Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

So Ionah (sore opprest, and heavie-hearted)
From out the Cities circuit straight departed,
Departed to the Easterne borders of it,
Where sicke with anguish sate this sullen Prophet;
He built a Booth, and in the Booth he sate,
(Vntill some few dayes had expir'd their date

With over-tedious pace) where he might see,
What would betide to threatned Nineveh.

A trunke that wanteth sap, is soone decay'd;
The slender Booth of boughes and branches made,
Soone yeelding to the Sun's consuming Ray,
Crumbled to dust, and early dry'd away:
Whereat, the great Iehovah spake the word,
And over Ionah's head there sprang a Gourd,
Whose roots were fixt within the quickning earth,
Which gave it nourishment, as well as birth;
God raised up a Gourd, a Gourd should last,
Let winde, or scorching Sun, or blow or blast:

As coales of fier rak'd in embers lye
Obscure, and undiscerned by the eye;
But being stirr'd, regaine a glimm'ring light,
Revive, and glow, burning afresh and bright;
So Ionah' gan to cheere through this reliefe,
And joyfull was, devoyded all his griefe;
He joy'd to see that God had not forgot
His drooping servant, and forsooke him not;
He joy'd, in hope the Gourds strange wonder will
Perswade the people, hee's a Prophet still;
The fresh aspect did much refresh his sight;
The herball savour gave his sense delight;
Thus Ionah much delighted in his Gourd,
Enjoy'd the pleasures that it did affoord.

But, Lord! what earthly thing can long remaine?
How momentany are they! and how vaine!
How vaine is earth, that man's delighted in it!
Her pleasures rise, and vanish in a minit:
How fleeting are the joyes, we finde below,
Whose tides (uncertaine) oftner ebbe than flow!
For see! this Gourd (that was so faire, and sound)
Is quite consum'd, and eaten to the ground;

No sooner Titan had up-heav'd his head,
From off the pillow of his Saffron bed,
But heav'n prepar'd a silly, silly worme,
(Perchance brought thither by an Eastern storme)
The worme that must obey, and well knew how,
Consum'd the Gourd, nor left it root, nor bough;
Consum'd it straight within a minutes space,
Left nought, but (sleeping) Ionas in the place.

Medit. 12.

The pleasures of the world, (which soon abate)
Are lively Emblemes of our owne estate,
Which (like a Banquet at a Fun'rall show)
But sweeten griefe, and serve to flatter woe.

Pleasure is fleeting still, and makes no stay,
It lends a smile or twaine, and steales away:

Man's life is fickle, full of winged haste,
It mockes the sense with joy and soone does waste:

Pleasure does crown thy youth, & luls thy wants;
But (sullen age approaching) straight avaunts:

Man's life is joy, and sorrow seekes to banish,
It doth lament and mourne in age, and vanish.

The time of pleasure's like the life of Man;
Both joyfull, both contained in a span;
Both highly priz'd, and both on sudden lost,
When most we trust them, they deceive us most;
What fit of madnesse makes us love them thus?
We leave our lives, and pleasure leaveth us:
Why, what is pleasure? But a golden dreame,
Which (waking) makes our wāts the more extreme?
And what is Life? A bubble full of care,
Which (prickt by death) straight empties into ayre:

The flowers (clad in farre more rich aray,
Than e're was Salomon) doe soone decay;
What thing more sweet, or fairer then a flowre?
And yet it bloomes, and fades within an houre;
What greater pleasure then a rising Sun?
Yet is this pleasure every evening done:
But thou art heyre to Crœsus, and thy treasure
Being great, and endlesse, endlesse is thy pleasure;
But thou (thou Crœsus heyre) consider must,
Thy wealth, and thou, came from, and goes to dust;
Another's noble, and his name is great,
And takes his place vpon a lofty seat;
True 'tis, but yet his many wants are such,
That better 'twere he were not knowne so much.
Another binds his soule in Hymens knot,
His Spouse is chast, unblemisht with a spot,
But yet his comfort is bedasht, and done,
His grounds are stockt, and now he wants a sonne.

How fickle and unconstant's Mans estate!
Man fain would have, but then he knows not what;
And having, rightly knowes not how to prize it,
But like that foolish Dunghill-cock imployes it;
But who desires to live a life content,
Wherein his Cruze of joy shall ne're be spent,
With fierce pursuit, let him that good desire,
Whose date no change, no fortune can expire.
For that's not worth the craving, to obtaine
A happinesse, that must be lost againe;
Nor that, which most doe covet most, is best;
Best are the goods, mixt with contented rest;
Gasp not for honour, wish no blazing glory,
For these will perish in an ages story;
Nor yet for power; power may be carv'd
To fooles, as well as thee, that hast deserv'd.

Thirst not for Lands nor Money; with for none,
For wealth is neither lasting, nor our owne:
Riches are faire inticements to deceive us;
They flatter, while we live, and dying, leave us.