Emblemes (1635) and Hieroglyphikes (1638) [in the critical edition by John Horden] |
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The Invocation
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 | Emblemes (1635) and Hieroglyphikes (1638) |  |
The Invocation
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:
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.
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,
The hearts of men with love, their tongues with praise;
Crowne me with Glory: Take, who list, the Bayes.
| Emblemes (1635) and Hieroglyphikes (1638) | |