 | Poems Divine, and Humane |  |
A Proud man.
Vile worme of dust, vaine clay how durst thou venter:To swell thy selfe above the earth, thy center;
Vapors exhal'd and lifted to the skies,
Or dissipate or else prove prodigies:
Why being nothing art thou Bold to d'on
The inglorious itch of exaltation,
And by a petulant pride disdainst to bee
More heightn'd by a selfe humility;
As if the Babell of thy thoughts could shroud
Th' aspiring battlements within a cloud,
And so the mighty machin safely stand,
Whose weaker basis is but mosse and sand,
Strange mystery of sinne, that drives us on
As farre as heaven to find perdition;
For wert thou there, and prov'd to bee so then.
Heaven would cast downe a devill once agen:
Yet thus perhaps thy pride might fated bee,
The Prince of Devils, doth but equall thee:
Change but the subject and some sins admit,
To humble minds a happy benefit.
To kill the man of sin, to cover grace,
To presse by violence to Gods holy place,
Contention for a Crowne, for blessing strife,
Are sins that fill mortalyty with life,
Sinne to that pride, than pride had sinne before.
| Poems Divine, and Humane | |