Emblemes (1635) and Hieroglyphikes (1638) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rowze thee, my soul; and dreine thee from the dregs
Of vulgar thoughts. Skrue up the heightned pegs
Of thy Sublime Theorboe foure notes higher,
And higher yet; that so, the shrill-mouth'd Quire
Of swift-wing'd Seraphims may come and joyne,
And make thy Consort more than halfe divine.
Invoke no Muse; Let heav'n be thy Apollo
And let his sacred Influences hallow
Thy high-bred Straynes; Let his full beames inspire
Thy ravisht braines with more heroick fire;
Snatch thee a Quill from the spread Eagles wing,
And, like the morning Lark, mount up and sing:
Cast off these dangling Plummets, that so clog
Thy lab'ring heart, which gropes in this dark fog
Of dungeon earth; Let flesh and blood forbeare
To stop thy flight, till this base world appeare
A thin blew Landskip; Let thy pineons sore
So high a pitch, that men may seeme no more
Than Pismires, crawling on this Mole-hill earth
Thy eare untroubled with their frantick mirth;
Let not the frailty of thy flesh disturbe
Thy new-concluded peace; Let Reason curbe
Thy hot-mouth'd Passions; and let heav'ns fire season
The fresh Conceits of thy corrected Reason;
Disdaine to warme thee at Lusts smoaky fires,
Scorne, scorne to feed on thy old bloat desires:
Come; come, my Soule, hoyse up thy higher Sayles,
The wind blowes faire: Shall we creep like Snayles,
That gild their wayes with their owne native slimes?
No, we must flie like Eagles, and our Rhimes
Must mount to heav'n, and reach th'Olympick eare;
Our heav'n-blowne fire must seek no other Spheare:

Thou great Theanthropos, that giv'st and crown'st
Thy gifts in dust; and, from our dunghill, own'st
Reflected Honour, taking by Retayle,
(What thou hast giv'n in grosse) from lapsed, fraile,
And sinfull man, that drink'st full draughts, wherein
Thy Childrens leprous fingers, scurf'd with Sin;
Have padled, cleanse, O cleanse my crafty Soule
From secret Crimes, and let my thoughts controule
My thoughts: O, teach me stoutly to deny
My selfe, that I may be no longer I;
Enrich my Fancy, clarifie my thoughts,
Refine my drosse, O, wink at humane faults;
And, through this slender Conduit of my Quill,

Convey thy Current, whose cleare streames may fill
The hearts of men with love, their tongues with praise;
Crowne me with Glory: Take, who list, the Bayes.

I. JAMES I. XIV.

Every man is tempted, when he is drawne away by his own lust, and enticed.

Serpent. Eve.
Serpent:
Not eat? Not taste? Not touch? Not cast an eye
Upon the fruit of this faire Tree? And why?
Why eat'st thou not what Heav'n ordain'd for food?
Or can'st thou think that bad, which heav'n call'd Good?
Why was it made, if not to be enjoy'd?
Neglect of favours makes a favour voyd:
Blessings unus'd pervert into a Wast,
As well as Surfeits; Woman, Do but tast;
See how the laden boughs make silent Suit
To be enjoyd; Look, how their bending Fruit
Meet thee halfe way; Observe but how they crouch
To kisse thy hand; Coy woman, Do but touch:
Mark what a pure Vermilion blush has dy'd
Their swelling Cheeks, and how, for shame, they hide
Their palsie heads, to see themselves stand by
Neglected: Woman, Do but cast an eye:
What bounteous heav'n ordain'd for use, refuse not;
Come, pull and eat; y'abuse the things ye use not.

Eve:
Wisest of Beasts, our great Creator did,
Reserve this Tree, and this alone forbid;
The rest are freely ours, which, doubtlesse, are
As pleasing to the Tast; to the eye, as faire
But touching this, his strict commands are such,
'Tis death to tast, no lesse than death, to touch.

Serpent:
P'sh; death's a fable. Did not heav'n inspire
Your equall Elements with living Fire,
Blowne from the Spring of life? Is not that breath
Immortall? Come; ye are as free from death
As He that made ye: Can the flames expire
Which He has kindled? Can ye quench His fire?
Did not the great Creator's voice proclaime
What ere he made (from the blue spangled frame
To the poore leafe that trembles) very Good?
Blest He not both the Feeder, and the Food?
Tell, tell me, then, what a danger can accrue
From such blest Food, to such Halfe-gods as you?
Curb needlesse feares, and let no fond conceit
Abuse your freedome; woman, Take and eat.

Eve:
'Tis true; we are immortall; death is yet

Unborne; and, till Rebellion make it debt,
Undue; I know the Fruit is good, untill
Presumtuous disobedience make it ill:
The lips that open to this Fruit's a portall
To let in death, and make immortall, mortall.

Serpent:
You cannot die; Come, woman, Tast and feare not:

Eve:
Shall Eve transgresse? I dare not, O I dare not.

Serpent:
Afraid? why draw'st thou back thy tim'rous Arme?
Harme onely fals on such as feare a Harme:
Heav'n knows and feares the vertue of this Tree:
'Twill make ye perfect Gods as well as He.
Stretch forth thy hand, and let thy fondnesse never
Feare death: Do, pull, and eat, and live for ever.

Eve:
'Tis but an Apple; and it is as good
To do as to desire: Fruit's made for food:
Ile pull, and tast, and tempt my Adam too
To know the secrets of this dainty;

Serpent:
Doe.

S. CHRYS. sup. Matth.

He forc'd him not: He touch'd him not: Onely said Cast thyself downe; that we may know, whosoever obeyes the Divell, casts himslf downe; For the Divell may suggest; compell, he cannot.

S. BERN. in Ser.

It is the Divels part to suggest; Ours, not to consent: As oft we resist him, so often we overcome him: as often as we overcome him, so often we bring joy to the Angels, and glory to God; Who proposes us, that we may contend, and assists us, that we may conquer.

EPIGRAM 1.

[Unluckie Parliament! wherein, at last.]

Unluckie Parliament! wherein, at last.
Both Houses are agreed, and firmly past
An Act of death, confirm'd by higher Powers:
O had it had but such success as Ours.

II. JAMES I. XV.

Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin when it is finished, bringeth forth death.

1

Lament, lament; Looke, looke what thou hast done!
Lament the worlds, lament thine owne Estate;
Looke, looke, by doing, how thou art undone;

Lament thy fall; lament thy change of State:
Thy Faith is broken, and thy Freedome gone,
See, see too soone, what thou lament'st too late:
O thou that wert so many men; nay, all
Abridg'd in one, how has thy desp'rate fall
Destroid thy unborne seed, destroid thyself withall!

2

Uxorious Adam, whom thy Maker made
Equall to Angels, that excell in pow'r,
What hast thou done? O why hast thou obayd
Thy owne destruction? Like a new-cropt flowre
How does the glory of the beauty fade!
How are thy fortunes blasted in an houre!
How art thou cow'd, that hadst the pow'r to quell
The spite of new-faln Angels; baffle Hell,
And vye with those that stood, and vanquish those that fell!

3

See how the world (whose chast and pregnant wombe,
Of late, conceiv'd and brought forth nothing ill)
Is now degenerated, and become
A base Adultresse, whose wombe false Births do fill
The Earth with Monsters, Monsters that do rome
And rage about, and make a Trade, to kill:
Now Glutt'ny paunches; Lust begins to spawne;
Wrath takes revenge; and Avarice, a pawne
Pale Envy pines; Pride swels; and Sloth begins to yawne.

4

The Ayre, that whisper'd, now begins to roare,
And blustring Boreas blowes the boyling Tide;
The white-mouthed Water now usurpes the Shore,
And scornes the pow'r of her trydentall Guides;
The Fire now burnes, that did but warme before,
And rules her Ruler with resistlesse Pride;
Fire, Water, Earth and Ayre, that first were made
To be subdu'd, see, how they now invade;
They rule whom once they serv'd; command, where once obaid.

5

Behold; that nakednesse, that late bewraid
Thy Glory, now's become thy shame, thy wonder;
Behold; those Trees whose various Fruits were made
For food, now turn'd a Shade to shrowd thee under:
Behold; That voice (which thou hast disobayd)
That late was Musick, now affrights like Thunder:
Poore man! Are not thy Joynts grown sore with shaking
To view th'effect of thy bold undertaking
That in one houre didst marre, what heav'n six dayes was making.

S. AUGUST. lib. 1 de lib. arbit.

It is a most just punishment, that man should lose that Freedome which man would not use, yet had power to keep if he would: And that he who had knowledge to do what was right, and did not, should be deprived of the knowledge of what was right; And that he who would not doe righteously when he had the power, should lose the power to do it, when he had the will.

HUGO de anima.

They are justly punished that abuse lawfull things, but they are more justly punished, that use unlawful things; Thus Lucifer fell from heaven; thus Adam lost his Paradise.

EPIGRAM 2.

[See how these fruitfull kernels, being cast]

See how these fruitfull kernels, being cast
Upon the earth, how thick they spring! how fast!
A full-Crop, and thriving; rank and proud;
Prepost'rous man first sow'd, and then he plough'd.

III. PROVERBS XIV. XIII.

Even in laughter the heart is sorrowfull, and the end of that mirth is heavinesse.

1

Alas fond Child
How are thy thoughts beguil'd,
To hope for Hony from a nest of wasps?
Thou maist as well
Go seek for ease in Hell,
Or sprightly Nectar from the mouthes of Asps.

2

The world's a Hive,
From whence thou canst derive
No good, but what thy soules vexation brings:
Put case thou meet
Some peti-peti-sweet,
Each drop is guarded with a thousand stings.

3

Why dost thou make
These murm'ring Troupes forsake
The safe Protection of their waxen Homes?
This Hive containes
No sweet that's worth thy paines;
There's nothing here, alas, but empty Combes.

4

For trash and Toyes,
And griefe-ingendring Joyes
What torment seemes too sharpe for flesh and blood!
What bitter Pills,
Compos'd of reall Ills,
Man swallowes downe, to purchase one false Good!

5

The dainties here,
Are least what they appeare;
Though sweet in hopes, yet in fruition, sowre:
The fruit that's yellow,
Is found not alwayes mellow,
The fairest Tulip's not the sweetest flowre.

6

Fond youth, give ore,
And vexe thy soule no more,
In seeking, what were better far unfounded;
Alas thy gaines
Are onely present paines
To gather Scorpions for a future wound.

7

What's earth? or in it,
That longer than a minit
Can lend a free delight, that can endure?
O who would droyle
Or delve in such a soyle,
Where gaine's uncertaine, and the paine is sure?

S. AUGUST.

Sweetnesse in temporall matters is deceitfull: It is a labour and a perpetuall feare; It is a dangerous pleasure, whose beginning is without providence, and whose end is not without repentance.

HUGO.

Luxury is an enticing pleasure, a bastard mirth, which hath honey in her mouth, gall in her heart, and a sting in her taile.

EPIGRAM 3.

[What, Cupid, Are thy shafts already made?]

What, Cupid, Are thy shafts already made?
And seeking Honey, to set up thy Trade?
True Emblemes of thy sweets! Thy Bees do bring
Hony, in their mouths, but in their tailes, a sting.

IV. PSALMS LXII. IX.

To be laid in the ballance, it is altogether lighter than vanitie.

1

Put in another weight: 'Tis yet, too light:
And yet. Fond Cupid put another in;
And yet, another: Still there's under weight;
Put in another Hundred: Put agin:
Add world to world; then heape a thousand more
To that; then, to renew thy wasted store,
Take up more worlds on trust, to draw thy Balance lower.

2

Put in the flesh, with all her loads of pleasure;
Put in great Mammons endlesse Inventory;
Put in the pondrous Acts of mighty Caesar;
Put in the greater weight of Suedens Glory;
Add Scipios gauntlet; put in Platos Gowne;
Put Circes Charmes, put in the Triple Crowne,
Thy Balance will not draw; thy Balance will not downe.

3

LORD, what a world this is; which, day and night,
Men seek with so much toyle, with so much trouble!
Which, weigh'd in equall Scales, is found so light,
So poorely over-balanc'd with a Bubble;
Good GOD! that frantick mortals should destroy
Their higher Hopes, and place their idle Joy
Upon such ayry Trash, upon so light a Toy!

4

Thou bold Imposture, how hast thou befool'd
The tribe of Man, with counterfeit desire!
How has the breath of thy false bellowes cool'd
Heav'ns free-borne flames, and kindled bastard fire!
How hast thou vented Drosse instead of treasure,
And cheated man with thy false weights and measure,
Proclaiming Bad for Good; and gilding death with pleasure!

5

The world's a crafty Strumpet, most affecting,
And closely following those that most reject her;
But seeming carelesse, nicely disrespecting
And coyly flying those that most affect her:
If thou be free, shee's strange; if strange, shee's free;
Flee, and she followes; Follow, and shee'l flee;
Than she there's none more coy; there's none more fond than she.

6

O, what a Crocadilian world is this,
Compos'd of trech'ries, and ensnaring wiles!
She cloathes destruction in a formall kisse,
And lodges death in her deceitfull smiles:
She huggs the soule she hates; and, there, does prove
The veryest Tyrant, where she vowes to love
And is a Serpent most, when most she seemes a Dove.

7

Thrice happy He, whose nobler thoughts despise
To make an Object of so easie Gaines;
Thrice happy He, who scornes so poore a Prize
Should be the Crowne of his heroick paines:
Thrice happy He, that nev'r was borne to trie
Her frownes or smiles; or, being borne, did lie
In his sad Nurses Armes an houre or two, and die.

S. AUGUST. lib. Confess.

O you that dote upon this world, for what victory do ye fight? Your hopes can be crown'd with no greater reward than the world can give: and what is the world but a brittle thing full of dangers, wherein we travell from lesser to greater perills? O let all her vaine, light, and momentary glory perish with her selfe, and let us be conversant with more eternall things: Alas, this world is miserable: life is short, and death is sure.

EPIGRAM 4.

[My soule; What's lighter than a feather? Wind]

My soule; What's lighter than a feather? Wind:
Than wind? The fire: And what than fire? The mind:
What's lighter than the mind? A thought: Than Thought?
This bubble-world: What, than this Bubble? Nought.

V. I CORINTHIANS VII. XXXI.

The fashion of this world passeth away.

Gone are those golden dayes, wherein
Pale Conscience started not at ugly sin;
When good old Saturnes peacefull Throne
Was unusurped by his beardlesse Sonne:
When jealous Ops nev'r fear'd th'abuse
Of her chast bed, or breach of nuptiall Truce:
When just Astraea poys'd her Scales

In mortall hearts, whose absence earth bewailes:
When froth-borne Venus, and her Brat,
With all that spurious brood young Jove begat,
In horrid shapes, were yet unknowne;
Those Halcyon dayes, that golden Age is gone:
There was no Clyent then, to wait
The leisure of his long-tayl'd Advocate;
The Talion Law was in request,
And Chaunc'ry Courts were kept in ev'ry brest:
Abused Statutes had no Tenters,
And men could deale secure, without Indentures;
There was no peeping hole, to cleare
The Wittols eye from his incarnate feare;
There were no lustfull Cinders, then,
To broyle the Carbonado'd hearts of men;
The rosie Cheeke did, then, proclaime
A shame of Guilt, but not a guilt of Shame;
There was no whining soule, to start
At Cupids twang, or curse his flaming dart;
The Boy had, then, but callow wings,
And fell Erynnis Scorpions had no stings;
The better acted world did move
Upon the fixed Poles of Truth and Love;
Love essenc'd in the hearts of men;
Then, Reason rul'd; There was no Passion, then;
Till Lust and Rage began to enter,
Love the Circumf'rence was, and Love, the Center;
Untill the wanton dayes of Jove,
The simple world was all compos'd of Love;
But Jove grew fleshly, false, unjust;
Inferiour Beauty fill'd his veynes with Lust;
And Cucqueane Junos Fury hurld
Fierce Balls of Rage into th'incestuous World:
Astraea fled; and Love return'd
From earth: Earth boyl'd with Lust; with Rage, it burn'd
And ever since the world has beene
Kept going with the scourge of Lust, and Spleene.

S. AMBEROS.

Lust is a sharpe spurre to vice, which alwayes puts the Affections into a false Gallop.

HUGO.

Lust is an immoderate wantonnesse of the flesh: a sweet poyson; a cruell pestilence; a pernitious potion, which weakens the body of man, and effeminates the strength of an heroick mind.

S. AUGUST.

Envy is the hatred of anothers felicity: In respect of Superiours, because they are not equall to them; In respect of Inferiours, lest they should be equall to them; In respect of equals, because they are equall to them: Through Envy proceeded the fall of the world, and the death of Christ.

EPIGRAM 5.

[What? Cupid, must the world be lasht so soone?]

What? Cupid, must the world be lasht so soone?
But made at morning, and be whipt at noone?
'Tis like the Wagg that playes with Venus Doves,
The more 'tis lasht, the more perverse it proves.

VI. ECCLESIASTES II. XVII.

All is vanitie and vexation of spirit.

1

How is the anxious soule of man befool'd
In his desire,
That thinks a Hectick Fever may be cool'd
In flames of fire,
Or hopes to rake full heapes of burnisht gold
From nasty myre!
A whining Lover may as well request
A scornefull brest
To melt in gentle teares, as woo the world for rest.

2

Let wit, and all her studied plots effect
The best they can;
Let smiling Fortune prosper, and perfect
What wit began;
Let earth advise with both, and so project
A happy man;
Let wit, or fawning Fortune vie their best;
He may be blest
With all that earth can give; but earth can give no Rest.

3

Whose Gold is double with a carefull hand,
His cares are double;
The Pleasure, Honour, Wealth of Sea and Land
Bring but a trouble;
The world it selfe, and all the worlds Command
Is but a Bubble:
The strong desires of mans insatiate brest
May stand possest
Of all that earth can give; but earth can give no Rest.

4

The world's a seeming Par'dise, but her owne
And Mans Tormentor;
Appearing fixt, yet but a rolling Stone,
Without a Tenter;
It is a vast Circumference, where none
Can find a Center:
Of more than earth, can earth make none possest;
And he that least
Regards this restlesse world, shall in this world find Rest.

5

True Rest consists not in the oft revying
Of worldly drosse;
Earths myry Purchase is not worth the buying;
Her gaine is losse;
Her Rest, but giddy toyle, if not relying
Upon her Crosse;
How worldlings droyle for trouble! That fond brest
That is possest
Of earth without a Crosse, has earth without a Rest.

CASS. in Ps.

The Crosse is the invincible Sanctuary of the humble: The dejection of the proud; the victory of Christ: the destruction of the Divell; the confirmation of the faithfull; the death of the unbeleever; the life of the just.

DAMASCEN.

The Crosse of Christ is the key to Paradise; the weake mans staffe; the Converts Convoy, the upright mans perfection: the soule and bodies health; the prevention of all evill, and the procurer of all Good.

EPIGRAM 6.

[Worldling, whose whimpring folly holds the losses]

Worldling, whose whimpring folly holds the losses
Of Honour, Pleasure, health and Wealth such Crosses,
Looke here, and tell me what your Armes engrosse,
When the best end of what ye hugg's a Crosse.

VII. I PETER V. VIII.

Be sober; Be vigilant, because your adversary the Divell, as a roaring Lion walketh about seeking whom he may devour.

1

Why dost thou suffer lustfull sloth to creepe
(Dull Cyprian lad) into thy wanton browes?
Is this a time to pay thine idle vowes
At Morpheus Shrine? Is this a time to sleepe
Thy braines in wastfull slumbers? up and rouze
Thy leaden spirits; Is this a time to sleepe?
Adjourne thy sanguine dreames; Awake, arise;
Call in thy Thoughts, and let them all advise,
Hadst thou as many Heads, as thou hast wounded Eyes.

2

Looke, looke, what horrid Furies doe await
Thy flattring slumbers; If thy drowzie head
But chance to nod, thou falst into a Bed
Of sulphrous flames, whose Torments want a date:
Fond Boy, be wise; let not thy thoughts be fed
With Phrygian wisdome; Fooles are wise too late:
Beware betimes, and let thy Reason sever
Those Gates which passion clos'd; wake now, or never:
For if thou nod'st, thou fal'st; and, falling, fal'st for ever.

3

Mark, how the ready hands of death prepare;
His Bow is bent, and he has notch'd his dart;
He aimes, he levels at thy slumbring heart
The wound is posting; O be wise; Beware;
What? has the voice of danger lost the art
To raise the spirit of neglected Care?
Well; sleep thy fill; and take thy soft reposes;
But know withall, sweet tasts have sower closes;
And he repents in Thornes, that sleeps in Beds of Roses.

4

Yet, sluggard, wake, and gull thy soule no more,
With earths false pleasure, and the world's delight,
Whose fruit is faire, and pleasing to the sight,
But sowre in tast; false, at the putrid Core:
Thy flaring Glasse is Gemms at her halfe light;
She makes thee seeming rich, but truly poore:
She boasts a kernell, and bestowes a Shell;
Performes an Inch of her faire promis'd Ell;
Her words protest a Heav'n; Her works produce a Hell.

5

O thou, the fountaine of whose better part
Is earth'd, and gravil'd up with vaine desire,
That daily wallow'st in the fleshly mire
And base pollution of a lustfull heart,
That feel'st no passion but in wanton fire,
And own'st no torment but from Cupids dart;
Behold thy Type; Thou fitst upon this Ball
Of earth, secure, while death, that stings at all,
Stands arm'd to strike thee down, where flames attend thy fall.

S. BERN.

Security is no where; It is neither in heaven; nor in Paradise; much lesse in the world: In heaven, the Angels fell from the divine presence; In Paradise, Adam fell from his place of pleasure: In the world, Judas fell from the Schoole of our Saviour.

HUGO.

I eat secure; I drinke secure: I sleepe secure, even as though I had past the day of death, avoided the day of judgement, and escaped the torments of hell fire: I play and laugh, as though I were already triumphing in the kingdome of heaven.

EPIGRAM 7.

[Get up, my soule; Redeeme thy slavish eyes]

Get up, my soule; Redeeme thy slavish eyes,
From drowzy bondage: O beware; Be wise;
Thy Foe's before thee; thou must fight, or flie:
Life lies most open in a closed Eye.

VIII. LUKE VI. XXV.

Woe be to you the laugh now, for ye shall mourne and weepe.

The world's a popular disease, that raignes
Within the froward heart, and frantick braines
Of poore distemper'd mortals, oft arising
From ill digestion, through th'unequall poysing
Of ill-weigh'd Elements, whose light directs
Malignant humors to maligne Effects:
One raves, and labours with a boyling Liver:
Rends haire by handfuls, cursing Cupids Quiver:
Another, with a Bloody-fluxe of oathes,
Vowes deepe Revenge; one dotes: the other loathes:
One frisks and sings, and vyes a Flagon more
To drench dry Cares; and makes the Welkin rore;
Another droopes; the sunshine makes him sad;
Heav'n cannot please; One's moap'd; the tother's mad;
On huggs his Gold; Another lets it flie,
He knowing not, for whom; nor, tother, why:
One spends his day in Plots; his night, in Play;
Another sleeps and slugs both night and day:
One laughs at this thing; tother cries for that;
But neither one, nor tother knowes for what:
Wonder of wonders! What we ought t'evite
As our disease, we hugg as our delight:
'Tis held a Symptome of approaching danger,
When disacquainted Sense becomes a stranger,
And takes no knowledge of an old disease;
But when a noysome Griefe begins to please
The unresisting Sense, it is a feare
That death has parlyed, and compounded there:
As when the dreadfull Thund'rers awefull hand
Powres forth a Viall on th'infected land,

At first th'affrighted Mortalls, quake, and feare,
And ev'ry noyse is thought the Thunderer;
But when the frequent Soule-departing Bell
Has pav'd their eares with her familiar knell,
It is reputed but a nine dayes wonder,
They neither feare the Thund'rer, nor his Thunder;
So when the world (a worse disease) began
To smart for sin, poore new-created Man
Could seek for shelter, and his gen'rous Son
Knew, by his wages, what his hands had done;
But bold-fac'd Mortalls, in our blushlesse times,
Can sin and smile, and make a sport of Crimes,
Transgresse of Custome, and rebell in ease;
We false-joy'd fooles can triumph in disease,
And (as the carelesse pilgim, being bit
By the Tarantula, begins a Fit
Of life-concluding laughter) wast our breath
In lavish pleasure, till we laugh to death.

HUGO de anima.

What profit is there in vaine Glory, momentary mirth, the worlds power, the fleshes pleasure, full riches, noble descent, and great desires? Where is their laughter? Where is their mirth? Where their Insolence? Their Arrogance? From how much joy, to how much sadnesse! After how much mirth, how much misery? From how great glory are they fallen to how great torments! What hath fallen to them, may befall thee, because thou art a man: Thou art of earth; thou livest of earth; Thou shalt returne to earth. Death expects thee every where; be wise therefore, and expect death every where.

EPIGRAM 8.

[What ayles the foole to laugh? Does something please]

What ayles the foole to laugh? Does something please
His vaine conceit? Or is't a meere disease?
Foole, giggle on, And wast thy wanton breath;
Thy morning laughter breeds an ev'ning death.

IX. I JOHN II. XVII.

The world passeth away, and all the lusts thereof.

1

Draw neare, brave sparks, whose spirits scorne to light
Your hallow'd Tapours, but at Honours flame;
You, whose heroick Actions take delight
To varnish over a new painted name;
Whose high-bred thoughts disdaine to take their flight,
But on th'Icarian wings of babbling Fame,
Behold, how tottring are your high-built stories
Of earth, whereon you trust the groundwork of your Glories.

2

And you, more brain-sick Lovers, that can prize
A wanton smile before eternall Joyes;
That know no heav'n but in your Mistresse eyes;
That feele no pleasure but what sense enjoyes;
That can, like crowne-distemper'd fooles despite
True riches, and like Babies, whine for Toyes;
Think ye, the pageants of your hopes are able
To stand secure on earth, when earth it selfe's unstable?

3

Come dunghill worldlings; you, that root like swine,
And cast up golden Trenches, where ye come;
Whose onely pleasure is to undermine,
And view the secrets of your mothers wombe;
Come bring your Saint, pouch'd in his leather Shrine,
And summon all your griping Angels home;
Behold your world, the Bank of all your store;
The world ye so admire; the world ye so adore.

4

A feeble world; whose hot-mouth'd pleasures tyre
Before the Race; before the start, retrait;
A faithlesse world, whose false delights expire
Before the terme of half their promis'd Date;
A fickle, world; not worth the least desire,
Where ev'ry Change proclaimes a Change of State:
A feeble, faithlesse, fickle world, wherein
Each motion proves a vice, and ev'ry Act, a Sin.

5

The Beauty, that of late, was in her flowre;
Is now a ruine, not to raise a Lust;
He that was lately drench'd in Danaes showre
Is Master, now, of neither Gold, nor Trust;
Whose Honour, late, was mann'd with princely pow'r,
His glory now lies buried in the dust;
O who would trust this world, or prize what's in it,
That gives and takes, and chops, and changes ev'ry minit!

6

Nor length of dayes, nor solid strength of Braine
Can find a place wherein to rest secure;
The world is various, and the Earth is vaine;
There's nothing certaine here; there's nothing sure;
We trudge, we travell but from paine to paine,
And what's our onely griefe's our onely Cure:
The World's a Torment; he that would endeaver
To find the way to Rest, must seek the way to leave her.

S. GREG. in ho.

Behold, the world is withered in it self, yet flourishes in our hearts; every where, death; every where griefe; on every side fill'd with bitternesse, and yet with the blind mind of carnall desire we love her bitternesse; It flies, and we follow it; it fals, yet we sticke to it: And because we cannot enjoy it fallen, we fall with it: and enjoy it fallen.

EPIGRAM 9.

[If Fortune hale, or envious Time but spurne]

If Fortune hale, or envious Time but spurne,
The world turnes round; and, with the world, we turne;
When Fortune sees, and Lynx-ey'd Time is blind,
I'le trust thy Joyes, O world, Till then, the Wind.

X. JOHN VIII. XLIV.

Yee are of your father the Devill, and the lusts of your father yee will doe.

Here's your right ground: Wagge gently ore this Black;
'Tis a short Cast; Y'are quickly at the Jacke:
Rubbe, rubbe an Inch or two; Two Crownes to one
On this Boules side; Blow windes; 'Tis fairly throwne;
The next Boule's worse that comes; Come boule away;
Mammon, you know the ground un-tutor'd, Play;
Your last was gone; A yeard of strength, well spar'd,
Had touch'd the Block; your hand is still too hard.
Brave pastime, Readers, to consume that day,
Which, without pastime, flyes too swift away!
See how they labour; as if day and night
Were both too short, to serve their loose delight;
See how their curved bodies wreathe, and skrue
Such antick shapes as Proteus never knew:
One raps an oath; another deales a curse;
Hee never better bould; this, never worse:
One rubbes his itchlesse Elbow, shrugges, and laughs;
The tother bends his beetle-browes, and chafes,
Sometimes they whoope; sometimes their Stigian cries
Send their Black-Santos to the blushing Skies;
Thus, mingling Humors in a mad confusion,
They make bad Premises, and worse Conclusion;
But where's the Palme that Fortunes hand allowes
To blesse the Victors honourable Browes?
Come, Reader, come; Ile light thine eye the way
To view the Prize, the while the Gamesters play;
Close by the Jack, behold Gill Fortune stands
To wave the game; See, in her partiall hands
The glorious Garland's held in open show,
To cheare the Ladds, and crowne the Conq'rers brow;
The world's the Jack; The Gamsters that contend,
Are Cupid, Mammon. That juditious Friend,
That gives the ground, is Sathan; and the Boules
Are sinfull Thoughts: The Prize, a Crowne for Fooles.
Who breathes that boules not? what bold tongue can say
Without a blush, he hath not bould to day?
It is the Trade of man; And ev'ry Sinner
Has plaid his Rubbers; Every Soule's a winner.
The vulgar Proverb's crost: Hee hardly can
Be a good Bouler and an Honest man.
Good God, turne thou my Brazil thoughts anew;
New soale my Boules, and make their Bias true:
I'le cease to game, till fairer Ground be given,
Nor wish to winne untill the Marke be Heaven.

S. BERNARD. lib. de Consid.

O you Sonnes of Adam, you covetous Generation, what have you to doe with earthly Riches, which are neither true, nor yours. Gold and silver are reall earth red, and white, which the onely error of man makes, or rather reputes pretious: In short, if they be yours, carry them with you.

S. HIEROME in Ep.

O Lust, thou infernall fire, whose Fuell is Gluttony, whose Flame is Pride; whose sparkles are wanton words; whose smoake is Infamie; whose Ashes are uncleanenesse; whose end is Hell.

EPIGRAM 10.

[Mammon, well follow'd: Cupid bravely ledde]

Mammon, well follow'd: Cupid bravely ledde;
Both Touchers: Equall Fortune makes a dead:
No Reede can measure where the Conquest lies;
Take my advise; Compound, and share the Prize.

XI. EPHESIANS II. II.

Yee walked according to the course of this world, according to the Prince of the Aire.

1

O whither will this mad-braine world, at last,
Be driv'n? where will her restlesse wheeles arive?
Why hurries on her ill-match'd Payre so fast?
O whether meanes her furious Groome to drive?
What? will her rambling Fits be never past?
For ever ranging? never once retrive?
Will earths perpetuall Progresse nere expire?
Her Teame continuing in their fresh Careire,
And yet they never rest, And yet they never tyre.

2

Sols hot-mouth'd Steeds, whose nostrils vomit flame,
And brazen lungs belch forth quotidian fire,
Their twelve houres taske perform'd, grow stiffe and lame,
And their immortall Spirits faint and tyre:
At th'Azure mountaines foote, their labours claime
The priviledge of Rest, where they retyre
To quench their burning Fetlocks, and to steepe
Their flaming nostrils in the Westerne deepe,
And fresh their tyred soules with strength-restoring sleepe.

3

But these prodigious Hackneyes, basely got
Twixt Men and Devils, made for Race, nor Flight,
Can dragge the idle world, expecting not
The bed of Rest, but travill with delight;
Who neither weighing way, nor weather, trott
Through dust and dirt, and droyle both night and day;
Thus droyle these feinds incarate, whose free paynes;
Are fed with dropsies, and veneriall Blaines.
No need to use the whip; but strength, to rule the raynes.

4

Poore Captive world! How has thy lightness given
A just occasion to thy Foes illusion;
O, how art thou betrayd, thus fayrely driven
In seeming Triumph to thy owne confusion?
How is thy empty universe bereiven
Of all true Joyes, by one false Joyes delusion?
So have T seene an unblowne virgin fed
With sugard words so full, that shee is led

A faire attended Bride, to a false Bankrupts Bed.

5

Pull gratious LORD; Let not thine Arme forsake
The world, impounded in her owne devises;
Thinke of that pleasure that thou once did take
Amongst thy Lillies, and sweete Beds of spices:
Hale strongly, thou whose hand has pow'r to slake
The swift foot Fury of ten thousand Vices:
Let not that dust-devouring Dragon boast,
His craft has wonne, what Judahs Lyon lost;
Remember what it crav'd; Recount the price it cost.

ISIODOR. lib.1. De summo bono.

By how much more the nearer Sathan perceives the world to an end, by so much more fiercely Hee troubles it with persecution; that knowing himselfe is to be damned, hee may get company in his damnation.

CYPRIAN. in ep.

Broad and spatious is the road to infernall life: There are enticements and death-bringing pleasures; There the Devill flatters, that hee may deceive; Smiles, that hee may endamage; allures, that he may destroy.

EPIGRAM 11.

[Nay soft and faire, good world; Post not too fast]

Nay soft and faire, good world; Post not too fast;
Thy Journeys end requires not halfe this haste:
Unlesse that Arme thou so distainst, reprives thee,
Alas thou needs must goe: the devill drives thee

XII. ISAIAH LXVI. XI.

Yee may suck, but not be satisfied with the brest of her Consolation.

1

What never fill'd? Be thy lips skrew'd so fast
To th'earths full breast? For shame, for shame unseise thee
Thou tak'st a surfeit, where thou shouldst but tast,
And mak'st too much not halfe enough, to lease thee:
Ah foole, forbeare: Thou swallow'st at one breath
Both food and poyson down; Thou drawst both milk and death.

2

The ub'rous breasts, when fairely drawne, repast
The thriving Infant with their milkie flood,
But being overstraind, returne, at last,
Unwholsome Gulps compos'd of wind and blood,
A mod'rate use does both repast and please;
Who straines beyond a meane, draws in and gulps desease.

3

But, O, meane whose good the least abuse
Makes bad, is too too hard to be directed;
Can Thornes bring grapes, or Crabs a pleasing juce?
Ther's nothing wholsome, where the whole's infected:
Unseise thy lips; Earths milk's a ripned Core
That drops from her desease, that matters from her Sore.

4

Thinkst thou, that Paunch that burlyes out thy Coate,
Is thriving Fat; or flesh, that seemes so brawny?
Thy Paunch is dropsied, and thy Cheekes are bloat;
Thy lips are white and thy complexion, tawny;
Thy skin's a Bladder blowne with watry tumors:
Thy flesh, a trembling Bogge, a Quagmire full of humors.

5

And thou, whose thrivelesse hands are ever strayning
Earths fluent Brests, into an empty Sive,
That alwaies hast, yet alwaies art complaining;
And whin'st for more then earth has pow'r to give,
Whose treasure flowes, and flees away as fast,
That ever hast, and hast, yet hast not what thou hast.

6

Goe choose a Substance, foole, that will remaine
Within the limits of thy leaking measure;
Or else goe seeke an Urne that will retaine
The liquid Body of thy slipp'ry Treasure:
Alas, how poorely are thy labours crown'd?
Thy liquors neither sweet, nor yet thy vessell sound.

7

What lesse then Foole is Man, to progge and plott,
And lavish out the Creame of all his care,
To gaine poore seeming goods, which, being got,
Make firme possession, but a Thorowfare:
Or if they stay, they furrow thoughts the deeper,
And being kept with care, they loose their carefull keeper.

S. GREG. Hom: 3. secund. parte Ezech.

If wee give more to the flesh then wee ought, wee nourish an Enemy; If we give not to her necessity what we ought, we destroy a Citizen: The flesh is to be satisfied so farre as suffices to our good; whosoever allowes so much to her as to make her proud, knowes not how to be satisfied: To be satisfied, is a great Art; left by the saciety of the flesh wee breake forth into the Iniquity of her Folly.

HUGO. de Anima.

The heart is a small thing, but desires great matters: It is not sufficient for a Kites dinner, yet the whole world is not sufficient for it.

EPIGRAM 12.

[What makes thee foole so fat? Foole, thee so Bare?]

What makes thee foole so fat? Foole, thee so Bare?
Yee suck the selfe same milke; the self same aire:
No meane, betwixt all Paunch; and skinne and bone?
The meane's a vertue; and the world has none.

XIII. JOHN III. XIX.

Men love darkness rather then light, because their deeds are evil.

Lord, when we leave the World and come to Thee,
How dull! how slugge are wee?
How backward! how praeposterous is the motion
Of our ungaine devotion!
Our thoughts are Milstones, and our soules are lead,
And our desires are dead:
Our vowes are fairely promised, faintly paid:
Or broken, or not made:
Our better worke (if any good) attends
Upon our private ends:
In whose performance one poore worldly scoffe
Foyles us, or beates us off:
If thy sharpe scourge finde out some secret fault,
Wee grumble, or revolt:
And thy gentle hand forbeare, wee stray,
Or idly loose the way:
Is the Roade faire? wee loyter: clogg'd with myre?
Wee sticke, or else retyre:
A Lambe appeares a Lyon; and we feare,
Each bush wee see's a Beare.
When our dull soules direct their thoughts to Thee,
The soft-pac'd Snayle is not so slow as wee:
But when at earth wee dart our wing'd desire,
We burne, we burne like fire:

Like as the am'rous needle joyes to bend
To her Magneticke Friend;
Or as the greedy Lovers eye-balls flye
At his faire Mistres eye,
So, so we cling to earth; wee fly, and puff,
Yet fly not fast enough;
If Pleasure becken with her balmey hand,
Her becke's a strong command;
If Honour call us with her courtly breath,
An hour's delay is death:
If profits golden fingerd Charmes enveigle's,
Wee clip more swift then Eagles.
Let Auster weep, or blustring Boreas rore
Till eyes or lungs be sore
Let Neptune swell untill his dropsie sides
Burst into broken Tides;
Nor threatning Rockes, nor windes. nor waves, nor Fyre
Can curbe our fierce desire;
Nor Fire nor Rocks can stop our furious mindes,
Nor waves, nor windes;
How fast and fearlesse doe our footsteps flee!
The lightfoot Roe-buck's not so swift as wee.

S. AUGUST. sup: Psal. 64.

Two severall Loves built two severall Cities; The love of God builds a Jerusalem; The love of the world builds a Babylon: Let every one enquire of himselfe what he loves, and hee shall resolve himselfe, of whence hee is a Citizen.

S. AUGUST. lib. 3. Confess.

All things are driven by their owne weight, and tend to their own Center: My weight is my love; By that I am driven, whithersoever I am driven.

EPIGRAM 13.

[Lord scourge my Asse if shee should make no hast]

Lord scourge my Asse if shee should make no hast,
And curbe my Stagge if hee should flee too fast:
If hee be over swift, or shee prove idle,
Let Love lend him a spurre: Feare, her, a Bridle.

XIV. PSALMS XIII. III.

Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, lest I sleepe the sleepe of death.

Wil't nere be morning? Will that promis'd light
Nere breake, and cleare these Clouds of night?
Sweet Phospher bring the day,
Whose conqu'ring Ray
May chase these fogges; Sweet Phospher bring the day.

How long! how long shall these benighted eyes
Languish in shades, like feeble Flies
Expecting Spring! How long shall darknesse soyle
The face of earth, and thus beguile
Our soules of rightfull action? when will day
Begin to dawne, whose new-borne Ray
May gild the Wether-cocks of our devotion,
And give our unsoul'd soules new motion?
Sweet Phospher bring the day,
Thy light will fray
These horrid Mists; Sweet Phospher bring the day.

Let those have night, that slily love t'immure
Their cloysterd Crimes, and sinne secure;
Let those have night that blush to let men know
The basenesse they nere blush to do;
Let those have night, that love to take a Nappe
And loll in Ignorances lappe;
Let those, whose eyes, like Oules abhorre the light,
Let those have Night that love the Night;
Sweet Phospher bring the day;
How sad delay
Afflicts dull hopes! Sweet Phospher bring the day.

Alas! my light-invaine-expecting eyes
Can finde no Objects but what rise
From this poore morall blaze, a dying sparke
Of Vulcans forge, whose flames are darke
And dangerous, a dull blue burning light,
As melancholly as the night:
Here's all the Sunnes that glister in the Spheare
Of earth: Ah mee! what comfort's here:
Sweet Phospher bring the day;
Haste, haste away,
Heav'ns loytring lampe; Sweet Phospher bring the day.

Blow Ignorance, O thou, whose idle knee
Rocks earth into a Lethargie,

And with thy sooty fingers hast bedight
The worlds faire cheekes, blow, blow thy spite;
Since thou hast pufft our greater Tapour doe
Puffe on, and out the lesser too:
If ere that breath-exiled flame returne,
Thou hast not blowne, as it will burne:
Sweete Phospher bring the day
Light will repay
The wrongs of night: Sweet Phosper bring the day.

S. AUGUST. in Joh. ser. 19.

God is a all to thee; If thou be hungry, hee is bread; If thirstie, hee is water; If in darkness, hee is light; If naked hee is a Robe of Immortalitie.

ALANUS de conq. nat.

God is a light that is never darkned; An unwearied life, that cannot die; a Fountaine alwaies flowing; a garden of life; a Seminary of wisdome, a radicall beginning of all goodnesse.

EPIGRAM 14.

[My Soule, if Ignorance puffe out this light]

My Soule, if Ignorance puffe out this light
Shee'll do a favour that entends a spight:
'T seemes dark abroad; But take this light away,
Thy windowes will discover breake a day.

XV. REVELATION XII. XII.

The Devill is come unto you, having great wrath, because hee knoweth that hee hath but a short time.

1

Lord! canst thou see and suffer? Is thy hand
Still bound to th'peace? Shall earths black Monarch take
A full possession of thy Wasted land?
O, will thy slumbring vengeance never wake,
Till full-ag'd law-resisting Custome shake
The pillours of thy Right, by false command?
Unlocke thy Clouds, great Thund'rer, and come downe,
Behold whose Temples weare thy sacred Crowne;
Redresse, redresse our wrongs; revenge, revenge thy owne.

2

See, how the bold Usurper mounts the seat
Of royall Majestie; How overstrawing

Perils with pleasure, pointing ev'ry threat
With bugbeare death; by torments over-awing
Thy frighted subjects; or, by favours, drawing
Their tempted hearts to his unjust retreat;
Lord, canst thou be so mild? and hee so bold?
Or can thy flockes be thriving, when the fold
Is govern'd by a Fox? Lord, canst thou see and hold?

3

That swift-wing'd Advocate, that did commence
Our welcome Suits before the King of Kings,
That sweet Embassadour, that hurries hence
What Ayres th'harmonious soule or sighs or sings,
See how shee flutters her idle wings;
Her wings are clipt and eyes put out by Sense:
Sense-conq'ring Faith is now grown blind, and cold.
And basely cravend, that, in times of old,
Did conquer heav'n it selfe, do what th'Almighty could.

4

Behold, how double fraud does scourge and teare
Atraeas wounded sides, plough'd up, and rent
With knotted cords, whose fury has no eare;
See how see stands a Pris'ner, to be sent
A slave, into eternall banishment,
I know not whither, O, I know not where:
Her Patent must be cancel'd in disgrace;
And sweet-lipt Fraud, with her divided face,
Must act Astraeas part, must take Astraeas place.

5

Faiths pineons clipt? And faire Astraea gone?
Quick-seeing Faith now blind? And Justice see?
Has Justice now found wings? And has Faith none?
What do wee here? who would not wish to bee
Dissolv'd from earth; and, with Astraea, flee
From this blind dungeon, to that Sunne-bright Throne?
Lord, is thy Scepter lost, or laid aside?
Is hell broke lose, and all her Friends untyed?
Lord rise, and rowze, and rule; and crush their furious Pride.

PETR. RAV. in Math.

The Devill is the author of evill; the fountaine of wickednesse; the Adversary of the Truth; the corrupter of the world; mans perpetuall Enemy; Hee plants snares; digs ditches; spurres bodies; he goads soules; Hee suggests thoughts, belches Anger; exposes vertues to hatred; makes vices beloved; sowes Errours, nourishes contention; disturbes, and scatters Affections.

MACAR.

Let us suffer with those that suffer, and be crucified with those that are crucified, that wee may be glorified, with those that are glorified.

SAVANAR.

If there be no enemy, no fight; If no fight, no victory; if no victory, no crowne.

EPIGRAM 15.

[My Soule, sit thou a patient looker on]

My Soule, sit thou a patient looker on;
Judge not the Play before the Play be done:
Her Plot has many Changes: Every Day
Speakes a new Scene; The last Act crownes the Play.