Times Cvrtaine Drawne or The Anatomie of Vanitie. With other choice poems, Entituled; Health from Helicon. By Richard Brathwayte |
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A GRIEFE: PERSONATED IN THE AVTHOR, AND Dedicated to Time, of whom
hee Borrowes the Subiect of his Passion. |
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 | Times Cvrtaine Drawne |  |
A GRIEFE: PERSONATED IN THE AVTHOR, AND Dedicated to Time, of whom hee Borrowes the Subiect of his Passion.
Care-charming sleepe, thou sonne of sable Night,That cheares our drowping spirits with delight;
Making vs forget care, as if kept vnder
By some sweete spell, or some Lethean slumber,
Away and leaue me: Thee I brooke not well,
“Sorrow best fitteth with a Cloudie cell.
And what more cloudy, then where Sun nere shone,
Where nought keeps Concord but continu'd mone,
Where sighes of Louers, Passions of the minde,
Are all the Guests, that you are like to finde?
Poore blubberd Soule, is griefe in her extent?
Or is your source of teares alreadie spent?
Affliction workes distraction! aye me then,
That feeles the most, yet showes the least of men.
Yet if thou haue the memorie to relate
The poore remainder of thy forlorne state,
Expresse it boldly: Men are pleas'd to heare
Those griefes discourst, that once were hard to beare.
O then attend, and when my speech doth leaue,
Say, If ere any had more cause to grieue!
And time ill spent, the preiudice of youth,
Are first presented to my grieued heart,
Come then (as first presented) act your part.
Come, for you can, and well I know you will,
Tell me what I haue done or good or ill.
Good; that is recken'd soone: but th'ill I'ue done,
Much doe I feare will not be summ'd so soone.
You keepe the score, and chalke from day to day,
While I run on in debt, and will not pay;
Yet I must pay, my Creditor will call,
Where I must pay both vse and principall.
First for the houre: or for the least of time,
Minute or instant, for that's onely mine,
What instant is there, or hath euer beene
Since I knew sinne, wherein I did not sinne?
What moment did I good, or if I did,
Was not vaine-glorie in the action hid?
I know it, O I know it but too well,
And much it grieues my pensiue soule to tell
What shee has done, and gladly would I leaue
My tale, and say, I know not how to grieue;
But I must speake, what Time doth presse me too,
“For it's lesse shame to speake then shame to doe.
Why did I know, if that my knowledge were
The onely cause why I so farre did erre?
As sure it was: since sacred discipline
Should make our mindes eternally divine;
Not darken'd with Earths substance, but in loue
Of her owne Image, seeke for things aboue,
From whence her Image came! blest had I bin,
If, as I knew this, so I had but seene
O that had then beene faire, that now is soule.
Vnhappie I to care more for the rinde
Then for the pith, the bodie then the minde.
Vnhappie I to make my wit a baite
Vnto my selfe: my knowledge a conceit
Too ouer-weening; O I did not well,
Knowing for this, the brightest Angell fell
Conceipt is like a shaft shot from a Bow,
Which flyes a while aloft, but lighteth low.
Low did my iudgement light, when I did ayme,
By selfe-renowne to purchase me a Name:
Whereas (God-wot) that worth which was in me,
Scarce could redeeme my Name from infamie.
For what is humane Eminence, estate,
Honour, demerit, an auspicious Fate,
Conquest renowne, Trophies of lasting worth,
When they that got them, lie in Bed of earth?
Nothing a'las nothing: ther's no good in them,
For these yeeld small perfection vnto men;
Saue what the world giues, and that is giuen
Oft-times on earth, is neuer found in heauen.
I meane of merit, where men popular,
In their affections vsuallie doe erre,
In counting that desert, which hath a show
Of goodnesse in it: but is nothing so.
For I haue seene, even in these fewer yeares
Which I haue liu'd, how many one appeares
In show and outward luster to be that
Which he is not, if you obserue his state.
Now vertues are pretences, where we owe
Lesse farre to substance, then wee doe to show.
Who though he be not good, yet good doth seeme.
O time for thee I grieue (thou grieues for me)
And mutuall loue should I expresse to thee:
Thou see'st our Errors, wherewith we abuse
Thy selfe, that art of all most precious.
Thou see'st our vainest pompe, and how we tie,
Our admiration onely to the eye
Of our Beholder: thou art he, that sees
Our Times expence, those great arrerages
Which are against vs: and it well appeares,
Thou pitties vs, sending out brinie teares
In pure remorce, which we, throwne on the shelues
Of Desolation, shed not for our selues.
Here rides Poppæa, Neroes Concubine,
In her gilt Chariot; there rash Catiline,
Vnbounded in's desire; here Claudius
Prest to affections most incestuous;
Here Messalyna, an insatiate whoore;
There Danae wrastling with a golden shower;
Here couetous Midas sold to auarice;
There old Hermocrates with his foure eyes;
Poring on's Almanacke, cursing the earth,
And blessing's Fate when there ensues a dearth.
Ile be reveng'd, ere many dayes be done,
And't shall be said nere mother censur'd sonne,
With more extended rigour: thus shalt'be.
Now in these young dayes of thy iollitie,
When pleasures mansion in thee, now when youth
Ryots in vaine delight, I with my Syth
(For I can vse Times-Syth) will cut thee downe,
And then (my Son) where's all thy pompe become?
I am the chest where all thy honour lies;
Nor canst thou passe deaths verdict, nor my doome,
I was thy Cradle, I must bee thy Tombe.
See see (vnhappie youth) the vtmost date
Of all thy time, see what thou leuellst at?
A shrowd, a graue; where then's thy glory seene?
Or where those shows of honour that haue beene
Eminent in thee? 'lasse they'ue lost their breath,
And are extinguisht in the stroake of death.
What is the hight of honour prun'd so soone?
Is our youths May-game with such quicknes done?
O then (poore soule) why staiest thou here so long,
Or Turtle-like throbbs not thy dolefull song
T'expresse thy Pilgrimage? Is here a place
Euer to dwell in? No; so short's the pace
Of humane frailtie, that the strong'st of all,
Stands not so firme, but he may feare to fall.
And is this world such a precious dish,
Where few haue what they need, none what they wish,
As it deserues our Admiration? No,
What ere the worldling thinke, it is not so.
Honours, preferments, riches, and estate
Are but as Fewell, which engender hate
To the possessour, for who ere was seene
Rich, and had none that ever enuied him?
Why should I craue to please an outward sence,
When reason seekes no more then competence?
And that's a very little: as some foode
To sustaine Nature, and some cloaths, not proud
Nor gairish, but such fitting weedes as should
Saue vs from Summers heate and Winters cold.
Even then, when Adam fled vnto his shade
For covert of his Nakednesse, will not blame
Himselfe to glorie in his Parents shame?
Weepe, weepe (Phantasticke Minion) for to thee
My grieued passion turnes: O may I be
Cause of Conversion to thy selfe, that art
Compos'd of Man, and therefore I beare part
In thy distracted Habit: (ougly peece,
For so I tearme thee) Woman-monster cease,
Cease to corrupt the excellence of minde,
By soyling it with such an odious rinde,
Or shamelesse Cover? waining, wavering Moone,
That spends the morne, in decking thee till noone;
Hast thou no other Ornaments to weare
Saue such wherein thy lightest thoughts appeare?
Hast thou no other honour, other Fame,
Saue roabes, which make thee glory in thy shame?
Lasciuious Idoll, that with painted cheeke,
Sinne-drawing eye, thy sacred vow doest breake
With thy Creator: hence thy sinne is more,
Adoring that which thou shouldst not adore.
What? No conversion yet? Doest yet persist
In thy deprau'd condition? Pray thee desist
From thy deformed Fashion: let that tyme
Which thou hast vainely spent to become fine,
Be now redeem'd, that after-times may say,
Thy Night of pride is turn'd to vertues Day.
'Las what auailes this sleeking of thy sinne,
When the cold wombe of earth shall take thee in.
To lodge with her? where for delicious sweetes,
Corruption shall embrace thee, and those sheetes
Shall shrowd thy corps in deaths eternall Night.
Yet thou replies: I must obserue the Time:
Must I looke darke, when all my sex doth shine
In beautie and perfection? Pray thee heare,
If it be darknesse to be graue in weare,
Modest in gesture, womanlike in all,
Chuse thee that Habit, what so ere befall.
It's Vertues liverie, and will more expresse
Of true perfection, natiue excellence
In beautie, luster, comelinesse, and show,
Then all our light-tail'd huswiues ere shall doe.
These are the Deuils Lures, made to ensnare
Vnwarie youth, with their dissembled faire.
These are those spotted Lepers that defile,
The flowrie bosome of this fruitfull Ile.
These are those smiling Hyenes that confound
The spacioust kingdomes, & make curst the ground.
These are those Panthers, which with smiling chere,
Proue there the worst, where they the best appeare.
These are Niles Crocodyles, which hauing power,
Oppresse the people, and the State deuoure.
These are those Babells strumpets, with false formes
Deceiuing men, yet are surpriz'd by Wormes,
The Worme of Conscience, which shall ere abide,
And bee a Corasiue for lust and pride.
Iniurious staines, if I could but impart
The secret hate I beare you in my heart,
And had but power to will, not one I sweare
Of that adulterate sex should nestle here:
Or if they did, they should such Pennance haue,
As they might goe true Conuerts to their Graue.
Should ashes be their penitentiall weare:
So might my doome authenticke be and iust,
“Sackcloth on pride, and ashes strow'd on lust.
Here Scilla, then whom none could ever be,
More friend to's friend, or foe to's enemie:
Lastly, here's all that's ill: but what is good,
Is not at all, or is not vnderstood.
Here is no Phocion, Cato Vtican,
No trustie Brutus, nor no African,
No Thales, Solon, nor no Pittacus,
No Periander, nor Cleobulus;
No Bias, Chylo, now the Senate's done,
The Tripod's stolne, and all the sages gone.
What my perplexed soule, whither so fast,
More fairely on, the faire will not be past:
Tutch not Abuses, but with modest lipp,
For some I know were whipt, that thought to whip;
Vnto thine owne: thy errors are enow,
And full too many for one page to show.
Where in discourse mixe passion with thy line,
And hold thy course till that the Sun decline,
That now thy passions waking, now asleepe,
May weepe and laugh at Time, may laugh & weepe.
For oft we see, men troubled with annoy,
Doe laugh for anger, and doe weepe for ioy.
Time is portrayed bald, yet my young minde,
Letting occasion passe, catcht Time behinde,
I catcht indeed, but could not apprehend,
Which made me sigh for my deplored end.
Vnhappie youth (quoth I) thus I began,
That art endew'd with reason, best of man,
Making thy reason Bond-slaue vnto sence.
Thou canst distinguish well of euery Time,
And knowes by th'aire when th'Sunne 'gins to decline,
Whether faire weather's like for to ensue,
This thou obseru'st, and thy coniecture's true.
But 'las how simple art, when thou wouldst finde,
The natiue temper of thy sin-sicke minde,
How far's thy knowledge off? so far, God wot,
That tho thou seeme to know't, thou know'st it not.
Nor can thy Ignorance plead for defence,
For knowledge has inform'd thy Conscience,
Which so afflicts thee, there's no hope of peace,
For Conscience is a thousand witnesses.
Seest thou thy shame, and canst thou loue the name
Of ougly sinne, that brought thee to that shame?
Seest thou thy forme made glorious at the first,
By the pollution of thy sinne accurst?
Seest thou thy selfe and doest not blush to see,
The best of Creatures made the worst by thee?
Seest thou the Sunne spher'd in his roiall course,
How vpon Plants, fruits, mettalls he has force,
And with his Beames reflects on euery place,
Adorning th'Heauen with his transpierciue grace?
Seest thou this glorious light, and doth thy soule
Thinke it will shine on any thing so foule,
As thy corruption? O no: such art thou,
In thy enormious actions, as to show
The horror of thy sinnes, would craue more Time
Then houres thou hast to liue: vnhappie clyme
Whose birth doth shame his Countrey, and I see
That verdict now to be pronounc'd on me,
Haue made my Countrie happie: through delight
Of vaine affections, wherewith I was tane,
My selfe was to my selfe my Countries shame.
Vnhappie I to frustrate the desire
Of my deare Countrie, which did plant me higher
Then my demerits were, yet such was I
In my succeeding course, as vanitie
Conceited, 'boue desert, made me so proud
As that became worst ill, that seem'd most good.
And can presumption yet restraine my pace?
Or is my shame so hardned, as my face
Dare view the light? O impudence in sinne,
When in our End, we doe afresh beginne
To multiplie offences! Can yon light
(Yon splendent bodie) which shows true delight
To euery Blossome, can it seeing thee
Abide t'expresse her former puritie,
Whilest thou art in presence? no, I know it will
Seeing thy shame, glade in some shadie Hill,
And quite obscure her luster, that thy crime
Might see it selfe in th'absence of her shine.
'Las I doe labour of a fruitlesse birth,
And viper-like, makes my poore mother earth,
Curse th'time shee bore me: did I not sayes she,
Foster thy youth, brought vp too tenderly?
Did I not suffer mine owne Brest be pierc't,
The secret cranies of my Bosome searcht,
That thou might be refresht? Did not my loue,
Beare vp thy weake lims, when thou couldst not moue
From mine owne Centre? Did not I produce
Store in aboundance for thy priuate vse,
Possessing that which many better want?
Am not I she that cheares thee, when alone,
Yet as contemned I am trod vpon?
Am not I shee supports thy feeble stand,
And like a nursing mother, with my hand
dandles thee on my knee? yet for all this,
Thou kils thy Mother with a Iudas kisse.
Affliction to my Age, shall my wrong'd brest
Be furrow'd for thy good? when I'me opprest
More by such Bratts, to whom I fauour shew,
Then by such strangers, as I neuer knew:
No, no, depraued Issue, for thy name,
I hate to tell't: sith it augments my shame.
But what (my Muse) art thou so lustie growne,
As censuring others, thou forgets thine owne?
Come, come expresse thy griefe, make thy complaint
And to sad notes tune thy soules dreriment.
Let not one line, one accent, or one word
Run from thy Pen, that may delight afford
Vnto the Reader: but such Notes as force
Passion in men, and in thy selfe remorce;
Make those thy best of concord: if ere I
Could portray sorrow with a teare-dimd eye,
Affliction in her colour, or distresse
In natiue Feature, O may I expresse
That Image now, and when it's fully showne,
May I enstile't an Image of mine owne.
Dissolue thy selfe, and as thou art a man
Nere swallowed vp of sinne, let th'Ocean
Of thy distreaming eyes assoyle that sinne,
Which thou (poore soule) art thus emplunged in.
As if I stood not any neede of thee?
Is due compassion throwne on shipwrackes shelfe,
So ruth-lesse growne, it will not waile it selfe?
Perfidious and accurst that issue is,
Whose head-long course conuerts the Parents blisse,
Vnto a curse, and am not I that birth
Of Desolation that remaines on earth
Daring Heauens-maker? as if he that made
Me to his glorious Image, were afraid
To enter plea against me; sinfull wretch
Thinks thou that God, who doth the heauens stretch
Like to a Curtaine, He whose soueraigne might
Produced out of pitchie darknesse, light;
Compos'd the Ball of Earth, bounded with shores
The raging Ocean, that it should no more
Second her Invndation: who began
A little world, in a little man.
He who each plant, each blossome, fruit, and spray,
cheareth and cherisheth from day to day.
He whose transpierciue eyes each thing beholds,
And with his eye of knowledge pure, vnfolds
The secret of our thoughts, He whose power can
Subdue the Lyon, and Leviathan;
He whose exhaled breath convert'd to Ire
Throwes downe the wicked to eternall fire;
He whose advanced signall doth retaine
A milke-white colour, like a Tamburlaine,
Implying mercie, which if't doe no good,
Next he advanceth, signifieth Blood,
Ruine, subversion: He who is the King
Of the whole Earth, and swayeth euery thing
Is in the Clouds, and's easie to entreate,
If he finde true contrition: He whose power
Can crop our humane Glorie like a flower.
He who hath euer beene, is now, shall be.
What is it, that he cannot doe with thee?
Wert thou a Giant, yet such is his force,
Who like a Giant's prest to run his course;
That thy aspiring thoughts should soone decline,
Like to those Giants were in former time.
Wert thou of such great power, as some haue beene,
Whose populous Armies dryed the Riuers cleane,
Yet would that God of hosts, thy power confound,
And strow thy slaughterd corps vpon the ground.
Wert thou in strength of bodie eminent,
Yet lasse how soone is that consum'd and spent
With one dayes sicknesse? Were thy beautie rare,
Thy golden Tresses like the Sun-beam'd haire
Of grace-lesse Absolon: perchance't might be
Thy haire would worke thy baine, as well as he.
Wert thou as rich as Cresus, yet would Time
Interre thee, and that Goulden calfe of thine;
Whil'st Miser-like thou might thy richesse curse,
‘Sith th'Deuils mouth is term'd a Misers purse.
Wert thou as royall, as Agrippa was,
Who seem'd in pompe and glory to surpasse
Humane condition, whilest applauses than
Should crowne thy state: The voice of God not man.
Yet for that luster deckt with varied formes,
Wretched thou art, when all cōsum'd with wormes?
Alas distracted soule, What's fine aray,
Or Fare deliciously for euery day:
Like to a sacrilegious Balthazar?
What ist to vanish griefe with companie,
Tune vp our Timbrels, sound out harmonie,
'Gainst melanchollicke passions. Time will come,
And quickly too, for see how swift do'es runne,
When our delicious fare shall worme-lins breed
Within our selues, that on our selues shall feede.
When fine aray, whereof we now are proud,
Shall be reduc'd vnto a silly shrowd.
When our deep-healths, where sences are surpriz'd,
Shall be with Sulphur, and with Brimstone spic'd.
When our Com-rades wherein we tooke delight,
Shall be diuid'd from vs, we from their sight.
When for harmonious concord, Fatall Owles
Shall keepe a Consort with tormented soules.
For Timbrels, tremblings, and melodious cheare,
Terror and horror sound in euery eare.
For vnchast meetings, and adulterate ends,
Graspings of Deuils, and th'embrace of Fiends.
Inchastitie being euer prostitute,
Whose tree we loath, when we haue pluckt the fruit.
But cease, afflicted soule: thy Crimson sin,
Is not assoyld with words, but sighes within,
That he who heares our sighes, records our mone,
May cheare thy griefe, when thou laments alone.
FINIS.
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