University of Virginia Library

Mary of Ægypt's life I sing, and crimes,
To no lesse guilty, much more hardned times,
Smile truth: and ye, who both by choyce and name
(O happy) may so great a patron clayme,
Great in hir loosenesse, greater in restraint,
A wondrous sinner, a more wondrous saint.
If my weake muse long nurst in wanton lore
Led by a better choice, then t'was before,
(Blest soule) thy prayses chante: oh see and loue
The first fruites of hir pennance: from aboue
Direct hir flight, whiles she thy trophyes sings,
And impe new feathers to hir tainted wings.
Christs faithful spouse which long had groand, opprest
By hell-bred Arriâns swarming in the east,
After th' amazement of that horrid night
Was now restored to hir wonted light
By Iustin namd the Elder: fears were past,
And (wicked errour by faire truth displast')
The Church inioyed an vniuersal peace
Praysing the giuer: so when loud stormes cease,
The merchant safe, payes on the calmer shore,
Such thankefull vowes as he had made before.
The now free temples through the cittye, were
Throngd' by al sortes of people: psalmes each where
With hymnes of ioy are shrilld' by euéry tongue,
And loud Te-Devm's by the Clergy sung.
The noyse rings through the ayre: a pleasing sound.
And there receaud', doth with new ioy rebound
From th' ecchôing angels to th' allmighty's ears,
Who pleased with their zeale, from starre-crownd' spheres
Viewing the citty and imperial throne
Of great Byzantium: approues what's don.
Thence Eastward twining his all-seeing eyes,
The sacred land of palestine surueyes,
No regiön so forcibly inuites
His mild aspect, no ayre so much delights:
For there's his garden, there those happy groaues
Where first he stoopt' (o strange) to mortal loues
There Caluarye showërd with æternal blood,
There Sion, Oliuet, and Iordans flood,
There Nazareth; Bethlem, powerfullye arrest
His heauenlye eye: and oh, aboue the rest,
Here him a band of liuing saints inuites
(Poore Thred-bare monkes) to grace their pious rites:
Th' almighty's self their burning zeal admires,
Their many altars, and perpetual quyers,
Their close retired walkes, their silent celles,
Their lowely cloysters, and farre distant welles,
So suncke of purpose that their drinke and meate
Might æqually be purchast with their sweat,
For they their food seeke in the open fields,
Or eate the croppe which their owne labour yeelds.
Here contemplation without noyse or strife
Inioyes it's peace, mixt with the actiue life,
Whiles Mary sighing swimmes in pious teares,
Laborious Marthe hir burden gladly beares:
For loue both sisters in one bond vnites,
Shares æqually their labours and delights:
The world's great Ruler playes his part the whiles
Addes flame to flames, and at their feruour smiles.

Yet no one soule could fixe with more delight
Th' almighty's eye, then that poore naked wight
Which howling from the desart, with Loud cryes
And doleful clamours rent the iniurd' skyes:
Groueling on earth, hir eyes bathd in warme streames,
Hir witherd armes parcht' with Sol's fyêry beames
Stretcht at their length: the rest, a naked coarse
In hoary tresses clad: with zealous force
She beates at heauens bright gates: and strong in faith
Vrgeth hir pardon: and hir pardon hath:
Haue mercy lord, the worst of sinners prayes,
Mercy my god: forget my damned dayes,
For hir deare sake, whose blessed name I beare:
Ah can a Mary pray, and thou not heare?
O powêrfull charme! the very name could moue
Both the effects of pardon, and of loue.
That euerlasting goodnesse which long since
Had razd' the memôry of hir former sinnes,
And those blacke characters, which hir true tears
Had (for the space of seuen and forty years)
washt with vnwearied streames: not pleasd' that she
(whose life t'all sinners might a comfort be,
And had so pleased his eternal eye)
Vnknowne, vnhonourd', in those shades should dye,
Pointed out of his all fore-seeing care
A graue old moncke, his wonders to declare:
A glorious father, Zozimus his name,
In goodnesse great, great in desert and fame,
And who perhaps much greater might haue been,
Had he been lesse in his owne greatnesse seen:
Poore man already he seemd' euen to play
On vertu's green, and to haue won the day,
Sings ioyful Pæans, gloryes in his years,
Growne hoary in long pennance: and appears
That desart's onely sunne (in his owne sight)
Whence yonger saints receaued' a borrôwed light.
Vnwise: for whiles he snatcheth at a crowne
Which might ere long, haue iustly been his owne,
He falles: thinkes darknesse light: falles stil, and euen
As he is falling, thinkes he mounts to heauen,
So when our Northern Tine swelles ore the strands,
Planing the fatal foard with both the lands:
Some daring traueller spurres on enragd',
Nor sees the perill, til too far ingagd',
Measûring his owne life by the sea-like streames,
Too late alas, intrapt' twixt two extreames
He doubtful pauseth, if he forward presse
The danger's great, should he turne backe, not lesse
Mean time, pale fear his better sence bereaues,
And fiercer currant his weake eye deceaues,
For stil borne downe by it's resistlesse force,
Stil dreames he rides too high: his wiser horse
Bears strongly with the streame, but toyles in vain;
His maister maisters him: some-one amaine
Whoopes from the shoare, Bear vp, Bear vp: he hears
But false eyes trusts more then his truer ears:
Til swept away by the remorselesse flood
H'is lost, and makes it's fatal sir-name good.
Such or much worse might haue been Zozims end,
Had he not heard à farre more powêrful friend,
Who through the organs of a whistling wind,
In aéry sounds thus check't his aery mind:
Many, as aâged, more holy, and lesse proud,
Their vertues in this sacred desart shrowd:
Flye therefore hence, and leaue the place, in which
Pride and self loue thy better thoughts bewitch:
A Conuent neere the bankes of Iordan stands,
Not great in circuit, or extent of lands,
But great in sanctity: ther seeke, and find
The cure of a self-delighted mind.
His eyes are opend', and his sin appears
More great, augmented by insuing fears,
For what can now secüre him, who fel
(Thinking himself in heauen) as deepe as Hel:
He falles as lowe, as he had soard' too high,
Anthæus-like resuming strength there by:
For whiles he prostrat cleaues t'his mother earth,
By blazôning in it's molde his baser birth,
He riseth, stronger then he was before,
Lesse in his owne eye, but in god's much more:
And takes his iourney, guided by that hand
Which earst when Abram left his natiue land,
His house and friends, was with him in his way,
And held him least he from truth's path should stray.
A witherd sticke his trembling iointes sustaines,
Whiles wandring through vast woodes, and vaster plaines,
Stil from aboue imploring light and grace,
He seekes neere Iordan the desired place:
Which where the riuer straitned twixt two hilles
The hanging cliffes with hollowe ecchoes shrilles,
He found at last: a Conuent of smal showe
Yet well contriued', the walles and roafe, both lowe,
No gluring outside, no art's new deuise,
Of curious worldlings to allure the eyes:
No path but one, and that but litle vsd',
Which brought our zozim in himself confusd'
At such retyrednesse, to one onely gate,
It opening from within: there weake he sate
With griefe and toyle: his former life now blames,
And these poore monkes thrice happy he proclaimes,
Whose inward sanctitye he quickly guest
By What, their outward solitude exprest:
Thus humbled in himself, he knockes with fear
As one not worthy to find entrance there.
The porter (hauing eyed him through the grate)
Informes his Prelat of his forme and state:
He strait descending, in the entry meets
The stranger: whom imbracing, thus he greets:
Welcom graue father: what could we deserue?
Vnworthy seruants of him whom you serue,
That you should visit vs here, poore beginners,
Il mortifyêd and halfe-conuerted sinners?
Zozim abasht, bends his brim-swelling eyes
Downe to the earth: and sighing thus replyes:
I seek perfectiôn here, growne old in pride
O take me for his sake who for such dyed.
The Abbot glad receaues him: there he liues
With saints, a saint: and disinchanted giues
Not now t'himself, but to those holy syres
Vertue's full prayse: sees in them, and admires
Their patiênce, zeale, humilitye profound,
Raysd' by pure rapts aboue the starry round,
Nimble obedience, charitye in al,
Whose charter warrants it shal neuer fal,
Al things wel-orderd', and in the quyer
Perpetual vigils, harmonye, and prayer.
But winter now declining, had begun
To feele the power of a warmer sun
And Febrüarye old præpard to yeeld
To springing Marche the honour of the field,
Wensday the first of clensing dayes appeares
When the whole Conuent to one roome repaird'
And hauing crau'd assistance from aboue
Came forth in vnity, in peace, in loue,
Præpard' to crosse the riuer: as each year
In this blest season they accustomd' were,
To keep lent silent, nor to meete agen
Til the renewing of the sacred Cene.
The gate as loathe to part with such loud' ghests
It's griefe in th' opening with lowd groanes attests,
whiles marching downe to Iordan the whole quyêr
In order sings this psalme led by the Priout.

Amen sung lowde the psalme concludes: Amen,
The ecchôing hilles and dales intone agen.
When they at Iordans bankes arriued, and stood
Musing awhile vpon the sacred flood,
The zealous troope with ioy recalles to mind
Those wondrous signes of loue which to mankind
God there had shewd: salutes with humble vowes
The place, it's tutelar Genius: and bowes
In memôrye of it's saints: some groueling lye,
Kisse th' hallôwed bankes, and streames as they slip by:
Some gladly vnder the blest current falle,
Some wash their heads, their handes and faces all:
Then ferrying ouer to the farther side
They into seueral pathes themselues deuide,
Al to the desart tending, none can stray
Vnlesse he meeffe his fellowe in the way,
For then who first the other coming spyes
Leauing that walke, to thickes and couerts flyes,
Least the shye enemye with secret pride
Should blast their better actions, When discryed
By more eyes then their owne. Oh that we could
Those glorious conquests to the world vnfold,
which these religious fathers dayly gaind'
In their vnboasted conflicts: whiles restraind
From mutual consolations, oft assayld
By visible spirits, they as oft præuayld'
Against their fyéry legiôns: restlesse griefe,
Furious assaults, fresh combats, no relief,
No hope, but from aboue: oh tho the height
Of self-contempt haue left in clowdes of night
Their memoryes obscured: yet their fame
Characterd in wide heauen's immortal frame
Shal euer liue, and they for euer rest
In the triumphant mansions of the blest.
Mongst al these fathers which euen then prepard'
Their soules to their not rashly hopd' reward,
Not least in goodnesse, tho in order last;
The late checkt Zozimus with zealous hast
Enters the solitude: spends nights and dayes
In heauenly contemplations: duely prayes
At his accustomd' howers: neuer eates
But when with famin forc't, and then such meates
As the wild wood afforded: neuer sleepes
But when stolne slumbers through the entries creepes
Of his watcht soule: then some knobd' tree in stead
Of pillow serues, the earth, his natiue bed,
Wide heauen his canopye, his rugge and sheetes
The frost's pearld' deawe, cold rines, and piercing fleetes:
Where with his long white haire and hoarye beard
Intangled oft in icye knots appeard,
When some times guided by the morning star,
Some times the slowe-pacd' waine-mans stooping car.
His weake legs (prompted by a strong desire
Where with it seemes the willing heauens inspire
His forward soule) resume their dayly toyle
Wading through thicke and thin: new longings boyle
In's flaming breast, new thoughts infusd' from heauen,
Make the rough wayes seeme smooth, the mountains euen.
Whiles daylight serues his iourney neuer ends,
When night comes on, the night in tears he spends,
His cruely humbled soule, now onely blind
To see it's owne perfections, earnes to find
Some saint-like father in that desart place,
Who may instruct him in the waye of grace,
For this he makes reiterated vowes
To heauen: for this to earth his knees he bowes,
And strong in faith tho for a time delayed
Persists: stil praying hopes, stil hoping prayed
The twentyeth day night's foggye damps had cleard,
And brighter sun vpon the heights appeárd,
When he his howers ending, with the day
Renewed his taske, and westward tooke his way:
West-ward far of vpon a plaine, he spyes,
Amoouing bulke, of what his fayling eyes
Cannot yet iudge, but towards it he makes,
Doubling his pace, and at the nearest takes,
Thwarting the spatious plaine: nor long it was
Ere he a doleful wretch, and naked as
Simplicitye it self, discernd: whose face
(Tho black and old) yet wanted not it's grace:
Which in a count'nance graue; and wel composd'
(Tho to al weathers and al suns exposd')
Held good, against the iniuryes of time,
Of place, of griefe, and of the open clyme:
He stood aloofe: and viewed hir, whiles hir eye
Fixt on a higher obiect, past him by:
Hir age, hir naked chin, and vnshorne head,
Whence white crispe lockes in frosty curles were spred
Ouer hir blacker necke, strait made hir knowne,
A woman: or th' anatomye of one,
Long abstinence and pennance hauing brought
Hir body to a leannesse beyond thought.
Pale trembling fear the monke's whole body shakes
And he his owne long-wished hopes mistakes,
Thinkes that he sees some ghost, or Hellish fiend,
To Torments in that wildernesse confind'.
Yet curbes his fear, and bold in his owne right,
Prepares him: not vnused to such fight:
The crosse it's signe he formes, first on himself,
Then on the ayre, and the supposed elfe,
Whose much consid'ring eye had neyther seen
Him nor his crosse, but stil held on the green:
The monke strait by a better thought inspird',
Conceaues his happinesse so long desyrd',
For which he oft had sighd', and oftimes prayd,
Whiles in that tedious solitude he straid:
His sudden fear to sudden ioy giues place,
And he pursues hir steppes, whose saint-like face
Already he disdaines not to implore,
But hastning after, sends these wordes before.
O stay thou blessed soule, by heauens beloud',
And be not at a sinner's presence moud'.
The solitary saint (whose long-closd ears
Had heard no voice in seuen and forty years,
Nor doleful eyes yet met with any face
Of mortal creature in that forlorne place)
Amazed' and blushing at hir naked plight,
Borne on the wings of shame takes speedy flight,
And in those long knowne woodes a skilful guide,
Striues in the depth of them hir shame to hide.
The aged father strengthned with desyre
Flying with equal speed, pursues the flyer:
She fast, he faster runs, she prayes, he cryes:
And when his feet fayle followes with his eyes:
A wondrous race, fole angels looking on,
Fittest spectatours when such angels run:
But Zozimus winnes ground, and gets so near,
As she (he thought) these breathlesse words might heare:
Oh stay: by his great name I thee coniure
For whom thou liuest in solitude obscure:
Take pitty of mine aage, my siluer haires,
Whose frosty white the markes of reuerence beares.
Hear me a doleful sinnet: ah regard
These flowing tears: euen as thou hopes reward
After so strange a pennance: doe not flye,
Not cruel to a dying man denye
Thy prayer and blessing: for his loue, I say,
Who slighteth none that with true feruour pray
Thus praying th' old man ran, and running prayd
Hyr answer shame, and inward griefe delayed.
He vexd with labour, much more vext in mind,
Stil begs, stil cryes, stil's answerd with the wind.
A plaine there was where in some winter-torrent
Had left the vast print, of it's elder current:
The shiuerd rockes and rent vp oakes yet showd,
Now dreadfully it earst had ouer flowed,
Now a drye channel, hollow, empty, wide,
Through which a litle brooke did stealing glide
Amongst the crags and logges: which since that aage
The swelling flood had left, markes of its sage
Th' Ægiptian first to this drye gulfe attaind,
Slipt lightly through, and further bank had gaign'd,
When th' old man panting, weake, and wholy spent.
Fearful to venture on the rough descent,
Takes vp yet with his voice pursues the sainct,
Reiterates with tears his late complaint.
Coniures hir by hir self, those caues, that wood
The witnesse of hir life, by al that's good
In heauen or earth: and finding all but vaine
Howles and laments his vndeserued paine;
Then roaring out with doleful out cryes shrilles
The channel's concaue and the hanging hilles,
From whence redoubled they againe rebound
Through ecchoes sad, a lamentable sound
The holy fugitif, mou'd with his tears,
Replyed at last, and thus made known hir fear.
Time honourd Zozimas, whose life and name
I honour from my soule: bear with my shame,
And nakednesse, which shuns thy grauer eye
And tho vnwilling, yet is forc't to flye:
But if a caytif wretch thou needs wilt grace,
And longst' to see a forlorne sinner's face:
Lend me thy cloake that clad therein, I may
Blest with thy blessing, praying with thee pray:
The monke's amazd', to hear his name from one
To whom he altogether was vnknowne:
Yet silently admiring that fore-sight,
Which he new came from more than human ligh
His martle throwes, which whiles he walkt aside
She taking vp, about hir shoulders tyed:
Then to him came: he at hir feet adores,
And benediction with teers implores:
She no lesse humbled, prostrat also lyes,
And craues that which he both craues, and denyes,
So whiles they for each other's blessing striue,
Both want what both would haue, but neyther giue:
At last, th' Egiptian thus hir sute renewes,
And with fresh wonders his assent pursues
Father, denye not to a wretch that grace,
Which is most proper to your years and place,
Your sanctitye and habit: your pure hand
Which dayly toucheth, and hath at command
Our God and maker is it self thereby
Most blest: and 'ts blessing should to none denye
Zozim abasht', repayes with sobs and tears,
Most blessed mother, ah it wel appears
That nothing from your knowledge is conceald.
To whom in spirit these things are reueald,
Happy whose better part to this world dead
Is to the bosom of it's maker fled,
Where your pure soule in his bright eye discouers
Those secrets which are onely giuen to louers:
O since our merits are not iugd' by place,
But by the guifts of his effectual grace,
Let not your sanctity disdaine to blesse
Our more in dignity, in goodnesse lesse.
The Father thus importunately prayed:
She with compassion moud' kneeld vp, and sayd:
Blessed be God, who saues the soules of men:
Then rose: and Zozim rising, cryed Amen.
Father (saith she) loe, you haue found at last
After much toyle, and many labours past,
A most infortunate creature, and one,
Whose litle goodnesse had you sooner knowne,
You would not with such earnest zeale haue sought,
Nor a poore sinner's sight so dearly bought:
Yet since I thinke you onely were designd'
By heauens high will, these silent shades to find,
T'impart some pious help, which wel I know,
Your charitable hand is sent to doe
About this wretched carcasse: pray, relate,
How things are swayd' abroad, say in what state
Th' affaires of Emperours and Christians are?
How th' holy church, and our brethren fare?
He answer made: our mother church long tost
With Arrîan stormes, long by bad princes crost.
At last inioyes a calme of wished peace,
Whiles heresyes and ciuil tumults cease,
Through your good prayers wherefore let me craue
Some part in them, since they such power haue
Oh if directed by the powérs aboue
I hither came, nor my poore presence 'moue
Your soule, to iust contempt: be pleasd' to pray
For me staind' sinner, that this tedious way
May not be wholy fruitlesse, which I tread,
Ready to make my passage to the dead,
Pray for the churche, whole world, and for me craue
That I may part securely to my graue.
Father sayd she: not I: a sinful wretch,
But you your purer hands to heauen should stretch
For al distressed soules: this as our due,
We from your orders challenge, and from you
Yet since obedience bids me to fulfil
Not what I think most fit, but what you wil,
Loe, I obay; this sayd: she humbly folds
Her much-worne knees, hir naked hands she holds
Stretcht at their ful length, to the Orient skye,
Her soule euen swimming in her fixed eye.
Silent she prayes, the cause her tears must gaigne,
Dumb oratours which neuer pleade in vain,
Vneuitable charmes, al-forcing streames,
Which heauen delighting in, with powerful beames
Attracts vnto it self, and with such force,
As euen the compound of hir heauier corse
Followes her melting soule, and fixt remaines,
Betwixt heauen's bright arche, and earth's spatious plaines:
Whiles it more light the whirling orbes transcends,
And to the bosom of it's maker tends.
Zozim thewhile admiring that high grace,
And feruour, which appeared in her face:
Now lost in wonder, to the low earth sinkes.
And at his owne lamented coldnesse shrinkes:
Thumps his bare breast, and as he groueling lyes.
Deplores his owne sinnes, and for mercy cryes:
When loe the slye fiend prompts him, that this might
Be some illusion, some infernal spright,
And stickes not wrongfully himself t'accuse,
(Who iustly would not) th' old man to abuse:
Poore man he doubts, and whiles he feares deceat,
Is cosend': Satan smiling at his cheate.
When she, whose soule had strayd' aboue the sphæres,
Retourning to her place perceaud' his feares
Through the clear glasse of that eternal light,
Through which al see, but see not with such sight:
Father, sayth she: what troubled thought is this?
Which makes you iudge of me, and iudge amisse,
As though I onely made à showe to pray,
A stumbling-blocke of scandal in your way:
I am no spirit: but true flesh and blood,
Once white as snow, washt in th' al-clensing flood
Of holy baptisme: now as blacke as shame
And sin can dye an euer-tainted fame:
Here-with her forhead, eyes, her lips, and brest,
Signing them with a reddy hand she blest:
Saying, o father, may our lord preserue
Al these poore soules, which him would trulye serue.
From Satan and his sleights. Whose hopelesse state
Doth not a little grudge our better fate.
He falling at her feet, his owne breast beates,
And her whole life's relation thus intreates:
Blest saint: whose soule from worldly noyse deuided.
Is in this wildernesse by angels guided,
Euen for his sake, who for our sakes was borne
Of virgin's spotlesse wombe, whom raggd and torne
The Angels in mount Calûrye saw amazd':
And on his wounds with admitation gazd':
For his dear sake I say: for whom thou bearst'
These markes of pennance, for whose loue thou wearst'
This glorious nakednesse: oh let me know
What, whence, thou art, and how long tis agoe,
Since first thou hither camest, a heauenly ghest,
Leauing the world impou'risht of it's best:
Oh say: and nothing in darke silence fold,
Which to God's holy honour may be told.
For this (it seemes) this tedious life of mine
Hath been prolongd' by prouidence diuine,
For this, directed by a heauenly voyce,
I left my natiue celle, and former choyce,
My self alone in these darke caues designd,
The rarest wonder of this age to find:
And wil you (ah too nice) those great workes hide?
Which God himself (it seemes) would haue discryed
High graces oft to priuat soules are lent,
But to a genêral good their vse is ment,
These by concealing, you'l vsurpe a due,
We must ascribe to heauen, and not to you.
The holy penitent with tears, begins
To cal to memory her former sinnes.
Then sighing, spoke: behold, my vnfaind griefe
And blushing eyes bewray my guilty life,
Though my grieud' soule paint in this outward showe
Those soares, which on it like foule leapers growe,
Since you my naked out side did behold,
I shal with like simplicitye vnfold
A blacker inside, and such sins, I fear,
You'l flye me as some fiend, when them you hear:
First praying you, incessantly to pray,
That in the last of dayes, that dreadful day
To guilty soules, when heauen and earth combind
Shal stand against vs, I may mercy find.
With teares he onely answrîng: she pursues
And adding tears to tears, hit grief renewes.
Borne, where the fruitful Nile oreflows the land,
And leaues it mannurd' to the farmers hand,
At twelue years age cloggd' with the tender loue
And care of mine old parents, I remoue
To Alexandria that royal seate,
That farre-famd' litle world, that citty great,
That fatal rocke, on which much youth vnstayd
And many a lady's honour shipwrack made,
Who now with me, may curse that il-famd' coast
On which our better names we fondly lost,
I blush to speake my first fault, and to tell,
How from the state of innocence I fell,
Nor think it fit, your chaster eare to wound
With the most horrid and detested sound,
Of my vnsatiably bad desires:
No flame can match them but hel's natiue fyêrs:
Let this suffice, ful seuenteen years, and more,
I in that citty liud' a common whore,
Neyther did I at first mine honour graunt
Tempted with gold, or ouercome with want:
Nor since through aûarice haue I welterd in
Th' vnbridled rage of this detested sin,
But drownd' in damnëd lusts, I held the vice
Reward sufficiënt, and its owne price,
Where by to sin, and craft in sin, inurd',
More customers I wickedly allurd,
Liuing vpon my needle bare and poore,
Whiles forct' to beg my bread from dore to dore
Curst wretch the mouthes of Orphans to defraud
And who first made blest pouerty a bawde,
Which rather then the charges should distaste
My wicked mates, I willingly imbrac't:
Thus long I sayld on deepe damnation's seas,
Whiles onely lust my lustful soule could please,
Yet stil vnsatisfyêd, and neuer tyrd'
The more I sind, the more to sin desired',
When one day, walking on the sandes, I spyed
Great multitudes thronging to this sea-side,
Bound for the holy land: the feast drew near
Of th' holy roode, and these al pilgrims were:
With them some toye, or rather some bad fiend
Tooke me to ioyne: I cald to one: my friend,
Pray tel me, is there roome aboard to spare,
Enough he answerd; paying for your fare:
Tush, with foule gestures, sayd I: here's as good,
Making my fouler meaning vnderstood.
Pardon me holy father, for I wrong
Your chaster eare, detayning it so long
On these blacke sins, which whiles I here declare,
My baneful breath infects the purer ayre:
And heauen knowes with what horrors I relate
Th' abominations of my former state:
Mother, sayd he, let not this clowde of shame
Obscure the glory due to his great name,
Whose power and grace such crymes can onely clear.
And no where more then in our sins appear
Then she continued thus: vpon the sand
Ready to boate I sawe an able band
Of tall yong men, 'mongst whom I rushing in,
With frontlesse impudence did thus begin:
Haue with you gallants, where so ere y'are bound,
And thinke not that of me (sirs) you haue found
A thanklesse wretch, for truely you shal see,
That I am open hearted, kind and free:
My strange immodesty their laughter moues,
They al professe, and I accept their loues:
With such lewd speeches, and much worse then these,
I woed those youths, and with them tooke the seas.
Hoping, if euer, in such choyce to find
Pleasure, as ample as my boundlesse mind.
Now o thou man of God how can I tell
Those sins, fit onely to be knowne in Hell,
No mortal tongue can speake, no godly eare
Can without horror, their relation hear:
Yet this Ile say: what art, or lust could doe,
What fiends could tempt the worst of creatures to
I there came guilty of: which when I now
Recall to memorye, I wonder, how
Those swelling tydes were not allowd' to sweep
My sinful soule to th euer-lasting deep:
Ah no! whiles I euen in sins ocean liud'
That shoare-lesse mercy my poore soule repriud.
That long-forbearing God, who would haue none
To perish, calmd' from his eternal throne
The fury of the sea, and angry wind,
Against their maker's enemye combind.
At last we landed on the Syrian shoare:
I stil the same, taled on my hellish score,
For al that iourney, as by land we went,
My malice on the wreak of soules was bent,
Not onely sinning with my long-knowne band,
But tempting many natiues of the land,
And euen to them, who for deuotion came,
Shame-lesse to all made proffer of my shame.
Now O, the very thought for iudgement calles
Of those sinnes, which within the holy walles
I durst commit, euen where a crimson flood
Had washt the streets with my wrongd' sauiours blood
Where not one soule so bad, as had the force
To viewe those places; without some remorse.
My diuelish self excepted: dare I say
That on the Eeue of that al-honourd' day,
Nay euen the day of th' exaltation: I
(When euery one repented, euery eye
Was turnd to heauen) contriud' the while to winne
As many partners, as I could, to sinne.
Pardon my shame sir if too fast I run
From this foule Hell, to the more gratious Sun
Of my conuersion: no wordes can expresse
My sinnes, the mercyes of my God, much lesse.
Bright was the morne, and Tythons loue, graye-eyed,
Her purest skye in purpled streames had dyde,
The golden Sun, which then appeard before
I'ts vsual time, ran poasting to adore
The euer-honourd crosse: dumb things declard'
Their ioye by signes, and for the feast prepard':
Noe soule, in which the foulest sinnes had swarmd',
But then came with remorce and pennance armd',
I who that sacrament of grace abhord',
More than the iust edge of heauen's angry sword,
Neuer more bold in sin, more hard in heart,
Came in this feast to act my hellish part,
Where with coye lookes, and wanton words, in vaine,
I labourd some vnhappy soule to gaigne,
Thus wicked both in action and intent
I with the people to the temple went.
A building of such glory, state, and cost,
Mine eyes in it's vnmeasurd' hugenesse lost,
Could not but vnder-prize those antique frames,
Wherewith our Ægypt it's lesse wonders fames:
The skye-crownd roofe (which in the midst no art
Could ioyne) the holy Sepulchre, and part
Of Caluary, includes in th' oual round
Of it's extended circuit, vast, profound;
I'ts out side (sheetes of brasse) with fyerye streames
Blinds curious eyes from Sols' retorted beames:
White marble-columnes seuenty three, vphold
The inside, archt, and parietted with gold:
Each pillars base and cornish cut, and wrought
In curious imagery, the transomes fraught
With counterfaits of saintes, such as old time
Hath most esteemd of, in the churches prime:
Gallerd aboue, the walles and arches crested,
Twice-guilt, and with choyce floritrye inuested:
Party-colourd marble laid checkerwise,
In varyed heawes the polisht flooer dyes:
The windoors equal to the roofe in height,
Through the whole fabricke spreade a gladsom light,
Whereof each one supported with three rowes
Of marble pillars, like t'a temple showes:
Between each ranke with running transomes crost
Fretted with gold, and curiously imbost:
The outside of the wall, (where wall there was,
For some might think it had no wall but glasse')
Had round about, with-in it's hollow pents
The glittring statues of a thousand saintes,
With such rare art, in the pure marble carud',
The workmanship alone for wonder serud'.
Such is this sumptuous temple: than the which,
The world hath none more greate, more famd', more rich,
The worke of Roman Hellen: hauing viewd'
This goodly building, boldly I intrude,
Borne with the tide of the in-preasing crowde,
Which like the oceans swelling billowe flowd',
To th' entry of the church: foole that I was
To think such sins could through that portal passe,
The double gate within it's brazen leaues,
Without resistance, the whole presse receaues,
Where I in impudency onely strong,
Though to haue past with the more pious throng:
But as the crowde had swayd' me to the gate,
I stil was driuen backe, by some hidden fate:
Thousands I sawe, which past on euerye side,
Entrance to none, but to my self, denyed:
Toucht with amazement, not yet with remorse,
Againe I forward preast with greater force:
Againe that vnseen angry arme, I feele,
And forc't backe with a greater force, I reele:
Euen they, who in the streame next to me were,
Past freely through the gates, and left me there:
Thrice thus enraged, through the throng I brake,
Thrice, in the same sort, I was beaten backe:
At last perplext in mind, in body tyrd',
Confusd' with shame, and wonder, I retyrd'.
Faint I sate downe, and eying th' open gate,
Thus fretted to my self: what sullen fate
Resists my entry? and with broad disgrace
Excludes me onely from this hallowêd place?
O, in this world of people is there none?
With as great sinnes, although perhaps, lesse known
Than mine are, which haue entred: if there bee?
Why am I onely plagud', al others free?
Here wrath and indignation inflame
My vndiscerning soule, with angry shame:
Blind that I was, who in this frantick moode,
Could not discrye the first spring of my good:
But tamer reason calming this hot brunt,
Summons my past life to a strict account,
Forcing my much-rakt memory t'vnscroule
My too-long-folded sinnes, a fatal roale:
My seeing soule with ghastlye terrours faintes,
Chill horrour in deaths palest colours paints
Dismaydnesse in my face, hel in my thought,
And al the torments wherewith hel is fraught.
Here grace began it's powêrful beames to shed,
Which in my soule, remorse and sorrow bred:
Those hydeous sinnes which earst but pastimes were,
Through this new light, in their true forme appear,
Such, as their greatnesse none else can conceiue,
Nor others better-minded, would beleeue,
That euer such sinnes were: sinnes which the earth
Were guiltlesse of, had it not giuen me birth;
A greater monster than the which, til now
It neuer teemd', nor after this shal doe.
Fear of eternitye, and hel's blacke shades,
With horrours neare my fainting soule inuades,
That cunning fiend, which hitherto had soothd
My sinful disposition, and had smoothd'
The harsh way of damnation, now appears
In his owne hideous shape, augments my feares,
Makes my sins greater, then indeed they are,
For none so great as ought to cause dispaire,
Else infinitely bad, we might sinne more,
Than Gods most infinite goodnesse could restore
O father, how the griefe of what had past,
And fear of torments, which for euer last,
Rent my sad heart, where in despaire tooke place
Striuing to dimme that litle beame of grace,
Through which my soule already did begin
To see, and hate the foulenesse of it's sin:
When loe on each side troubled, and distrest,
That self same grace my weeping eye addrest
T'a goodly image, heawd' in parian stone:
The virgin mother, with her litle one,
Folded in her pure armes: such as the light
Of the twin-starre, shewes in a stormy night
To hope-lesse saylers, such appeatd' this phare
To my soule, running th' hazard of despaire:
With humbled head, and much more humbled heart
I kneele, and kneeling, thus my woes impart:
Most blessed virgin, farre more blessed mother
O euer blest in both; aboue al other,
Although I know, how il, so dire a wretch
May her polluted hands for fauour stretch,
How il I may presume to looke for grace,
From thy deseruedly auerted face,
Since hel more opposite can nothing find,
To the eternal purity of thy mind,
Then this confused chaös of al crimes,
Slaue to her lustes, and monster of these times:
I know so staind a soule should not expect
Other, from thee, than hatred, and neglect,
Yet since it pleasd' that litle son of thine,
That mighty God, that power al-diuine,
For so despisd' a wretch, himself t'expose
To al our miseryês, and disastrous woes;
Mother of mercy, b'it not sayd, that thou
Didst' ere reiect, an humbled sinner's vow:
Obtaine for me (what can that son refuse
For which so dearly loud' a mother sues)
That I poore sinner, though a worth-lesse ghest,
Yet may assist at this al-honourd' feast,
And prostrat, with true sorrow, may adore
The markes of his dear wounds, and sacred goare
Thou spot-lesse virgin, which art euer bent
To succour such, as truely would repent:
Loe here I vow, and from this howêr begin
To hate, and fly al pathes, which leade to sin:
Be thou my suërty (who can alleadge
To thy great son a more accepted pledge)
As soone as entred I shal haue adord'
His holy crosse, and his great name implord'
My self from worldly ioyes I wil retyre,
Both truely in effect, and in desire:
Be thou my guide, and gratiously impart
Comfort, and help: for thou my suerty art.
Thus hauing prayd: not rashly, confident,
Vnder so great a patronesse I went,
And where the meeting throngs of such as enterd,
Shock't with the issûers forth, I fearelesse venterd:
Oh father, hear, and wonder: haue you seen
The iustling waues on Neptune's foaming green?
When windes and tides, at variance, strongly plea
For empire, on the billow-breaking sea:
No otherwise, the floating multitudes
Shouldring each other in opposed crowdes,
In streames vncertain yet, waue too and fro
Whiles some roale backwards others forward flowe,
These comming on euen at the portal fayle,
Now th' out commers, th' incommers now preuayle:
My self, like to a bowe-shot arrow flew,
And borne with equal speed, through eyther crow
(Which way or how I past I can not tell)
Prostrat before the signe of triumph fel.
Here feare and horrour, springing from the tyde
Of ouer-flowing ioye, my soule deuide,
Guilty of it's owne sins: a flood of teares,
Badges of inward sorrow, drowne my feares
In seas of true content: no ioye hath life
Compard to this sad ioye, this ioye-ful griefe:
Hence, springs true hatred of my former sins,
Hence, heauenly loue with better hopes begins
To spreade pure flames, and my best part inspires,
O that a streame of tears should rayse such fyers!
The marbled flooër groueling I embrac't,
And cleansd' the checkerd flags with kisses chast,
Then crawling on, and kneeling at the foote
Of th' holy crosse, I bathd' it's sacred roote
With flowing tears, and empty hoales adord'
Yet with the blood of my redeemer goard':
Oh what a full content, what seas of blisse
My soule swam in! lost in the vast abysse
Of that vnmeasurd' loue, which for our good
Left these sad markes, of his much-wasted blood
Vnworthy I, my sexes shame, the worst
Of Ægipt's monsters, and the most accurst,
Led by so great a patronesse, was free
To kisse the foote, of his blood-honourd tree,
And through her fauour made my guilty eyes
Partakers of it's glorious misteryes:
And oh such sweetnesse there, such odours felt,
As none can ghesse, the same who haue not smelt
A heauenly sent: the like, no flowrye field,
Perfumd' panchaia, nor Sabæa, yeeld:
My harder hart now in warme tears distilles,
And inward comfort my whole senses thrilles
O may al such as are opprest in mind,
The like relief in true repentance find.
The brazen gates no sooner had I past,
When my whole burden on the green I cast,
Before the image, where I first had prayd,
And mindful of my former promise, sayd:
Mother of God, who doest to none refuse
Mercy, vnlesse thy mercyes they abuse,
Through thee I haue this glorious sight obtaind,
Not with a wicked eye to be prophand,
Through thee Ile glorifye my God, who saues
The sinner, which through thee his mercy craues:
What can a wretch say more? or more requyre?
Hauing from thee? obtaind her hearts desire:
T'is now my turne: blest virgin: here I stand;
Ready t'obserue my vow, and thy command,
O teach me heauen's path, yet vnknowne, to tread,
And in the way of truth, thy pupil leade.
This said: as I was rising from my prayêr,
A heauenly voice came through the open ayre,
Flye to the desart: there, sad soule repent,
Beyond the Iordan: there find true content.
My trembling knees on earth againe I fold,
And out-stretcht hands to heauen's bright arches hold,
Alme virgin, loe, here once more, I abiure.
The world and sin: thou which art euer pure,
Mother, and mayd: if gladly all I leaue,
And naked, to thy dear protection cleaue,
If readily I follow thy command,
O doe not thou with-draw thy helping hand,
But thy poore creature guide, preserue, defend,
Til in thy son, my selfe and vowes both end:
Here-with I rose: as I departed thence,
Some charitable man stopt three smal pence
In to my hand: with which in hast I bought
Three penny loafes, and by the baker taught
The way, to Iordan which I was to take,
With teares the holy citty I forsake.
The fayling sun, yet, with a ruddy light
I could see glimring on mount-Carmel's height,
When to a litle chappel of St. Ihon,
Ihon, holy Zachary'es more holy son,
Weary and weake I came: this chappel stood
Vpon the bankes of the desired flood,
There, as the sun euen hid his sea-drencht beames,
Handes, face, and feet, I washe in liuing streames:
The night I spend in prayer, and with teares
Reade the blacke legend of my sinful yeares:
Preparing my staind soule, with vnfaind griefe,
The next day, to receaue the foode of life.
Iust heauens be merciful: I know I went
Vnworthily to this great sacrament,
O sacred manna, fountaine of al good,
O deified bread, o angel's foode,
Hide me in thy eternal mercyes, from
The dreadful iustice of thy threatned doome:
Neuer sicke soule presumd in house prophane,
So glorious o ghost to entertaine:
But oh vnsearched treasures' boundlesse seas
Of mercyes and of goodnesse! when I cease
Thy mercyes and thy grace to magnifie
O let me without grace and mercy dye:
Neuer sicke soule, so lame, and impotent,
So full of horrours, which durst yet present
I'ts naked inside, to that heauenly ghest,
Receau'd more comfort in this sacred feast,
Than I poore sinner: vndeserued grace
Did neuer yet more amiably imbrace,
A leaprous soule, restord' with angel's foode,
And cleansed with my God's al-clensing blood:
The inward ioy, and spiritual delight,
The peace of mind, and comfortable light;
Which (liberâlly infused from aboue)
Fierd my soule with euerlasting loue,
Were such, as should my wordes hope to deliuer,
My wordes would wrong the bounty of the giuer:
Alas how oft, to solitude confind',
Haue I since then, with holy hungar pind'
After this blessed food: how oft distrest,
And with the weight of mine owne woes opprest,
Haue I in agony, and hellish dread,
Sighed for the comfort of this heauenly bread:
How oft in bitternesse and drought of heart,
Haue I aspird, but to some litle part,
Of this oreflowing grace, this tast of heauen,
Now to a wretch so prodigally, giuen:
Ah I deserud' it not, my sinnes were such,
Rather what then I had, was too too much,
Yet he who knowes both when and how to giue,
Will, when his pleasd', a famisht wretch relieue.
Oh father, might a sinner euer pray
With such full comfort, as I did that day,
How should we bear our sin's deserued paine,
Without which heauenly ioyes are hopd' in vaine:
But I the time, in mine owne passions spend,
Wronging your eare, which craues my story's end,
Yet as you see I can not wel let passe
This pleasing memory so then I was
No lesse vnwilling to forsake the place,
Wherein vnworthy, I receaud' such grace.
From hence, about high noone, though loth I part,
More strong, more comforted, and light of heart,
Than euer I had been: prone on the bankes
Of siluer Iordan, I yeeld humblest thankes
To my great mistrisse, for I must to her
All fauours what so ere and guifts referre,
Her son a her increatye shal bestowe,
For al through her that's giuen, to her I owe:
With tears I craue that she vouch safe t'abate
My God's iust wrath, whom in such wretched state,
I had presumd', vnworthy, to recêiue,
That he my faulty rashnesse would forgiue,
Then in his late-tryêd mercyes confident,
My self and all t'his heauenly will present.
My prayer ended on the tufted grasse
Earth's natif Carpet, halfe a loafe I place,
And sitting downe on Iordan's flowry bed,
Praysing th almighty's name, I eate my bread:
My hirst I quench in the vndamagd' flood,
For what I tooke in drinke, my tears made good,
Contented with this sober fare I rise,
And to the orient skye couuert mine eyes,
Giuing all thanks to him, who to all giues,
And with due foode his creatures relieues:
That eue, and most part of that night, I spent
In prayêr: the rest to careful slumbers lent:
Early next morning, ere the rising sun
Had from the east his dayly course begun,
Watchful I rise my knees and heart I bowe,
Weepe, and reiterate my former vow,
And hauing to the glorious virgin prayd
More earnestly then euer, for her ayd
In al my actions, til my soule inlargd'
From mortal fetters, had it's vowes dischargd,
With constant purpose, neuer to forsake
The course, by her addresse I was to take,
Strait boating ouer the saint honourd flood,
I hid me in this vnfrequented wood:
From which time, euer flying, I haue fled,
And this vast desart's depth inhabited,
Expecting him with loue and fear, who saues
The humbled sinner, which, his mercy craues.
Here she concluded: he, whose rauisht ears
Had seemd transported to th' harmonial speres,
Whiles she spake sweeter musicke, now displeasd'
Those accents of her heauenly voyce were ceasd',
Hoping a while, that of her self, she would
Some other passage of her life haue told,
Stood mute: but silent shame with downe-cast eies
Her aaged face in virtue's colour dyes,
At things her self had sayd: this he perceaues:
And thus with wordes, her of newe words deceaues:
How long (o sainted sinner) is it since
These woods their first blisse borrôwed, from thy sinnes,
Forty seuen times: sayd she, the golden sun
Through the twelue signes it's compleate race hath run
For so oft haue I markt these trees left bare,
And their rich out-sides nipt by th' colder ayre.
As oft, (if this we reckon) haue I seen
The fragrant spring restore their natiue green,
Since Sions holy citty I forsooke,
And pennance in this desart vndertoke.
Zozim againe; how haue you liud' since then,
Whither relieud' by angels, or by men?
Haue you in peace and without strife attaind
To this perfection's height, vnstopt, vnstraind:
Or haue you felt the ciuil violence
Of lawlesse passions? reason against sence,
Will opposite to will, and rebell nature
In armes, against the lawes of it's creatour:
Hath not that common foe, whose subtle sleight
Some times transformes him to an angel bright,
Some times puts on the hydeous shape of fear,
With this t'amaze, with that the eyes to blear
Of weaker soules: with cunning and with force
Opposd' you in this solitary course?
For with such trickes it euer was his vse
The desart's late improouers to seduce.
Th Ægiptian sighes, who in the fearfulst kind,
Had stood the vtmost fury of the fiend,
Yet loath those fatal conflicts to renewe,
From which she doubts fresh dangers might ensue,
Pale at their memory, and willing to
Forget thus sleights, what he desird' to know.
Tentations I had many, and those such,
I can not say too litle, may too much,
Their memory is horrour, and may yet
I reed danger, who is safe whom foes beset:
But for my foode! o stay, here, Zozim cryed,
With this halfe-answer not to be denyed,
For thinking it the will of heauen, he should
Her wondrous life to after-times vnfold',
He would haue al: ah whither is't you run
From that which you should most insist vpon?
Weake of your self, if through heauen's ayding pôwrs
You haue preuayld, the glory is not yours:
Secrets of kings w'are warned to conceal,
But gloriôus t'is God's wonders to reueale.
The sun-burnd' saint (her eyes glazd' with fresh tears)
Made answer: for the space of seuenteen years,
Or there abouts, when to the silent shade
Of gloomy woods, my first retreat I made,
The raging monsters of vntamd' desyers
The light-wingd' furyes of my former fyers
Wasp-like, innumerous and busy swarmes,
Frighted my restlesse soule with dire alarmes,
They roamd', they ragd', by day, by night obscure,
No time, no place, my prayers were secure:
Hot meates, where in our Ægypt much exceeds,
And bodyes plumpt to sinful pleasures feeds,
Now represent themselues with al the store
Of law-lesse cates, which I had vsd' before,
Tempting with an vnwilling, forc't delight,
My stil in-vaine-resisting appetite;
My blood-lesse vaines with strong wines seemt to swell
Which I was wont to quaffe, as deepe as Hell
In sinful healths: lasciuious tunes deterre
My euen vnwillingly attentiue eare,
Whiles my too busy, and vnheed-ful-tongue
Hummes the leaud parcels of some wanton song
To these both tears, and prayers, I oppose,
Batter my guilty breast with trebled blowes,
Implore the ayde of my great patronesse
Whose succour neuer fayld me in distresse,
For as it were euen kneeling in the place
Where first I saw her image, my sad case
With tears I would expose: o happy they
Who to the mother of al mercy fly,
For whiles tears from mine eyes flowd, in ful streames,
A heauenly light diffusd' in glorious beames
Would round incircle me secure my fears,
And change those streams of sorrows to glad tears:
But oh the snares, the vnresisted charmes,
The fierce assaults, th' vneuitable armes;
Wherewith soule lust, and actions vnnamd',
Ay me! my too proone memory inflamd,
When all those wanton pranckes of loue, which I
In former-times had acted willingly,
Presented now to my vnwilling mind,
Eache one, it's seueral face, it's seueral kind:
Then millions of chymera-like delights
Would throng in, with vnheard of appetites,
And all lust's varyed shapes: a hydeous shoale,
None can paint sin but to a sinful soule:
Thrice happy ye, whose purer minds not know
Those tortures, which our sins are subiect to,
Who in your state of innocence, secure,
Dreame not, what our (once guilty) soules indure:
Mine yet with horrour faints, euen at the thought,
Mindful, how weakely thus assayld, it fought:
No flaxe, no sulphur, spreads more readily
The nimble flame, which heedlesse hands applye,
Then my prone senses, through sin's former vse,
Like lightning, these impoysond thoughts diffuse,
My forc't will it's assent in vaine denyes,
My soule melts in the flame, my marrow fryes,
I weepe, when vrgd' with these inragd' desires,
But o no sea of tears can quench such fyers.
My boyling limmes I spread on the cold' ground,
Mine eyes and face in flowing sorrow drownd',
Thus in the pangs of mortal agonye,
Whole dayes, whole nights oftime, I grouelinglye,
Inuoking ful of trust, her virgin ayde,
Which neuer fayld' me, though some times delayd,
For from the dust I neuer rear my face,
(Vext with such thoughts) til that clear beame of grace
It's light of comfortable sweetnesse sheds,
And round about me glorious brightnesse spreads.
For then the enemy retyers dismayd,
Hot flames, and lust's abhord' suggestions vade:
So when foule mists clogge Iordans siluer flood,
The sun, cleard from some interposed cloud,
The foggy dampe disperses: and displayes
On the reflecting waues his brightest rayes.
Full seuenteen years thus I afflicted liued,
Inuaded by the foe, by her relieud',
So long when I had spent that little bread
Where of I spake, on herbes and rootes I fed,
Experience instructing me to chuse
Such as the woods afforded, best for vse:
So long: through th' alterd seasons of the year,
I sufferd much from the distemperd sphere,
In depth of winter, with cold mornings glac't,
With snowes, with sleetes, and stormes of hayle defac't,
In summer tand', and scorcht with Titans beames,
My nakednesse exposd' to both extreames,
For those sheere weedes the moyst and bleaker ayre
Had quickly rotted, which at first I ware:
From which time forward; naked as you see,
From soultry heate, from blashing winters free,
Clad in the mercyes of my God, in prayse
Of his blest name, I spend my waining dayes:
My soule which in these caues, heauen ayding, through
A thousand snares, hath kept it's former vow,
Not ignorant, with what high fauours grac't,
Innumerable hazards it hath past,
And trusting to that grace, by which repriud',
From these exteriour troubles, it hath liud',
Growes confident: and with inflamd' desires,
To euer-lasting comforts glad aspyres:
I drinke, I feed, I'm clothd' out of heaûens store,
The word of God all these supplyes, and more,
Because that man on bread not onely feeds,
But on each word which from our Lord proceeds,
Nay euen the very rocke shal them arraye,
Who the foule robe of sin haue thrown away.
Th attentiue father, when she had annext
These places, pickt' out of the sacred text,
Demanded if she had been some times bred
In studyes, or the psalmes perhaps had read:
Noe truly said she, nor haue seen the face
Of mortal creature, in this forlorne place:
But be not this your wonder: for Gods word
Doth sence and science to all his afford:
Loe father, now my whole life's tract you haue,
And once againe vpon my knees I craue,
That in those holy offrings which you make
Dayly to heauen, you some compassion take
Of my much-burdend' soule, and recommend
To that great God of mercyes my neere end:
A deepe-fetcht sigh here closd' her speech: the man
Confounded kneeld', and with loud voyce began,
His eyes in warme tears swimming. Blessed be
That God, by whom great things we compast see,
Strange high and wonderful, most dreadful things
Things which no scypher within number brings,
Blessed art thou, Lord, God almighty, who
Art pleasd' that I a sinful wretch should know
All those good things, which thou reseru'st in store
For them that loue thee, who doest euermore
Help them who seeke thee: there th' Ægiptian takes
The oldman's hand, and raysing him thus speakes:
Whiles I am liuing let no mortal ear
(O man of God) what I haue told thee heare,
Touching my life and state: now go in peace,
And when the sun shal this same dayes increase
Adde to the ful year's period, you me,
And I shal you, God's grace assisting see,
Yet for Christ's sake, let me intreat, that you
When the next lent shal these blest rites renew,
Though all the rest their annual custom keep,
In boating ouer Iordan's sacred deep,
Yet passe not with them: Zozim marking her
His monasteryes solemne rule tinferre,
With wonder shrinking, onely sayd in's heart,
Glory to thee my God, who doest impart
To them who loue thee: she proceeded, stay
At home, as I was saying, nor obey
Thy rule here in, which wouldst thou; know in vaine
Man striues, when otherwise the heauens ordaine:
Then on that euer honourd' day, in which
It pleasd' our lord his people to inrich
With the vnualued treasure of his blood,
And sacred body that life-giuing food.
Which, as his lou'es eternal testament,
By his last will; in this great sacrament
He left to his beloued: then I say,
When the declining sun shal close the day,
Hauing with due solemnity renewd'
The sacred cene doe not my hopes delude,
But part of that celestial foode reserue,
The worst of sinners, and most poore to serue:
This don, expect me on the farther side,
Where Iordans streames the world and vs deuide,
That there once more I may receaue the blood,
And body of my God, which sacred foode
My famisht soule (since those blest streams I past)
Hath not been worthy in these woods to tast:
O father, though I know my self the worst
Of al that euer find, and most accurst,
Yet doe not you a sinners prayer slight,
For heauen it self in such oft takes delight,
Hear me, and graunt, that I vnworthy may
Receaue my God, about that time of day,
Wherein it pleasd' himself to consecrate,
And giue his last of suppers the first date,
Father be mindful of me, and farewel:
One thing I had forgotten: pray you tell
Your Abbot Iohn: that some things are amisse
Which he should not neglect: but as for this
Say nothing for a while yet: tell him when
Our lord shal think it fit: forbear til then
Sh'had sayd, and kneeld for's blessing, which obtaind
With winged speed the thickest thickes she gaignd'
The ayre receaues her on glad wings, the grasse
Prest lightly with her foot steps, as they passe
Forceth to rise again (you'd say) to meet
I'ts happinesse, and kisse her sacred feet:
The woods haste to incounter their loud' ghest,
The leafes to whispering windes their ioys exprest,
And spread a thicker shadow, for they know
It is her will, that they should hide her so:
Things without sence exult, th' oldman alone,
Forsaken, and deiected, stands like one,
Whose high-contemplatiue transported soule
Wholy absorpt, and fixt in th' vpper pole,
Reard on the wings of pure eternal loue,
Admire those treasures, which are stord' aboue
For true chaste louers, and inioyes the place
Of endlesse blisse: alas, one minut's space
This high raysd' soule, to it's frayle home retournes,
Where sad, deiected, and opprest it mournes;
I'ts misery the greater, by how much
The late-tryed ioyes of heauen it had found such.
So stood the sad anachoret, depriud'
Of that blest obiect, which had earst reuiud'
His death likeage, whiles euerye word of hers
Pierc't like sweet musick his attentiue ears,
Her countenance and illuminated face
Diffusing part of that redounding grace,
Which through the working of the holy ghost,
His neighbouring soule with plenteous streams ingrost,
What ioy might with that ioy of his compare?
What mysery now equal his despaire,
Since past felicityes but vex the more,
Than if they neuer had been knowne before.
His eyes pursue the saint, as far as hee
Through the dimme glasses of those eyes could see,
But when the spatious plaine, and woods thicke shade
His prospect's vtmost period had made,
Lost in himself, he without motion stood,
His eyes and soule both sinking in a flood
Of endlesse teares innumerable woes
Oppresse him with their weight, and mortal throwes
His straitned heart and bowels thrill: but when,
Weighing the varying state of mortal men,
He had reflected on his griefe, and calld
The will of God to mind: himself appalld',
And fearful least he had offended in
His too rash sorrow, sorrowes for his sin,
And rectifying his inferiour will,
Vowes that of heauen in all things to fulfill;
Then kneeling kist the grasse where she had stept,
Which with obseruance dewe, yet careful kept
The prints of her dear feet: and with calme showers
Waterd the drooping grasse, and late-blest flowers.
But time calles on him, and himself restraines
His too prone will, to dwel on those sad plaines
His hands with streaming eyes to heauen he liftes,
And magnifyîng his maker in his guifts,
Who had discouerd that rich mine of grace
To him sad sinner, homewards twines his face:
Much pondring her strict life, much her great merit,
But most the guift of that al-knowing spirit,
Which to her deiformed soule împarts
Thoughts hidden, and deepe folds of mortal harts.
T'was holy weeke: the fathers meet agen,
To celebrate at home their yearly cene:
Which hauing solemnizd' in open qûyer,
All silent, to their long-voyd celles retyre.
Zozim at leasure here, begins to muse
Vpon his late aduenture, and renewes.
The memory of al things, as they past,
Her sinnes, her age, strict pennance, and long fast:
Summons his senses, chiefly eyes and ears,
(For their free passage full impression bears
Both of her forme and wordes) to lend him ayde
Whiles his attentiue soule a briefe had made
Of all her wordes and graces: he the while,
At euêry tear of hirs, each litle smile,
Makes a full period, reuiewes her face,
Each lineament thereof, each heauenly grace,
And of these parcells frames one perfect whole,
Which he ingraues deepe, in his tender soule,
Nay now begins t'esteeme, and much to make
Of his owne soule: euen for the model's sake:
Pigmalion-like, but with a happyêr flame,
Doating vpon th' imaginary frame
Of his owne brayne: for wise, the whole referres
To that great workman, whose hand neuer erres,
Where it would goodnesse paint, nor can his s'kill
Fayle him, whose pencil is his onely will:
Nor wondreth Zozim now, that libêrall heauen
Had such perfections to a creature giuen,
But mindful of the maker, learns to sleight
The shallow and vnfinisht counterfeit,
Of that eternal prototype, which had
This rare piece to his owne resemblance made,
Whose incrëated beauty he admires,
And happy, burnes in more then mortal fyers.
Blest sinner: whose sole memory can moue
All creatures, to their great creators loue:
So powerfull is goodnesse, to whose flame,
None can approach, but must burne with the same:
The best effect of friendship, which to none,
But saints, nor euen to these, is alwayes known:
Thrice happy was our Zozimas to chuse
So blest a friend, but happyêr in the vse
He made thereof: for as all things appear
More great in her, through fauour, then they were
So through the glasse of pious hatred, he
His owne offences trebled seemes to see,
For by how much her worth he ouer-rates,
So much or more he of his owne abates:
Much he admires her life, her goodnesse much,
But more himself blames, that hee is not such
Oh who not enuyes this his blessed state,
Happy to merit both by loue and hate.
Hence he to such supreme perfection growes,
That it, it-self with admiration showes,
To the whole closter, whiles he onely blind,
Sees not that light, which in his owne soule shind
To th' eyes of al men: and though he conceale
The cause thereof, th' effects themselues reueale
In euêrye act of his: nor rest'es it here,
Too great, to be confind: the spatious spere
Of one man's soule, too smal to comprehend
So great a flame, is forc't it self t'extend,
Dilating that resistlesse fyêr; which burnes
Al obiects near, and its owne substance turnes.
The conuent now, or rather, eûery celle
Might seeme a heauen, where blest saints onely dwell,
The elders marke with wonder-strocken eyes
Such reformation, without their aduice,
And with more dewe respects, learn to deferre
To hîm, whose good examples powêrful were
To make all others good: for none despairs
T'attaine to that perfection, which he shares:
The perfectest themselus more perfect grow,
And now, by more than speculation know,
That goodnesse in a creature, hath no end,
Whence to a greater good it may not tend.
Whiles thus a heauenly life on earth they liue,
And their thoughts wholy to perfection giue,
Their rauisht soules, fixt in a higher sphere,
Marke not the alterd seasons of the year,
Nor lower orbes, and euer poasting sun,
Which litle lesse than his full race had run,
And by his absence left the colder clyme
Stormd' once more with long frosts (so swiftly time.
Runs with the saints, and in deuotion spent)
Til warned now by near approaching lent,
And by long custome taught they ready made
To passe the Iordan, to the gloomy shade
Of vnfrequented woods, the blest aboades
Of liuing saints, and long since beaten roades
By elder Hermits: whiles the rest prepare
For their departure, Zozim's onely care
Casts, how to keep touch with his saint-like friend,
Whom if he past the flood, he could not tend
As he had promist: gladly would doe both,
And to infringe their status he is loth,
Nor would perhaps be sufferd: this his doubt
A feauer clears, which ere the rest went out,
Forc't him to lye, and at his bodye's cost,
His mind from scruple freed: his iourney crost:
Where now remembring, how she parting sayd,
Whither he would or not, he should be stayd,
Taught by experience, her wordes beleeues:
And at his owne too slender faith much grieues.
Yet comforted in that he well-knowes, she
Who so long since this sicknesse could foresee,
Would not forget to pray for him: remits
All to the will of heauen: ere long, his fittes
Not causd' by any naturall excesse,
But by the hand of God himself, grew lesse,
And quickly left him free from al disease,
His mind and body both, in sweetest peace,
Expecting that, not long-deferd' delight,
Which both were to partake in her blest sight.
The wished daye breakes to his longing eyes,
He hastes to that vnbloody sacrifice,
Which glads the heauens, and earth, the quicke and dead,
And pixing part of that eternal bread,
Which mindful of his holy penitent,
He careful, had reserud' to this intent:
Downe to the Iordan, swimming in glad tears,
His God and maker in his weake handes bears,
And full of hope, in the appointed place,
Expects to see her long-desired face,
Much wondring, that she was not yet arriud',
Much doubting, least himself had misconceiud'
The place agreed on, and begins to fear,
Least she had comd' before, and mist him there:
Then to his present God recurres for ayde,
And prostrat on his face, with feruour prayd:
My Lord and God, who this pure soule didst frame,
To the eternal honour of thy name,
Since t'was thy will, and ordinance diuine,
That I at first, found this choyce friend of thine,
Oh let me once more haue the blisse to see
The creature, which hath so much pleased thee:
Let me not frustrat of my hopes retourne,
My sinnes, my shame, and iust repulse, to mourne
In empty celles: This sayd his watry eyes
Sends to the woods, alas those feeble spyes
Retourne bad newes: for hauing markt' the flood
It's channel deep, betwixt them and the wood,
Propound a new doubt, not conceiud' before,
How she should passe vnto the hither shoar:
(No boate in sight) but this doubt's quickly cleard,
When she vnto his hopelesse eyes appeàrd,
Like to a new sun, rising on the strand:
And signing with her wonder-working hand
The smiling flood: begins to marche thereon
As t'were firme land: euen as the blushing sun
Droopt' in the west, as shamd' to shew his beames,
Whiles a more glorious sun shind' on those streames:
Yet at the wonder, he his head inclines
And with dewe reuerence his place resignes:
The waues the while more smooth and softly fleet,
Playing soft musicke to her naked feet,
Which (forc't by vpper streames to part) they kisse,
And murmure, as robd' of their greatest blisse,
Yet least their stand might fright her, they restraine
Their owne zeal, hasting gladly to the maine.
Zozim more sencelese, then the sencelesse waues,
(For they were vsed to such wonders) raues,
And at the miracle amazed stands,
But as he would haue kneeld vpon the sands,
She now approaching to the hither side,
Thus with a loud voyce, from the waters cryed
Father will you t'a creature kneel & forbear:
Who in your handes the al-creator bear:
The monke obayes, nor dare infringe her will,
Which th' elements themselues ioy to fullfill:
She landing kneeles, and kneeling humbly sayes
Blesse me, o father, blesse me: he displayes
His wondring handes to heauen: oh blessed be
Our God, the God of truth, whose workes we see
Neuer belye his wordes: he promise made,
And verifyes in thee, what then he sayd,
That all such, as their soules from sin would clear,
Like to himself in greatnesse should appear:
Glory to thee my lord and sauiour, who
By this thine handmayd, hast giuen me to know,
How far I was from true perfection, when
I thought my self (oh foole) the best of men.
But she whose famisht soule breaths purest fyers
Humbled in presence of her God, desyers
The father in his office to proceed,
Saying the Pater, and Apostles Creed:
With trembling handes, he warily vnfolds
The sacred hoast: and to her full view holds:
Th' assisting angels to the place repayre,
Commanding silence to the whispering ayre,
Which now affoardes but sparingly such breath
As might preserue th' inhabitants from death:
Those blessed spirits with mild horrours shrinke,
And at the presence of their maker sinke
In loue's abysse: admiring with glad shame,
A sinner's soule, fiêrd with a greater flame,
And more intense then theirs: whiles she with tears
Arming her breast, against it's pious fears,
Swimming in feruour, and loue's sweetest sweetes,
With opend' mouth, her great redeemer meetes:
The spheres stood stil: whiles heauen and earth amazd,
With awful silence, and high wonder gazd'
Vpon her rauisht soule: all motions cease,
Fearful to interrupt her mind's sweet peace:
Whiles she possest of her rich obiect feedes
On pleasure, which all words, al thought exceedes:
And now fore-seeing her long-wished end
To be at hand: her thoughts with feruour tend
To ioyes eternal, and inspired tongue
Swan-like, repeats part of old Simeon's song:
Now thou thy seruant doest dismisse o Lord
In peace: according to thy blessed word.
For mine eyes thy saluation haue seen.
Here she brake of: and rising from the green
(Proud of it's burden) thus to Zozim spake,
Yet father, I haue one request to make,
Which you must not denye me: take the paines
A year hence, to reuisit those wild plaines,
Where first we met: for by th' old torrent, where
We held discourse together this last year,
You once againe shal see me, if you please:
As t'is long since decreed: now goe in peace.
Can saints deceaue then? how, her self knowes wel
But pittying his iust grief, forbears to tel:
Whiles he her words and meaning both mistakes,
And's greatest misery, his comfort makes:
With glad tears he replyes: the heauens best know
How willingly I now would with thee goe,
And euer feed vpon that soule of thine,
In which all things be heauenly, and diuine:
But earth must not be heauen: yet ere I leaue
Thy gratious sight, disdain not to receaue
This slender portion: which sayd, he vncasd'
His litle burden, and before her placd'
The choyce of his prouision: forth she stretcht
Her humble hand, and to her blest mouth reacht
A grain or two of lentel, and no more,
For grace she said her food was, and best store.
But her high-mounting thoughts il brooke delayes,
And parting, she the doleful father prayes,
Not to forget her wants: with streaming eyes,
He to her dear feet cleaues: and throbbing cryes
Pray for the holy church, the empyre, and
For me, who most in need of your help stand:
Longer he would, but dares not, her detaine,
Whom to importune, he knew t'was in vaine:
Loath he departs, ah litle dreaming then,
Neuer to see those saintlike eyes agen!
Whiles she makes haste backe, to the longing wood,
Walking vpon the once more happy flood.
Ah man what art thou? whose (tho God-like) mind
Yet reeles, and waues, with euêry litle wind:
The worlds the tennis-court, thou art the ball,
Now with a lofty bound, now lowly fall,
Twixt chance and passion tost: nor old, nor yong,
Blest with a setled fortune: neuer long,
Nor twice together pleasd': for following woes
Stil with distaste thy few good minuts close.
If perfect men, euen in ambitions which
Tend to sole goodnesse, passion can bewitch:
What may those wretches hope, whose loue is sin,
Where shal their bad dayes end, or good begin?
There ioy is misery: their best hopes Hell:
Where fetterd by their owne base choyce they dwell,
He whose high-flying soule breaths purest flames,
And onely at eternal obiects aymes,
His heart in vndeserued sorrow steepes,
And for a mortal creature's absence weeps,
Yet much at his owne weakenesse he repines,
With multy-plyëd actes his will resignes,
Labours against the streame, and striues in vaine
Self-seeking sence, and nature to restraine,
For goodnesse no lesse powerful is to moue,
Then beautye, eyther passiön, or loue:
Humbled, he ponders man's vnsetled state,
And at his owne much wonders, who so late
Did with such zeale to her blest sight aspire,
Sorrow now springing from fullfilld' desire,
Hereby instructed, that mans spatious mind
Can not within frayle circles be confind,
But as first from eternall orbes it came,
So nothing can content it but the same.
Home he retournes: and in a silent celle
Immures those eyes, disdaining now to dwell
On earthly obiects, hauing seen the best
Which that world's age could boast of, and most blest
There he his thoughts on ioyes eternall bent,
Oft rectyfying his oft crost intent,
And when, his soule with heauinesse opprest,
Would some times interrupt his bodye's rest,
His thoughts he to the wildernesse would send,
Wingd' messengers, to his all-knowing friend,
Crauing her prayërs: nor in fact doth erre,
Though much he seeme t'a crêature to deferre,
And more mistake her dwelling she his tears
Both sees, and pittyes, from the vpper spheres,
More pious now then euer, and obtaines
The mind's peace he desired, and happy gaines,
Not dreaming whence: whereby that year he spends
In comforts great, and stil to greater tends.
The long-exspected day appeard at last,
When he not mindlesse of his promise, past
Ouer the Iordan, and with hasty pace,
The next way tooke to the appointed place;
Deluding hopes his boyling fancyes fyêr,
And all speed seemes more slack, than his desier:
He runs, and runing, thinkes his feet but slow,
Not dreaming to what misery they goe:
And who knowes? would he say, but that she stayes,
Expecting me, and for my coming prayes,
For saints their longings haue: t'was true, he sayd:
She for their euerlasting meeting prayd.
Arriud' he strait sends forth his busye spyes,
Hoping to see those long-since-closed eyes,
Too bright for earth to looke on: They by chance
In their retourne, vpon a small caue glance,
Which in the maine rocke, by no mortal taught
Nature, art's Mistrisse, curiously had wrought,
And in the natiue stone, had framd' a doore:
Two lights aboue: beneath, a pummîzd' flooer:
Stord' with a pleasant fountaine, fruite, and shade,
Which to the spring a goodly palme tree made:
His heart with ioy beates: and his willing feet
Run, their supposed happinesse to meet:
For t'was a place, which he (with reason) ghest,
Heauen had prepard, for such a heauenly guest.
Enterd, he findes her kneeling, with a face
Which yet retaind it's former zeale and grace:
Tho motion lesse, depriud' of sence and breath,
The sweetest picture that erê grac't pale death,
Here first seen smiling: her ioynd hands applyed
T'a crucifix, which in the rockes maine side,
Her bodkin had (not without forme) designd,
Tho much lesse perfect, than it, in her mind:
The monke admires her zeal, and loath to break
Her soules imagind' rapt, forbears to speake:
But his impatient ears grudge that delight,
(Bad councellors) which onely blest his sight,
And longing to inioy her heauenly voyce:
Their maister vrge, first, with some litle noyse
Of bootelesse sighes, then in a louder tone,
As from a soule much suffering, to groane:
All fayling, to her keye-cold feet he creepes,
Where with good cause, tho yet vnknown, he weepes:
Too hasty lippes: ah whiles you kisse, you kill:
And guiltlesse heart, with deadly horrors thrill:
Yet lipps may erre: his handes must also feele
Those sacred soales, as cold, as starke as steel:
Stiff were her handes: her nostrils without breath:
All certain tokens of a certaine death.
His sorrow is too great to find a vent,
With drye eyes on that doleful obiect bent,
He stands more sencelesse, than the sencelesse stone,
The growing rocke had some life, he had none:
And life-lesse might to this day haue remaind,
Had not her pure soule of her spouse obtaind',
That her bare corpse, exposd' to open view,
Might by his means, receaue it's mortal dew:
Heauen his lost senses to their place restores,
And he his misery in words deplores,
Which no pen can expresse: but most he grieues,
That he expressely sent, as he beleeues,
To leaue her story, and immortal fame
To after-times, had not inquir'd her name:
For it through chance, or rather hidden fate
He had forgot to aske, she to relate:
A new doubt, how to bury her, expelles
The former: and her blessed name reueales,
For whiles he seekes some toole, to breake the ground,
Her name, her age, and dying day he found,
In Syrian characters scord' on the sand,
Eyther by angels, or her owne pure hand:
Hereby he learnes, that she had closd' her dayes
Twelue whole moneths since: and yet would think she prayes,
Such sweet deuotion in her face appears,
And long-closd' lids, had he not mist their tears:
For their dryed channels in her much worne face,
Were then first markt without those streams of grace;
This want, himself not sparingly, supplyes,
But questionlesse would haue wept out his eyes,
Had not a more grim obiect, and as near,
Restraind his griefe, to make some roome for fear.
A hydeous lyon on his habit rubbes,
And trembling sides with harmelesse nostrils grubs,
Whiles he, now pale whith fear, amazed stands,
And stretcheth to the corpse his palsey hands,
Praying for help: the beast, with syery eyes
The death pale saints, and the whole caue surueyes,
Then awfully his round walkes, with a grace,
Might make him iudgd' of more than mortal race:
Til at the saint's feet, a ful stop he makes,
And as himself so the whole caue he shakes.
The monkes white haires, with horror bristled, stand,
Whiles he his whole length stretch forth on the sand:
The rockes themselues with terror seeme to sinke,
And too weake, for so maine a burden, shrink:
The monster couch't his shaggy outside smoothes,
And dreadful pawes, now mildly licking, soothes
The trembling father, with a fawning chear,
Expelling part both of his griefe, and fear:
Who taking heart, thus spoke: Thou king of beastes
Which neuer breakes thy maker's dreadful hests,
More blest herein, than man: since his high will
Hath sent the hither, in his name, ful-fill
Thy happy office, and dig out a graue,
T'interre this sacred corpse in it's owne caue:
The beast with fury flyes to worke, and tears
The ground vp with his dreadful clawes: new fears
Assayle the monk's heart, least some sparkling stone
Should maime the sacred carcasse, or his owne:
So fiercely he, earth's craggy entralls riues,
And round about the litle parlor driues:
Yet wary in his fury, euer keepes
That compasse harmelesse, where the blest saint sleepes,
His panting sides with his owne steere he beates
Breaths fyêr, and ruine to the whol rocke threates.
His shaggy fleece waues with his angry wind,
And stares, with horrour quilted: he inclind
Close to his taske, both with his teeth, and clawes,
The harder crags breakes: lighter mold with drawes:
And now inter'd in his owne worke he lyes,
Yet stil workes on: enough, the father cryes:
His furious labours in an instant cease,
And he by Zozim blest departs in peace:
Whiles the sad monke in streames of sorrow fleets,
And her cold limmes in his owne mantel sheetes.
All rites performd, the sacred corse he rears
With due respect, and to it's mansion beares,
Where once more, at her blessed feet he fel,
Kist them, and weeping tooke his last farewell:
First throwing in the sand, and lighter mold,
Then shiuerd crags, and bigger stones he rold',
Of which, vpon her armes and sacred breast,
The figure of a homely crosse he drest:
And paying the last tribut of his tears,
Retournes to his owne celle: where ful of yeares,
And sanctitye, whiles her strange life he writes,
She him to euerlasting ioyes inuites:
His soule to heauen, his bones to earth retourne,
And peacefully rest in their natiue vrne.
Blest payre of saints: to whose al honourd shrines
My blacke muse addes these late recanting lines,
Mildly accept of her vnfained zeale,
And by your prayers, strengthen mine appeale
From that of iustice, to sweet mercy's throne,
Most blest of sinners, not to thee vnknown:
Mercy it self can not shew more diuine,
Than by remitting greater sins than thine.
Disdaine not therefore to prepare a place,
For my staind soule great sins requyer great grace.
And mercy calles on mercyes: be my guide
To those great mercyes which thy self hast tryed:
That there thy prayse I may for euer sing,
(A laureld poet) to a happyêr string.