 | Divine Fancies |  |
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80. To God .
I wonder, Lord, thou shouldst so much desireOur yonger dayes, when as the greene-wood fire
Of feeble Nature is but newly blowne;
When ev'ry Roome's unfurnisht; and not one
Fit for the presence of so great a Guest;
None trim'd with Art; no, not so much as drest
With common sense; when as th'vnburnisht print
Of thy faire Image, taken from the Mint
But now, has not the least imbellishment
Of heav'nly knowledge: Lord, what hast thou ment,
To make such choyce, to choose a time so ill,
When we have neither meanes, nor yet a will
To entertaine? Would not our deeper Age,
Wherein the Toyes of Child-hood, and the rage,
The fire of lustfull Youth shall be abated,
Wherein our riper Soules shall be estated
In richer Knowledge, and the strength of Reason;
O might not, might not this bin thought a season,
A time more aptly chosen of the twaine,
For thee to come; and us, to entertaine?
No thou, great God, that art our wise Creator,
Wert better read in our rebellious Nature:
Thou knewst the Bow of our corrupted will
Stood bent to mischiefe, would be drawne to ill
By every Arme; Thou knewst that every hower
Gave new encrease to strength, and double power
To draw those sinfull Shafts that shoot at heaven;
Thou knewst our easie Nature would be driven
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From bad to worse; from worse, to worst of all;
Thou knewst that growing Time wold more unlevel
Our rugged Wills, and tookst the best of evill:
Lord, take it, and betimes; that, being possest
Of that, thou mayst prescribe for all the rest.
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