He is cast into a net by his owne feet, and walketh upon a snare.
1
What? Nets and Quiver too? what need there all
These slie devices to betray poore men?
Die they not fast enough, when thousands fall
Before thy Dart? what need these Engins then?
Attend they not, and answer to thy Call
Like nightly Coveyes, where thou list? and when?
What needs a Stratagem where strength can sway?
Or what need strength compell, where none gainesay?
Or what need stratagem or strength, where hearts obey?
2
Husband thy sleights: It is but vaine to wast
Hony on those that will be catcht with Gall;
Thou canst not, ah, thou canst not bid so fast
As men obey; Thou art more slow to call,
Than they to come: Thou canst not make such hast
To strike; as they, being struck, make hast to fall;
Go save thy Nets for that rebellious heart
That scornes thy pow'r, and has obtain'd the Art
T'avoid thy flying shaft, to quench thy fi'ry Dart
3
Lost mortall, how is thy destruction sure,
Between two Bawds! and both without remorse;
The one's a Line, the tother is a Lure;
This, to entice thy soule; that, to enforce;
Way-laid by both, how canst thou stand secure?
That drawes; this woos thee to th'eternall curse;
O charming Tyrant, how hast thou befool'd
And slav'd poore man, that would not, if he could
Avoid thy Line, thy Lure; nay, could not, if he would!
4
Alas, thy sweet perfidious voice betrayes
His wanton cares with thy Syrenian baits;
Thou wrapst his eyes in mists, then boldly layes
Thy lethall Ginns before their Christall Gates;
Thou lock'st up ev'ry Sense with thy false kayes,
All willing Prisners to thy close deceits;
His eare most nimble where it deafe should be,
His Eye most blind where most it ought to see,
And when his heart's most bound, then thinks it self most free.
5
Thou grand Imposter, how hast thou obtain'd
The wardship of the world! Are all men turn'd
Ideots, and Lunaticks? Are all retain'd
Beneath thy servile bands? Is none return'd
To his forgotten self? Has none regain'd
His senses? Are their senses all adjourn'd?
What none dismist thy Court? will no plump Fee
Bribe thy false fists, to make a glad Decree,
T'unfoole whom thou hast fool'd, and set thy prisners free?
S. BERN. in Ser.
In this world is much trecherie, little truth: here, all things are traps:
here, every thing is beset with snares; here soules are endanger'd, bodies
afflicted; Here all things are vanity, and vexation of spirit.
