want your light, I wish a grave.