The Muses Sacrifice :: :: University of Virginia Library

My stupid Soule, now recollect thy pow'rs,
& weigh in Iudgements Scales thy present state;
Thou, in thy Iaile, my Flesh, but some few howres
hast now to stay, by nature, neere her date.

My Pilgrimage is almost past; ô then
it thee behooues to looke with stedfast eyes
Towards thy Countrey (Home of Happy-men)
least, ere thou looke, in straying pathes thou dye.

Now faints my force, my sense impaires, my flesh
like wither'd fruit now falleth with each breath:
Some Birds o'er-aged doe their youth refresh;
but Man growne Tw[illeg.]-childe is at doore of death,

The Young-man may dye quickely; but the Olde
can not liue long: misse-haps may wracke the one;

But nought, in Arte or Nature, long can hold
the other here; for, they are almost gone.

Then if green yeers should somtimes mind the graue,
the Gray must still, that there are with a breath;
For, Age to Death is but the Gally-slaue,
that on a moments fluxe, whafts life to death.

To serue the World (although I able were)
small cause haue I to will it; sith it is
The ground which nought but ranckest Ils doth beare
and where men most esteemed, are most amisse.

I long haue cultur'd this but flinty-field,
which yeelds but Crops of Cares, Woes, wrongs, and spight;
Yeelding the more annoy the more they yeeld;
whose very Ioyes are Tares that pine the Spright!

Then, it is time to change (by heauenly Arte)
the thriftlesse course of so course Husbandry;
And with Remorse to furrow vp my Heart,
melting the Clods with teares, that are too dry.

And so to sow Loues seedes that faire encrease,
to fat the Soule in vertue, till shee melt
In flames of Charitie (till Faith doth cease)
to giue more taste of heauenly pleasures felt.

And sith my Spring is spent, my Summer past,
and to the Fall of leafe my Tyme arriues:

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Nay, sith his frost Time on my Head hath cast,
I must prepare for cold that life depriues.

My negligence hath made sinnes Earth (my Heart)
to yeeld but poysonous Weeds of thoughts impure;
Which doe but bane my Soule, and get the start
of Vertue, in their growth, by Customes pow'r.

Meane while, my flesh (with heat of youth, & bloud)
hath shrunke from cherishing their root: yet, lo,
The Marrow of my Bones doth yeeld them foode;
so, thogh I shrink, they, through that compost, grow.

And, as one tost at Sea with Stormes and feares
makes little way, though much he be turmoild;
So, he in vice, that past hath many yeeres,
hath had long time, but life as short, as soild.

For, Life is measur'd by the good we doe,
not dayes we spend; sith some, by many dayes,
Get many Deaths; as some haue come vnto
Eternall Life by short Life, spent with praise.

What is a Soulelesse Body, but a Clod?
and what's the Soule without her cause and life,
But quicke to Sinne, and dead to Grace and God;
Hell to it selfe, selfe-Hell, or Hell of strife?

He is the Way, besides which all are wide;
the Truth, against which all in errour dwell:

The Life, without which, all in death abide:
in whom to be, is onely to be well.

O then (deare Lord) let me beginne to liue
now, in my dying, though hard, late it be;
Yet better late then neuer, to reuiue
me, dead in sinne, by mortifying me.

It's hard (I grant) that after life's neere spent
in mortall Sinne, immortall life t'expect:
Yet Lord (how euer late) let me repent
while Aire I breathe, and doe it not reiect.

Yet Loue must cause remorse and hate of Sinne;
for, true contrition (which true life doth giue)
Is caus'd by Loue, sith we so bad haue beene
t'a God so good; that di'd to make vs liue.

Then loue (my Soule) for no ends but thine END;
By-purposes are purposelesse: for, ONE
That knowes all Hearts, Remorse doth but offend
that is not for his Loue conceiu'd alone.

Then, to be truely contrite, hard it is;
sith it respects but Loue, that Grace allures:
Whereof, in but a scruple, if we misse;
it's but Attrition, which lesse Grace procures.

O Death! how sowre is thy rememberance
to him whose Soule is swolne with sweetest Sinne,

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And hath thereof a feeling? I (perchance)
haue so in shew; but more (much more) within!

My Lifes-bud blasted was with heate of bloud;
the Flow'r then needs must fade and Fruit decay:
Nay, leaues and Branch haue perisht with the Bud;
and now the Truncke is turning into Clay.

Lord, how shall I thus soild with Sinne, for shame
appeare before thy Glory? I (alas)
Am but Confusion, euer out of frame;
and was at best ere fully fram'd I was.

The least of all my Sinnes will be (at least)
a most seuere Accuser: but, the whole
(Equall to that which thou dost most detest)
(with but a thought) confounds my thoughtfull Soule.

O Christ, thy Wounds, renued by my Sinne,
still bleed to my Confusion: for, I faint
At that which others still are strength'ned in:
so, thy all-sauing bloud doth me but taint.

Sweete Christ, yet be my Iesus, (though I be
thus quite o'er-whelm'd, with sins cōfounding floud)
And in thy bloud, I shed, still rince thou me
vntill thine Ire be quenched in thy bloud.

Yea, in thy Wounds (as Ionas in the Whale)
saue me from drowning in thy doomes-profound:

Let Mercies Beames my filth of sinne exhale;
and it dispieese, that it no more be found:
So shall I, cast on Safeties Shore by thee,
Still praise thy Grace for so securing me.