University of Virginia Library

Long mayst thou Phœbus pull my tender ear,
E'r I will my exalted notes forbear:
My Muse belongs not to thy miter'd Hill,
Nor to thy teachings dos she owe her skill:
She from the double-top't Parnassus flies,
Unto the flow'r-spread Hills of Paradise,
And there inspired by the Angels notes,
Her self, and Musick to their King devotes,
Who with the verdant Wreath of Love, not Bayes,
Crowns the choice accents of her tender layes.
Great Prince of LOVE! dain but to touch my tongue
With some small coal from off thy Altar flung:
Inspire my Soul; ah let my words bespeak
Thy Glory! th'row them Hearts assunder break
Glaz'd o're with steel: Here highest Complement
'Tis to become thy happy instrument.
O so intrance me that in Raptures, I
May sing the glory of thy Majesty.
O man! Thy wing'd Embassadours have sped
Before the Throne of Grace: Heav'n's Majesty
Hath sent me to thee on his Embasie;
Heav'n's King hath made thee a free Denison
Of the Cœlestial Jerusalem,
Where all wear Crowns. Therefore prepare to go,
And I the way that thither leads will show.
Narrow, and strait at first appear it will,
And flesh will such asperities take ill,
It will both tedious, and unpleasing seem
To flesh, but yet a Will resolv'd will deem
It nothing; for the way to Heav'n is
After some time both full of Joy, and Blisse.
Such happinesse deserves some pains: yet set
Great price on what you do with danger yet.
This Earth alone doth make the way seem hard,
Therefore resolve this first to disregard,
If thou resolv'd art come; procrastinate
Not now thy Time, next day may be too late!
The then resolv'd cries out: I'le not defer
The Time I'm ready sacred Messenger!
Under the Covert of his downy Wing
He takes him up, and th'row the ayr doth fling,
Unto a Valley which high Rocks surround,
Here he discharges him upon the ground.
A pleasant Tempe did it seem to be;
Here grew the Olive, and the Cedar Tree,
The shady Beach, under whose Canopy
Banks cushen'd with the verdant grasse did lie,
Adorn'd with flowers, and sweeter herbs: he thought
The first flight him to Paradise had brought.
But thus the Angel cries: You now are in
The natural condition of sin:
This place the World doth represent, and these
Fine things you see its Fonder vanities.
From hence a way you must find out, which found,
Proceed be sure, and do not lose your ground.
Nor make a stay: I at your greatest need
Unseen will help you; now I hence must speed.
This sai'd fanning the gentle ayr, his flight
He takes, and quickly passeth out of sight
The left alone, a while the place doth view,
But by and by upon a Bank he threw
Himself supinely; in the grasse doth creep,
And e'r he was aware falls fast asleep.
Whilst thus he sleeps a troop of Fairies come,
Which round him dance triumphingly, while some
Anoint his eyes with Poppy-juice? and other
With Soperiferous fumes his nosethrills smother,
And out of Bottles some pour down his throat
Somniferous liquor, from black Lethe brought.
Long mayst thou sleep! Long mayst thou sleep! they cry,
And never wake out of this Lethargy.
But now the Time is come that all these Charmes
Must be dissolv'd, rap'd out of Sathans armes
His Soul must be. A mighty clap of Thunder
As if the Heav'n's and Earth were rent assunder,
He hears, affrighted up he heaves his head,
And as if newly risen from the dead
He looks about, rubbing his scarce-op'd eyes,
When in a flash of light'ning from the skies
An Angel with an angry Countenance
Descends: his hasty steps he doth advance
Unto this supine Soul: one hand a goad
Held, in the other a sharp-scourging Rod.
With a loud voyce I CONSCIENCE am cries he
Who must awake thee from this Lethargy:
The pointed Goad into his flesh he flirks,
Whilst with the other hand he soundly jerks
His naked Breast. This sleepy Soul at first
Scarce feels the stripes: he then doth farther thrust
The pricking Acus of his tort'ring Goad,
And with his Scourge lays on a heavier load,
Till that the blood from's flesh begins to spin,
And still the Angel cries awake from sin.
Throughly awak'd he now begins to feel
The tort'ring anguish of the pricking Steel,
He now cryes out; What shall I do? Oh! I
Cann't bear this pain! and up he starts to flye:
But round about a Mist as dark as Night
Fills all the place, only a little Light
About the Angel shines, by which he sees
His sad condition, and his miseries.
But up he starts and in the dark doth run
Here up and down, but yet he cannot shun
The Angels strokes, who where some e'r he goes
Renews his torments with reitterate blows.
And now all's former sins take shapes, and do
Where e'r he goes appear unto his view;
Against his face they flye: Tormented, he
Cryes: LORD from this sad HEL deliver me.
Whilst thus tormented up and down he flyes,
At length a little shining Light he spies
On his right hand; to that he runs, and there
He finds a passage from this Valley: where
When he had enter'd, by that Light he saw
His former sins ty'd on both sides the way
In black, and ugly shapes; he loathes them now,
And fain would shun their sight could he tell how.
Amaz'd he stands: What did by bosom dain
Cryes he; such ugly shapes to entertain!
Where were my eyes, that their deformity
And blacker shapes I could no sooner see!
O wretch that I did ever these commit!
Hel's sharpest torments I deserve for it.
O I am in the Wrath of God! my eyes
Pour forth your teares: How didst Apostatize
My Soul? In this deplorable estate
Expect no Mercy but Gods deepest Hate.
Oh with what anger the severer Judge
Beholds me now! I cannot go nor budge;
Where shall I flye? O! which way shall I run?
Or where can I God's sharper Justice shun?
I won't go back: Nor can I further go,
And in this place I am as loath to stay.
Drove to these straits what shall I do? too weak
Frail flesh, and blood, and frequent sins bespeak
Me, to perform those things the Law requires.
O sad condition! O tormenting fires
Of Wrath! O which way? which way shall I turn?
Hel's scorching flames within my bosom burn!
He thus perplext a little farther goes,
When that a Silver torrent doth oppose
His hasty steps. No other way there was
If he'l proceed but th'row those streams to passe.
Must I no farther go! (cryes he) Constrain
Me not O Brook! for to return again,
No rather here I'le dye: (upon the brink
Thereof the lets his feeble body sink)
Here shall my brinish tears encrease your tide,
And shall as fast as your dull waters glide.
My eyes shall be your springs: you need not fear
A want of waters whilst that I am here.
If cold your streams with frosty fetters chain,
My warmer sighs them soon shall melt again.
Eyes ope your sluces! Cataracts of Tears
Fall down: preserv'd you have these many years
Your sullen waters, 'gainst this time of need
For to bewail my sad estate. O speed
Into this gentle River; furrows make
Upon my cheeks, where you your Currents take.
Ah! Sins 'tis ye that cause these Tears to flow,
Ye only are the cause of all my wo.
'Tis ye who brought me to this sad estate,
I now repent me, tho I fear too late.
My blubber'd eyes now turn from you, I will,
I hate you all, and flye you. Eyes your fill
Now take of Teares: encrease this River so
That's streams may bigger than his Channel grow.
Whilst he for's former sins a Ransom payes
In Pearly Tears, and's panting Heart doth raise
Within his Breast, a tempest with his sighs,
A Man he in the gliding River 'spies
When to the Wast the greedy waters had
Devour'd, his upper part was meanly clad
With a rough jacket made of Camels hair,
Which with a leathern Zone, upon his bare,
And tender skin was girt: By this he knew
'Twas John the Baptist, the Brook Jordan too.
Whilst with his vest the sporting waters play'd,
Two Crimson leaves disclosing, thus he said.
Art thou a Pilgrim to the holy Land,
In which the New Jerusalem doth stand?
This then's the Way, no other way there is,
But th'row this River to Eternal Blisse:
Here in these waters must thou oftentimes
Thy Body lave from all thy former crimes:
Here wash thy Soul, from all the stains of sin,
If thou intendest Heav'n's high Race to win:
This Baptism by me thou first must prove
E'r thou attainest that of Fire, and Love;
This doth prepare thee for the other; this
Will cool that Fire which now raging is
Within thy Bosom, for thy former sin;
Here thou'lt find Peace, and Rest: Step quickly in.
His lips scarce clos'd were when the penitent
Leap'd in, and gladly to the Baptist went,
Who there immerg'd him in the Christal Tide
A many times, when on the other side
(Which melting Chrystal in round bulla's fall
From's hair, and garments) placing him, he all
Alone there leaves him: But within his mind
He far lesse trouble, and more ease doth find.
As if disloaded from a heavy weight
Of gives, and fetters which he bore of late
He feels himself; and like a Porter now
Discharg'd of what his back did underbow,
Himself doth stretch for ease. But by, and by
A winged Post down from the Skie doth flye,
In's Hand a sealed Parchment: this he doth
To him present; th' outside a while he view'th,
But opening it these words he written finds.
We whose right Hand at pleasure all things binds
And loses both in Heav'n, and Earth: Great King
Of all the Worlds; who unto Hell can fling
All Mortals, and thence raise again; We do
For our Son's sake who supplicates for you,
Remit, and Pardon all those sins to thee,
Thou hast committed 'gainst our Majesty,
And our most dear Son: Granted from ABOVE,
Sent by Belief ; and sealed by gracious
LOVE.
I dare not venture here for to depaint,
The Beauties of that Face; the World's too scant
To yield materials, and I words should want,
How can her all-surpassing Form be penn'd,
When her Idea none can comprehend?
The soul that sees her, feels her, and her worth
Is better felt than can be spoken forth.
The fulvid Gold which is esteem'd so rare,
But the reflection of her golden Hair
Is; All the Silver did its brightnesse get,
And silveriz'd was when it touch'd her feet.
The Chrystal Rivers were like Ink, she gave
Them clearnesse when she did her finger lave
In their dark streams: A drop fell from her Hand,
Which being gave to the clear Crystals; and
Th' oriental Pearls. She look'd upon the Sun
And ever since she with that splendor shon.
She glanc'd her eye upon the Night's fair Queen,
She caught that glance, e'r since she fair hath been.
A spark flew from her Heavn'ly eye, it seems
Tellus snatch't that which essence gave to Gemms.
The ayr permitted was to kisse her Hand,
Who ever since its sweetnesse has retain'd.
Over the Globe stood black triumphing Death,
Till she but tasted of her sacred breath,
Prolific strait she was, and from her womb
Oceans of Heards, of Trees, of Herbs did come.
By it still all things live: The Pink, the Rose
And each sweet Flower that on Tellus grows,
Receive from her their odoriferous Fumes,
Which emanation from her Body comes.
Some of her Beauty down she flung below
Which all things caught that now do Beauty show.
Roses and Rubies which do rarely shine,
Are but umbrella's to her lips divine:
Those Seas of Claret in the azure Skies
Seen, when bright Sol down in the Ocean lies,
Or Tyrian blushes, if you them compare
To what buds in her cheeks meer deadnesse are:
As far below the Beauty and the Blisse
Seen there, as Earth to th' highest Heav'n is.
How can a Pen, or Pencil then depaint
Her; without whom all things do beauty want!
Her own hand 'twas that thus her self did limn,
And by APOCALYPSIS sent it him.
On this attracting Face our Pilgrim throws
His eyes, his Soul thorow those windows goes,
With so much joy that all her faculties
Intentively assembled in his eyes,
All other parts left destitute; in this
Capital City Oculipolis
The Soul and all her train are seated; by
That Beauty drawn into an Extasie.
Whilst greedily with gazing eyes he feeds
Upon the Beauties of that Face, there speeds
Down from the Poles, a Heav'nly Bow-man, who
The humid Æther all the Way he slew
Warm'd with a gentle heat: His Silver Wings
Th'row the calm æquor of the ayr he swings.
A pleasant spring upon his Face did bud,
His head was shadow'd with a golden Wood:
In either Cheek the Roses white and red,
Scarlet and snows symmetrically spread
His eyes two pleasant stars, whose aspects were
More pleasing than Venus or Jupiter.
A chain of Saphyrs bound his Ivory neck:
A snowy Mantle which gold Stars did deck
Hung on his shoulders, and inclos'd his wast,
A gilded Quiver at his back ty'd fast
Was; one hand with a silver Bow was fill'd,
He under th' other arm a prisner held.
Chastity's Cupid 'twas, who went to fetch
At her Command the Spurious Cyprian wretch:
And catching him dealing his wanton darts,
On sportful youths, and Courtly Ladies hearts.
He hither brought him by Commandement
Of 's Mistresse, to give him his punishment:
Being he was her chiefest foe, and had
His bainful poysons on her Virgins shed.
She, daigning not on him her eyes to cast,
Bid her chast Cupid slash his wanton wast.
Binding his Hands (that oft had prisners made)
With his own Scarf he to a Tree him ty'd:
Robbing a Willow of its boughs, a Rod
He made, and soundly whipt this wanton God.
He flea'd his back, and with his wanron blood
Dy'd all the grasse in 'Crimson where he stood.
Then broke his bow, and arrows; His fine Quiver
And Crown of Roses flung into the River.
This done he let him loose: since which disgrace
He ne'r was seen to come a near this place.
Lost in the Face which he did contemplate
Our Pilgrim was, nor would he extricate
Himself and if he could: He ne'r did prize
Enough before, the blessing of his eyes;
Ravish'd he was; but blessed CHASTITY
Spake to her CUPID with her speaking eye;
He understood the Dialect; and drew
A Golden arrow from his Quiver: Blew
The Feathers were, the point was living flame,
This notch'd in 's silver Bow, he took his aym
Like a good Archer of the Pilgrim's heart,
And th'rough the same he shot the flaming dart.
A gentle Fire, and sweetly glowing heat
The Pilgrim feels; his quicker pulses beat;
Th'row his Limbs the living flames do spread,
With pleasures joyn'd not to be uttered.
No blood ran from the Wound, he feels no smart,
Although the shaft had cleft in two his Heart:
Those flames made Wounds of Joy: heal'd those of pain,
Dispel'd all ills, did Life, and Health retain.
A constant ardor now burns in his Breast,
Being with th' immortal fire of Love possest:
And wholly swallow'd up in them, he fryes
In pleasing Flames: becomes Heav'ns Sacrifice.
He lives in Flames; but they'r chast flames of blisse:
He is in Love: but with SOPHIA 'tis.
Is not it madnesse to indulge a Foe?
Do men cry when they from their prisons go?
Do men love chaines, and fetters to suppresse
Their eager flight unto their Happinesse?
Yea, sure they do all this, who here do move
In chaines of flesh: and do such prisons love.
The free-born soul, were it not chain'd below,
Above the Stars its nimble Fires would throw.
See all the World at once, and swiftly run
About the Heav'ns, and clearer than the Sun.
Had not the Pilgrim had a fleshly case,
He longer might have seen SOPHIA'S Face:
Alasse! our Souls enchain'd to Dust, and Night,
Cannot behold the splendors of that Light
Too strong for flesh, and blood; Whose flames will be
To flesh, as Jove prov'd once to Semele.
Our eyes without apparent hurt cann't gaze
Against the Sun: Nor can those heav'nly Rayes
Of high Beatitude the Soul see here
Maried to flesh, long, 'cause that cannot bear
The Soul's high flight, but that she suffers, so
She holds the Soul, lest she should from her go.
Apocalypsis well man's frailty knew,
Therefore she blest Sophia's Face withdrew,
And vail'd it from the Pilgrim's eyes: To whom
Thus Chastity; whose words flew in perfume.
Is not one glimpse of thy Cœlestial Bride
More glorious than all the World beside?
Didst ever tast in those dull streams of Blisse
The World affords, a pleasure like to this
Thou hast received by a Vision? then
How far more great wil't be! how ample! when
Thou full fruition shalt enjoy! and be
Blest with her Blisses to Æternity!
When that thy Soul, cloath'd with immortal Day,
Has shaken off these shackling Robes of clay!
In Vailes she now is forced to appear,
'Cause Flesh connot her ample Beauty bear.
See that she only Mistresse of thy Heart
Remain; for she'l not be content with part:
Thou must not share it 'tween Mortality
and Her, she'l bear no such indignity.
If ever Mistresse Hearts intire deserv'd,
If ever to be punctually serv'd,
'Tis she: see then (although thou canst not merit
One grain of what thou shalt by her inherit)
That thou prove faithful to her Love, and she,
Hers, with Heav'ns Kingdom, will return to thee.
Down bows the Pilgrim to the ground his Breast,
And in these Words his constancy exprest.
I know my frailty, and my weaknesse, and
That I alone, and of my self can stand
Not one poor moment: By the help of Grace
Supported: First the Sun shall change his Face
And glorious splendor into pitchy Night;
Flames first shall cease for to ascend upright:
The brinish Seas shall over Atlas flow,
The Vine and Olive in Asphaltes grow.
First Sol shall rise out of the Western main,
And in the Japon Sea his flaming Wain
At evening drench: December shall be May:
And Trees in June shall sheets of snows d'splay:
Noon shall be Night; Nature inverted be,
Before I yield unto Inconstancy.
Before I leave her whom my Soul hath chose,
And her forgetting, to another close.
Those ardent flames which now surround my Heart,
Will so dispose me that I ne'r shall start
From her to whom whilst in this flesh I breath
I do my Life, Heart, Acts, thoughts all bequeath.
O noble Resolution! which doth move
From those bright flames of Zeal, and ardent Love!
Hell trembles when he hears th' inspired tongue
Of valiant Souls resolv'd, to speak such strong
Hel-battering Words, such sounds do quickly go,
Both to the Angels, and the Devils too;
Piercing both Worlds, sound quickly in their ears,
Fill those with Joy, these with disturbing Fears.
If the dull flames of the Idalian brat,
In tired Souls most strangely operate;
Making them bow unto their Idol-toy
That from her presence they receive no Joy:
And 'count the pleasures of a Crown lesse blisse,
Than those they gain when they her Lips do kisse:
If they so strangely Man can alter, so
As for to make him all the World forego,
For this one Idol, never feeling ease
Longer then while he doth his Mistresse please.
Doth she but frown, Hell, nor Æternal Night
In their worst shapes could scarce so much affright
The trembling Lover; for her wrinkled brow
More terrible than doth Avernus show.
'Tis not her power he fears: But yet he can
Not disobey; Love's a Magician.
If by his power men dare to undertake
The hardest things, and nothing of them make,
If for their Loves their Lives they'l venture, and
Be proud to spill their blood at their Command;
Dye if they bid them, if such Love can cause
So great obedience to his giddy Lawes:
If by his hidden, and abstrucer Art,
Knowledge he doth to ignorants impart,
Make Clowns prove Eloquent, nay Poets too:
If thus, and much more this blind-God can do,
What shall that Love do, unto which this seems
As the worst Pibbles to the best of Gemms?
That Love divine whose fires immortal be?
Whose constant Pleasures never changes see?
That Love immense which filleth to the brim
Capacious Souls? where may whole Oceans swim
Of Joyes divine, unutterable? then
Shall not this draw Obedience from Men?
Shall not this sweeten whatsoe'r may seem
Bitter? make easie what is hard to them?
Fear can do much, but Love much more can do:
Fear false obedience gives: Love just and true.
Heav'n's Pilgrim now with these diviner flames
Possess'd, h'alone to please Sophia aimes;
Love regulates him, now 'tis not for fear,
That he to her such reverence doth bear:
From Love 'tis his Obedience springs, and that
The slavish fears of Hell doth terminate.
Now all things easie are; no Seas can stop,
Nor Mountains: those he swims, and these climbs up.
Now in his breast a strong attraction he
Feels draw'ng him up to Heav'n continually.
Now constant ardors burn within his Breast,
And flames of Love give rest in his unrest:
He feels most blest Enthean heats surprize
His soul, which make 't a living sacrifice.
A pleasing Tincture th'row his Body flows,
And like a Flower in Paradise he grows.
All sorrows now are banish'd down to Hell;
He nothing doth but Joyes, and Raptures feel.
The Seraphims indite some sacred Song,
Which they decant by his Hymniferous Tongue;
And modulating too those heavenly Layes
His Harp, an Angel by his Fingets playes.
Under the Covert of the Angels Wings,
By Love inspir'd, aloud this Song he sings.
Thus chaunts SOPHIA'S Lover; whilst his tongue
Is warbling forth this Love-inspired Song,
Love agitates with flames his noble breast,
And spreadeth there a most delicious feast:
The Crystal Water turns to blushing Wine:
There banquets PSYCHE, and her Love divine:
Their meat is Manna, their Wine Nectar is,
Their Banquets Love, and everlasting Blisse,
Hell never 'frighted him so fast to Heaven,
Nor ever had Heav'n such attractions given,
As Love gives now; he every day a year
Supposes till he doth inhabit where
His blest SOPHIA is: Nothing can move
Him backward now, be'ing drawn by force of Love.
Forwards he runs, and to his Love he pray'th,
That she would make a tryal of his Faith:
All difficulties past account he does
As nothing, and as things meer frivolous,
Not to be counted hard, so high's his Zeal,
His Faith he longs with his Heart-blood to seal.
And now he thinks he Atlas could remove,
And nothing 'counts impossible with LOVE.
Sathan indeed this noble Champion
In these Love-furies dares not set upon,
He stands aloof; The Pilgrim hasts apace
To gain the end of this Heav'n-winning Race.
He be'ing Heav'n's Favourite, and that he may
Be even lost, and swallow'd in a Sea
Of divine Pleasures, and excessive Blisse,
APOCALYPSIS she Commission'd is
To ope his Sences with her Crystal Key,
That he aforehand may in Heaven be:
By her assistance she perform'd it straight,
And op'd his inner sences five-fold gate.
No sooner had APOCALYPSIS bright
Fingers unlock'd the Gates of 's inner sight,
But he th' internal World beholds, and there
Myriads of Angels in their proper Sphear:
The Light World sees: whose chiefest rarities
Display themselves before his inner eyes.
Tempean pleasures court his eyes; the Blisse
Of Edenean gardens present is.
All Paradise, and whatsoever there
Grow'th, doth before his inner sight appear.
The Angels in their glorious Robes of Light,
Compass'd with splendant Rayes appear in sight,
And things in Heav'n unutterable, he
In highest pleasure, and content doth see.
The thick gate of his inner ear unbarr'd
No sooner was but he the voyces heard
Of the Angelical Core, whose sweeter Layes
From dunghill Earth, to Heav'n his Soul doth raise.
Th' harmonious sound of Harps his ears doth fill,
Proceeding from the blest Sionian Hill,
Which doth his soul with such sweet pleasure smite,
That she is overwhelm'd with the delight.
Earth's duller Musick, or that of the Sphears,
To this would be discordant in his ears:
If they mens souls chear with their melody,
How more exceeding shall Heav'ns Harmony!
Th' inner Æthmoides being open'd wide,
Whole clouds of Musk strait th'rough the passage slide,
Paradysaical Odors; the Perfumes,
Which from the Body of our Saviour comes,
Presse in: sweet Amber-greece; perfuming Myrrh
Which fills the inner World doth enter there.
Pinks, Violets, Roses are lesse odorate
Than these sweet Odors which assault the Gate.
The Gust unlock'd; the dews of Sion Hill,
And Paradise upon his Tongue distil.
The Heav'nly Manna, the Cœlestial Cates
Of Blisse, more sweet than Honey fare he eats.
Nectar glides th'rough his Lips, where more sweets reign,
Than the Hymetian Honey-dews contain.
Haphe unlock'd, the heav'nly touch of Love.
Like gentle fire over his heart doth move:
Th' Anoynted's Hand which doth distempers heal,
Upon him lay'd, he sensibly doth feel.
The Tincture which doth from Christ's Body flow,
With great delight he feels on his to grow:
Thus he in his five sences ravish'd is:
He sees, hears, smells, tasteth, and toucheth Blisse.
Ravish'd with the excesse of his delight,
In Seas of pleasures he's immerged quite,
His soul drinks in the sweets; too much upon
These Cates, feeds his Imagination.
But whilst he banquets at his fuller feast,
His Angel to him from the Heavens preit.
Taking Sophia's servant by the Hand
His mind by these he let him understand.
Blest Pilgrim, and Sophia's servant, thou
Must not rest here, but farther still must go:
These are but streams, and Rivulets of Blisse,
Sophia she the only Fountain is.
Here thou mayst bath thy self, but canst not swim
Untill thou comest to the Fountains brim:
There are vast Oceans, there thou mayst remain,
These are but easements for your griefs, and pain:
These are but objects at a distance, these
Are but refreshments, and to give you ease,
To make thy Way the sweeter, till thou art
Hid in the Closet of Sophia's Heart.
Take not thou then too much complacency
In these, which only but the Conducts be
To greater happinesse; and do but shew
The tythe of Blisse, which thou art going to.
Presse on therefore; 'count every thing but pelf
To the enjoyment of Sophia's self.
Rous'd by his Angel thus, the Pilgrim hies,
And t'wards the perfect mark he faster flies.
But far he had not gone before he meets
An adversary, who upon him sets,
VERTUMNUS 'twas, lesse constant than the Wind,
In every shape seeks to disturb the mind.
A slye Ulysses, cunning to deceive,
Leading to error if you him believe.
His cloathes were of all sorts of Feathers made;
With Windinesse, and swiftnesse under-laid.
About his wast hung certain Looking-glasses
Which represented strange disguised faces,
Upon his left arm certain Pictures hung:
In which those things, which to the World belong
Were pictured, there Beauty was display'd
There Castles, Forts, Rivers, and Seas were made:
There Cities, Towns, Countreys, Villages,
Wars, Battails, Peace, and such like things as these:
What e'r Imagination's Pencil cou'd
Expresse, in lively figures there were shew'd.
On his right arm Cœlestial Pictures hung,
And whatsomever did to Heav'n belong
There pourtray'd was: There Angels, Seraphims,
There Thrones, there Saints, and fiery Cherubims;
There Paradise, there Light, Stars, Suns were seen,
And all Cœlestial Forms, and Bodies drawn.
Accouter'd thus, he meets our Pilgrim, and
To stop his passage stretch'd out his left hand;
This fight was not like to his other foes,
No valour this, but shifts, and cunning knows:
He is no Champion but o'recomes by guile,
And e'r his foe thinks on him gives the foil.
Like to the wicked Pontic Bithiæ, that
Children, and Beasts with their looks facinate,
He doth bewitch; skil'd in Cyrcean arts,
From every Picture he his charmes imparts:
And whilst they strangely draw our Pilgrim's eyes,
He in the mean time makes of him a prize.
Our Pilgrim meeting this fine fellow, thought
The Weaponlesse could have no mischief wrought.
He takes great pleasure to behold the charmes
Which dangling hung at both his feather'd armes;
Those Pictures yield content, his wandering mind
Treads in those Mazes, and no end can find:
Thus he delayes his Journey, and this let,
His hasty Voyage maketh him forget.
But his good Angel putting him in mind
Of 's Journey, bid him this Deceiver bind;
For that he was a Foe, and sought to keep
Him back, by causing him awake, to sleep.
On him he set, but a hard task he found:
This Proteus would not be so quickly bound;
Stoutly they wrestle; but if on his armes
He cast his eyes, he's taken with those charmes:
He varies shapes, and do he what he can,
No sooner bound but he is loos'd agen.
A Champion who hath often won the field,
By Custom knows not how, at last to yield:
Each Conquest adds new Life, and courage to
His animated Soul; and makes him do
More than can be hop'd for: Our Pilgrim so
Oft Victor, now will not faint-hearted grow.
Here Faith assists him; and Perseverance
Upon his Foes arms doth Ir'n chaines advance.
At last they bind his left arm, when his right
He stretched out before the Pilgrim's sight:
Those heav'nly Pictures now he dotes upon,
And brave Chimera's in his thoughts do run:
They're all Cœlestial, cryes he, who can chuse?
But on such heav'nly Subjects alwayes muse?
These are but shadows, sayes his Angel, thou
Unto the very substance must presse to:
And therefore first of all thou must o'recome
Lab'rynthæan IMAGINATION:
The Pilgrim seeing that he stop'd his Way,
And longing still SOPHIA to enjoy,
After much strugling, flung him on the ground,
And with Perseverances chaines him bound.
This Adversary being cast, he bent
His course to Paradise, and forward went.
Not far from thence his hasty steps did move
Under the shadow of a silent Grove:
The place was sacred to a Deity,
Who with still silence would adored be.
No babling Echo in that Grove did dwell:
No whistling Blackbird, no sweet Nightingal,
No Bird at all came near those sacred boughs;
The grasse, nor bleating Sheep, nor mowing Cows
Did feed; no living Creature did that blest
Place enter, to disturb its quiet rest.
No pibble, chiding-Brook ran murmering there,
No Wind to move those silent Leaves did dare:
About the middle of this silent place,
Pitch'd on a mossie Hill a Couch there was;
To this the Pilgrim went, and gently hurl'd
Himself on it; As if another World
He enter'd had, he found himself; a rest
Seiz'd on his working mind; both bad, and best
Thoughts banish'd were; disturbing fancy, or
Imagination did not there discur.
Asleep he was not, nor yet did he dream:
Alive he was, but yet he dead did seem.
His mind work'd not on this, nor that: but he
Rap'd was into a heav'nly Lethargy.
This is the Silent passive state in which
God with his Finger Souls doth often touch:
This is the sleep of Jacob, this the Trance
Of Paul, when he did to the Heav'ns advance:
This is the state, in which the Soul's blest tye
Sees God (beyond Thoughts) Intellectually.
This is the state in which SOPHIA will
Souls (emptied thus) with her blest Spirit fill.
Then is the Soul made fit for to receive
Those Bounties, which Heav'ns blessed Hand doth give.
For whilst thoughts do her empty vessels fill,
Receive she cann't Heav'ns higher Bounties well.
A Cup fill'd to the brim can hold no more:
Nor stomachs meat desire, if full before.
Then is the Soul fit to be wrought upon,
And to receive Heav'ns seal's impression.
What in this state she doth or hear, or see,
Must needs be true; she cann't deceived be.
Unutterable were those Sweets, which here
Our Pilgrim felt; before his eyes appear
The Beauties of the inner Worlds, and on
His Soul divine irradiation
Is pour'd: and now his soul with Constant eye
Beholds true glances of Æternity.
Pens are too weak for to expresse the Blisse
Which in this silent state enjoyed is.
Thunders, and Whirlwinds are not Heav'ns choyce;
He softly whispers in a silent Voyce.
The Souls eares then are eyes; what Heav'n then shows
The Soul both hears, sees, feels, and truly knows.
Deep is the sight when that no thoughts controul,
For Heav'n then gives eyes to the passive Soul,
Past reach of Reason then she flyes, and there
With a new Light sees demonstration clear.
But on our Pilgrim passes, and (to ease
Himself) oft rests in such blest Groves as these,
Which thick stood in the Way, there quiet rest
From working thoughts his passive Soul possest.
And now unto this World he bids adiew,
The inner World appeareth in his view.
No new relations he receives, who from
Spiritual tyes, and Heav'ns kind hand doth come.
Those who do travel in the Way with him,
By Heav'ns Venter are his Bretheren.
And Sisters, tyed by a neerer Bond
Than ever Earth, or Nature yet had don'd.
They are his Brothers, be they rich or poor,
Who in their Hearts his Father's Image bear.
Those are his Fathers, and his Mothers that
Into Regeneration begot
His Soul: Nature's Children do ne'r to their
Parents, the Love which Heav'ns to theirs do bear.
Though he Loves all, yet there's degrees in Love,
Some are more near, and some do farther move:
As in the building of an House you see,
Some stones do touch, while others farther be:
Some are more near, some keep a distance, yet
All to the Structure are exceeding fit.
So Spirits joyned are, in that divine
And heavn'ly building they do thus Combine.
Some they are nearer knit than others, thus
John unto Christ the most beloved was.
Here Spirits signatur'd alike conjoyn,
And in a mystic union combine:
Here Spirits be espous'd, and here they see
That they meet helps unto each other be,
Some cann't receive from every vessel though
Their thirsty souls drink what from others flow.
One gives, another he receives, and he
Gives to another, here's the harmony.
Saints thus combin'd, are like a Tower, that
Unshaken stands against the Devils shot:
He fears such unions, therefore all his Art,
And cunning, he still uses, them to thwart.
O blessed union! whom God thus doth joyn,
Let no man venture for to discombine.
This doth produce a Love implete with Blisse,
Which far above natural affection is.
No Man but he that has't the Virtue knows
Of this Love which from pure union flows.
Words cann't exprest, that heart which feels it doth
Know certainly that here I speak a Truth.
The highest love of Friendship, which doth shine
So bright's the Image of this Love divine:
The Stars alone that doth concatinate,
Nature, and Grace bind fast this firmer state.
He who this Love possesses would rejoyce
(And with great joy 'count it an happy choyce)
To dye, and suffer torments for his Brother,
And loose his blood with joy to free another.
In this state two are one: one cannot smart
Feel, but it thrilleth th'rough the other's heart.
One cann't be sad, but by a Sympathie
The other's sinking Soul doth almost dye.
Joy never bloometh in the Face of one,
But gladnesse in the other's eyes doth shine.
Although Seas, and a thousand Leagues do part
Their Bodies, yet by sympathetic Art
Their Spirits meet, and kisse, and do declare
At the same moment, how each other fare,
In the black lines, writ by each others hand,
A flowing Fire of constant Love thy find;
No sooner can their eyes be plac'd on them,
But th'rough them to their hearts, a flaming stream
Of sweetest Fire runs: and every Line
Unto that Fire, doth new fewel joyn.
O blessed Love which from true Union flows!
Thy sweetnesse none, but those that tast thee knows!
Base Earthly Lust, and wanton Love's alloy
Is all but drosse: and counterfeited joy.
Is mix'd with them, hut here true sweetnesse is
True Joy, and an unutterable Blisse.
Our Pilgrim tasted this felicity,
Whereby he found all earthly Harmony
Below this sweetnesse. Sweets Affection
But far more sweet is heav'nly Union.
In Bodies joyning is Earth's Lovers blisse:
In Souls uniting Heav'ns true Lovers is.
Most justly did the Holy Spirit Call
The Serpent the most subtle Beast of all:
And though in subtilty he doth excel,
His envy runneth with it parallel:
This sets abroach that; this desires the ill;
That's the Instrument for to perform it still:
And where he cann't do what he would to Man,
He'l shew his Teeth, and do what e'r he can.
Think you our Pilgrim, though so far he be
Gon, past the reach of his fell Subtilty?
No Hell must shew his envy still, and to
The very last try what his power can do.
When he had try'd all Stratagems in vain,
The Pilgrim's union with the Saints to strain,
To burst that League, which breaks the Leagues of Hell,
And their united Forces oft repel:
To spoil that mariage of Spirits, from
Whose happy juncture sacred Powers do come,
Which overthrow those Legions of the
Great Prince of Hell, and all Impiety:
To break that true-Loves Knot, which only can
Bind fast the hands of this fierce foe to Man.
When he in vain to hinder this had try'd,
And saw our Pilgrim by an happy Guide
Had it attain'd; he seeks some other Way
In midst of all his Sweets him to betray.
His envious eye beholds the Pilgrim's Soul
Oft to carouse it in Loves sacred Boul,
Where she whole streams of Nectar gulped down,
Sweeter than Honey, or the Honey-Comb.
Down to his Stygian Kingdom goes the Foe,
And there assembles all his Cooks below;
Makes them to cull the fairest Fruit the Tree
Of ills doth bear: First then Complacency,
Then Covetousnesse, then Pride, then Selfishnesse,
Envy, and Jealousie, and such as these
He takes: and by a cunning Chymistry
Draws out their blacknesse, and deformity;
Extracts their bitternesse, and makes them fair,
Refin'd like Crystal, and as pure as ayr;
But yet the poyson still was left behind,
Which stronger grew the more they were refin'd;
From these a juice he drew, most fair, and clear,
And up he mounteth to the Pilgrim's Sphear.
Sculking behind a cloud this Serpent lay,
And for an opportunity did stay
To poyson him: And VIGILANTIA did
No sooner turn her back, and step aside,
But to the Boul he stept (for she alasse!
The noble Pilgrim's chief Pincerna was)
And in he pour'd that Hellish juyce; among
Heav'ns blest Nectar mixing that poyson strong.
Th' unawary Pilgrim by and by the Cup
Takes, and in 's Nectar drinks Hell's poyson up.
Anon the several poysons 'gin to work;
Whilst Sathan laughing in his sleeve, doth lurk
Unseen, to see the sport: Oh! how he smil'd
At the conceit of Man's being thus beguil'd.
The Pilgrim did not feel that he was ill.
Or that Hel's poyson did his Nectar spill:
But now it 'gan to work, he did not cast
His eyes unto the Fountain but embrac'd
Too much the streams: Too much Complacency
He took, in the fruition of those high
Gifts of the Spirit; too much dotes upon
Visions, Voyces, Spirits union,
He fears to lose them, and cannot resign
To Heav'n his Nectar, or his gifts divine.
Now to himself all Spirits he'd engrosse,
He Covets gifts, and 'counts no greater crosse
Than for to lose them; thus doth Covetousnesse
Spring in his Soul in its refined dresse.
Pride started up, and though spiritualiz'd,
A curious cloathing for his Soul devis'd,
Wherein he prides himself; he's not content
Except that others know he's eminent
In all the Gifts and graces of the Spirit;
He loves to be sought after for his merit:
Cloath'd with Heav'ns Pride of gifts, and graces, he
Aspires, and would accounted something be.
Next Selfishnesse did operate, and that
Self-Int'rest, and Propriety begat
In Spirits, Gifts, and Graces: This doth seem
For to belong to him, and none but him.
Then Envy work'd, and he is not content
To see another be more eminent
In Visions, Raptures, or the like; or that
Others enjoy them, and he go without.
Then Jealousie spread thorow every vein,
Its virulent poyson fuming in his Brain;
He every one suspects, and jealous is
Lest others rob him of what he Calls his.
He fears to lose a Spirit; that another
His gifts or Graces shining Light should smother:
He jealous is lost his Lights be out-shon,
Or that another's should eclipse his own.
This Hell's refining poyson spreading through
His Breast, e'r he aware was brought him to:
And thus the noble Stone was almost spoil'd,
When for't the Pilgrim had long stoutly toyl'd,
That eye whose Rayes pierce the Earth's Centre, and
Sees to the bottom of the Stygian strand:
Which spite of Night; and Hell's calliginous
Mantle, beholds what ever Satan does:
That Eye which every secret thought betrays,
And to its self, hid actions open layes,
That Eye behel'd the spight of Hell, and saw
Upon the Pilgrim's heart his poyson gnaw.
Nothing so soon as th' objects of the eye,
Pity attracts for others misery:
The ear so soon doth not affect the Heart
With generous pity as the Optic part:
He that's all Eye, and every thing doth see,
Can he w'hout pity view man's misery?
No, he's all pity, and his Bowels roul
At every pang of an afflicted Soul.
Poyson i'th' Pilgrim's Breast no sooner flows,
But he his pity, and his mercy shows.
His Angel-guardian is Commission'd strait
To shew to him, the Stygian Prince's hate:
And 'gainst that poyson which so strongly wrought
In's breast, to offer him an Antidote.
Glad of the message, down the Angel flies,
Whilst sparkling Joy beam'd from his sacred eyes;
Glad to do service to Heav'ns Servitour,
He shews himself clad with refulgent ayr.
In 's hand he brought a Crystal Glasse which fill'd
Was with pure Light, from Heav'ns Alimbeck still'd:
This he unto the Pilgrim gave, and bid
Him drink it up; The which he strait wayes did.
No sooner had he gulp'd it down, but he
Beheld his Error, and Hell's treachery:
He saw the infestous poyson, though 'twas clear,
By this draught now his eyes far purer are,
And can behold all its impurities,
Which had caus'd all irregularities.
This draught the Vail pull'd off, and he espies,
Where Hell's strong poyson in Heav'ns Nectar lies,
So had he seen a noxious Serpent dwell
I'th' green grasse, and Toads in a Crystal Well.
Startl'd at this sight: seal my eyes again
He cryes, or else from me this poyson drain.
'Tis better I were blind, and could not see,
Then to behold an helplesse misery.
It is a double pain hard haps to bear,
And seeing them remedilesse to fear:
An unseen harm lesse dread doth cause? I pray
Or take my eyes or this foul Ill away.
It is thy self, the Angel doth reply.
That to thy self must give the remedy:
There is a pill will do't: I'le shew it thee,
If thou wilt take it freely follow me.
The willing Pilgrim soon consents, they go
Strait forward without turning in Heav'ns Way.
Now far they had not gone, e'r they came to
A pleasant Green, whose lustrous verdant hew
Cheered the Pilgrim's Sp'rite; and in the midst
Thereof, he saw, a flaming Altar plac'd:
And coming nearer fairly wrote upon
The sides he saw TRUE RESIGNATION:
'Twas to this Altar that blest Abraham
(The Angel said) to offer Isaac came,
And here it is, and in these flames divine,
And on this Altar thou must offer thine:
Here what somever thou dost dearly prize,
To Heav'n must prove a pleasing sacrifice.
'Tis true, thou didst pleasures, and sins once bring
Unto the Fire: A fairer offering
Now must th' Oblation be: As Earth by you
Was offer'd up; so offer Heav'n too.
Not only Earth's, but Heav'ns fair gifts divine,
Thou on this Altar, must to God resign.
Amongst those Flames (which were Aetherial)
The Angel put his hand, and cull'd a coal;
A Carbuncle set in a Ring of Gold
Glow'd as the Coal between his fingers hold.
Lo here a Pill (sayes he) that doth contain
An Antidote, against that deadly Bain
Thou hast drunk down: in this one Pill there are
The Lemnian Earth, and precious Bezoar,
Treacle, and Metridate lock'd up: This pure
Pill will effect not an Acesian Cure:
Not all the drugs of Aesculapius
Or Galen can do half so much as this.
The joyful Pilgrim takes the flaming Pill;
Which from his mouth down to his heart did thrill;
No sooner was it in his Breast, but straight
He Hel's foul poyson did Evacuate.
That glowing Pill fir'd from his heart's fast hold,
And utterly destroy'd Hel's bainful Cold.
Thus by the Heav'nly Therapeutick, he
Receives by Heat for cold a Remedy.
Now baffel'd Sathan, with an hideous roar
To Hell flyes vex'd, more than he joy'd before.
Shall Servants grumble to repay their Lord
His own? or not be willing to afford
Him back, what he lends them? Shall Stewards grieve,
When their Lords at their hands their own receive?
Why then doth man so often shrug, and pine,
When God bids him his lendings to resign?
A carefull Father that hath sent unto
His Son some sums honestly to employ.
Is it not requisite he should be still
Exactly subject to his Fathers Will?
And that the money back be paid again
With willingnesse if he require the same?
Or should not that Depositum still be
At his dispose without an injury?
Now if the Father should behold his Son
Squander his Coyn, in evil courses run:
Lose his Estate in Games! or be unfit
To mannage (for which end he gave him) it;
Doth he do wrong unto his Child, if then
He summons back his ill-us'd Love agen?
Then grumble not O Man! if Heaven shall
What he has lent (if thou abuse't) recall.
Thou nothing hast; why mak'st thou then such moan
When God doth call for nothing but his own?
Is it not better that thou willingly
Thy self, and thine to Heav'ns high Will should'st tye?
When that thou know'st none contradict it can?
Yet such the frowardnesse of wilfull Man
Is, that although he knows God's Will be done
Must, yet will he contrary to it run:
Such is his stubbornnesse; and thus he'l shew't,
To contradict God had he power to do't.
God will his Will effect: This pleases Heav'n
Though, that Man's will should with his Will be even:
That our wills should will nothing, but what he
Would have: That his Command ours subject be.
His Will is the Day-star, the fairest Guide,
Who follows it can never turn aside.
That sanctified Pill of glowing fire
Which did unto our Pilgrim's breast retire,
Purg'd forth Hell's venom, and what ever might
Unto Heav'ns sacred Will prove opposite.
He now is willing, what e'r he doth prize,
To God in those bright flames to sacrifice.
His cloaths put off; and naked, (only clad
With true subjection to the will of God,
His Priestly Ephod) he gives to the flame
What ever Heaven had freely given him.
Those lustrous flames he with Ambrosia fed,
And all his Manna on the Altar spread:
His Oyl, and Honey in the fire fryes,
And his choyce Nectar proves a Sacrifice.
Ah there he parts with all Heavn'ns gifts divine,
And them again doth unto Heav'n resign.
Visions, and Raptures in the flames he flings,
His unions, and all those bubbling springs
Of choysest Wine, his holy Gifts, his Powers,
And Rapting Heats upon the flames he showers.
His dainty Hymns, and Soul-bewrapting layes,
And Heav'n and all, he to those flames betrayes.
He doth himself of all his pride disrobe,
Leaving himself as poor as naked Job;
His Heart, and Will at last he there bequeaths
And all his Riches to those flames he gives;
And now having nothing left, with a profound
Submission, his Lips do kisse the ground,
While the sweet Fumes of this blest Libament
Are from the Altar to Heav'ns nosethrils sent.
Abel's sweet offerings ne'r more pleasing were
To God, than these our Pilgrim offer'd here.
Nor did to Heav'n a sweeter favour spring
From the burnt flesh of Noah's offering.
Nor Abraham's Ram was more accepted; nor
Smelt sweeter Aron's Frankinsence, and Myrrh.
The spotlesse Lamb the offering for Peace
Was not a gentler offering than these:
Nor th' Oyl, and Meal the offering of meat:
Nor Salomon's whole Hecatombs more great.
Nor did all Aaron's offerings but shew
What Christ for us did; and what we must do.
Heav'n did not Aaron's offerings prefer
To what our Pilgrim freely offer'd here:
Nor was he more a Priest than he, who had
All sacrificed to the Living God.
Christ was a Prophet, Priest, and King: so we
By him made Prophets, Priests, and Kings shall be.
Our Pilgrim having offer'd all: upon
The sounding Altar of his warbling Tongue,
At last he offers Heav'n this precious Song,
Whose Ayres like Mirrh, and Incense smelled strong:
His Heart flew with his words: with open Eares
Heav'n, from such Tones the speaking Musick hears.

Locus Purgatorius inter Mundos.

Mundus Luminosus, vel Paradisiacus.

Here lacks an Angel's Tongue to Trumpet forth,
In his best Layes, blest Paradise's worth;
That by those sweet straines he a tast might give
To you, what pleasures there for ever Live.
Here lacks a Tasso, or a Bartas, or
A Spencer's Muse, a Quarles, or Silvester:
Or some such Laureate: But since their skil
Is wanting to my Pen, accept my Will:
For though my Muse cann't reach their lofty vein,
Child-like the Truth speaks in a stammering strain.
Thus far sh' has waded, and she th'rough must go,
Although the style is for the Theame too low.

PARADYSUS.

THE EPITHALAMIUM.

No sooner had the Pilgrim drunk of this;
But Living Flames of everlasting Blisse
Surround his Heart, whose clipings without measure
Yield Raptures, and unutterable pleasure.
The Wine's quick Spirits move in every part,
And corner of his Head, his Breast, and Heart,
And piercing th'row each Limb, do cause them move
In sweet Tripudiations of Love.
Up starts he all inflamed (with that Flame
Which drove from David's breast Love stifling shame,
When he in an ecstatic Rapture danc'd
Before the Ark of God, as it advanc'd
Th'row all the Streets of fair Jerusalem)
Taking the Graces all, he danc'd with them,
The holy Dance of Love: Nor can exprest
Be, that sweet prickling Joy raigned in his Breast.
His sence of feeling feasted to the hight,
And (as the rest were) swallow'd in delight.
Unusual Gestures forced him to rear,
That he the better Love's excesse might bear;
For Nature's weak, and strives to Congregate
Those Spirits, which extream Joyes dissipate,
For Her own safety; lest by flying out
Too much, she should be quite left destitute.
Thus Flesh, and Blood, the Soul's Crosse alwayes is,
Depriving Her of Joys, of Sweets, of Blisse.
Not all the Joys and Pleasures the Dull VVorld
On the most sensual Mortals e'r has hurl'd;
Not all the Fleshes various pleasures, nor
Foul Cyprian delights themselves compare
May, with the smallest part of that delight,
And pleasue, which the Saints poor Souls excite.
Vain are the World's Joy momentany too,
Heav'n's everlasting, undefil'd, and true.
O what Tongue able is to tell the pleasure
The Pilgrim felt! Not all the Earthly Treasure
Can purchase such delight; for the true God
Himself descended in a flaming flood,
Of Love, upon his Soul: Jesu's divine
And sacred Body, couched in the Wine
It self in pieces brake upon his Soul;
The sacred Spirit too, without controul
Descending, filled all his Soul about,
With Rayes of Light, and Love which nought could d'out.
Whole streams of Love upon his Soul was poured,
Festatic pleasures through the same were showred,
Seas of delight; unutterably sweet
Love-Extasies, his Soul together greet,
So that he was quite overcome of Love,
And did not know which way himself to move:
Intoxicated, and o'returned quite
He was, with Love's exuberant delight:
The burning Tincture of the Heart of God,
Rol'd o're his Soul a most delightful Flood,
Which him transported into Rapts divine,
So that he seem'd like one made drunk with Wine.
In this strong heat of his exultancy,
He on the green grasse swift about did flye,
With all those Graces, who compos'd a Ring,
And dancing round, this Hymn with joy they sing.

Hymn.