University of Virginia Library

Sinne that was wont in privacy to lurke,
Not daring to be seene darke deeds to worke,
Walk't still in feare; the mind was ne'r at rest,
Like a poore Man in danger of Arrest.
But now in Triumph like a Drab of State
Branded with impudence; dare walke and prate,
Doe deedes of open shame; yet never blush,
Shrinke, feare, nor feele Revenge more then a rush.

Shield us from sinne, (great God) sinne that at first
Poyson'd the perfect Man; made all accurst
That glorious Image; made him see his shame,
Poore, naked, neede, and losse of his good name.
What ever sorrowes on weake man befall,
Publique, or private, sinne is the cause of all.
Sinne dulls the Soule, when Heav'n is out of sight,
Mans out of Heart; all vertues loose their light.
Like a besieged Cittie, sinne surrounds,
The medowes of the soule, ruines her grounds,
Windes like a subtile River bout the 'bancks,
So Eates into her sides, as drown's the Ranks
Of Muddy-minded Mortalls weake defence,
Walls built on Wood-Piles, rotten confidence.

O the rare Mercy of Almighty God,
How it do's daily woe us from the Rod
Of his just vengeance; yet nor love, nor feare,
Nor any thing that's good in us appeare.
The Prodigall Gull, uncapable to know
The worth of wealth; farre sooner will bestow
Ten pound upon a Hawke, a Hound, a Whore,
Rather then give ten pence, to cloath the poore.
“The Worldly Churle, whose money is his slave,
“Goes to the Church, heares Sermons, seemes to have
“Divine discourse; Religion in his talke,
“Devotion, Pitty; yet in life do's walke
“A full dissembler; Machivell and he,
“Remorselesse monsters, dead in Charitie.
“Deafe to the poore man's-crie, his want of food,
“Vrge Scripture to him, that will doe no good.
“The spirits of mischeife in their soules reply,
“They'l not be forc'd to succour beggery.
Let Ioseph lie in Chaines, and Daniel too,
Shall they for thread-bare Charity undoe
Their full cramm'd baggs, abate the curious Pride
Of Wife and Children; dimme glorious outslide,
High hopes; the Worlds applause, sinne-sick wishes,
Banquets by Torch-lights, and bloud stirring dishes,
All, to relieve despised poverty?
Wrong their delights, to pitty penury?
No, no; they'l not be taught where, when, and how
To give their Almes; the Saint to whom they bow
Learnes no such lesson; he so slaves the braine
With the blacke Text; that for their hell-bred gaine,
Worse then the Scythian Thiefe, or barbarous Turke,
They'l cheate friend, Father; never doe good worke,
Vnlesse to trumpet forth their Almes, much good,
When ther's no Uertue in their venome bloud,
Yet to the World appeare the scourge of evill,
A very Saint in show, in heart a Devill.
A foule dissembling Fiend incarnate,
That seemes precise, thinking the gift of prate,
The pratling, pious seeming shew forsooth
Of a pure life, should darken sacred Truth.
Good God, divert their eyes from Hell below
To looke on Heav'n; force their blind eyes to know

Sinne for a while may with a Brasen face
Out-brave poore Vertue, flourish for a space,
Feed hot, and high, swimme in the worlds delight,
As if Vice only, were heav'ns Favorite,
Be far in folly, curious scoffes, that dare
Mocke at the wrinckled lookes of honest care.
Scorne leane Ribb'd Art, all griefes which interlace
The Lines of sorrow writ in Vertues face.
Sinne may doe this; rais'd on the loftie stile,
Of Prides preferment for a little while.
But if time lend thee yeares for to observe,
You soone shall see proud sinne, ready to sterve,
Blushing for shame, and halting on a crutch
Spotted all o're with Biles; loathsome to touch:
“Sweett sinnes soone fade, vanish like lightnings flash,
“Honors a Bubble, Riches deceitfull trash
Circl'd with mischiefes, glitt'ring wantonnesse,
Dull self-esecured Ease, brittle greatnesse:
Which like the serpent Dipsas quentchlesse thirst,
Lives never satisfied, untill it burst.
“Much wealth, small witt, and farre lesse honesty,
“Preferres the golden Asse to dignity.
Be wise as Cato, just as Manlius,
Valiant as Scipio, Chast as Curius;
“Wisedome in ragges is spurn'd at like a rush,
“Folly gaines Credit, crept but into Plush.
Be what thou wilt, wealth formes formality,
Though spung'd with never a one good quality.
Worldlings applaud the Rich, the poore despise,
Speake never so well, so excellently wise,
Best knowledge must be dumber, Wisedomes best Note,
Yeelds but harsh Musicke in a Thread-bare Coate.
Witnesse Times poore Philosophers report;
Who being in the Presence at the Court,
Was for his simple weeds of slight regard
Rudely thrust out by the grim-looking Guard;
But shifting cloathes, admitted to the Eye
Of State, the King, before whose Majestie,
He not the least of Reverence would beare,
Save Cap and Knee, to th' cloathes himselfe did weare,
Saying, I honour him that honours mee,
These my gay Clouts, which brought me King to thee.
This to the sinfull World, may Embleme out,
Mortalls vaine worshipping the Golden Clout
Of him, or her, whose soules uncertaine stand
(Fixt i'th imperative moode of proud command)
Ioyes in no other Heaven, but admiration,
Till sencelesse they forget their first Creation,
Honours vaine bubble, Riches deceitfull store,
Which ne'r drops penny to the pining poore.
Nor ever harbours thought of Charity
To Wretches, winter sterv'd with poverty.
While on the adverse part; (Vertue denide)
Vice still is hugg'd; the world's in love with pride.
O stonie hearted sinne; on thee to thinke
Feare turnes my Paper black; makes pale my Inke.
Amazeth sence, compells my palsey Pen,
Trembling to write the impiousnesse of Men,
Whose hate to pitty, must to terrour turne,
Where teares for sinne are wanting, sinne shall burne.
Tell me ye Toad-swolne flinty Pharaohs, tell?
Can temporall joyes, equall the paines of Hell:
Treasures, and pleasures, those quicke fading streames,
To the poore sleeping soule, are all but dreames.
The bodies beauty, momentary joy,
Which waking findes, Earths glory but a toy:
This for a Maxime take, shunne times lewd life,
Cease from extreames in sinne, soule-murth'ring strife,
Abhorre to Studdy state with greater zeale
Then zeale to Heav'n or the soules Common-weale,
Abhorre with solemne Oathes perjur'd to teare
And racke the name of Christ, dreadlesse of feare,
Wounding a fresh (with trembling feare I write)
Wonder of Angels, that great God of light,
His wounds with Oathes of wounds, flesh, bloud and heart
(Horrour of darkenesse) O blaspheming heart,
Too too much us'd, 'mong godlesse soules, which still
Infinite good pay, with infinite ill.