University of Virginia Library

THE DIVINE ECCHO, BETWEENE THE GOOD ANGELL, Man in despaire, And the Devill.

Man.
Death to my Soule, how long must I in vaine
Heav'ns comfort crave? yet endlessely remaine.
Fetter'd in sinne? breake Heart, give death free scope
And must I then despaire? is there no hope?

Angell
Hope.

Man.
What Soule affected spirit to mine Eare
Eccho's some sweet releife? can hope come neare
Sinnes shackl'd Slave from whom all Veruer gon?
What's to be Hop'd for? when all hopes are done?

Angell.
Pardon.

Man.
How; Pardon, can Pardon raise a wretch
Times reprobate like me? I that can fetch
Nor sigh, nor teare, sinnes furie to abate,
Can Heav'n free such a Soule? so desolate?

Devill.
Too late.

Man.
Too late indeede; my Sinnes sicke stonie heart,
Traytor to Truth; Acts the Tragedian's Part
Of ill so well; I know not what to doe,
Frights, terrours, broken sleepes, all speake my woe,
Yet Holy Writ tells me, 'tis better ever,
Late to repent, then to repent me never.

Devill.
Never.

Man.
O my horrour (never) thou deadly accent,
Art thou from Heav'n or Hells curs'd dungeon sent
Must my despairing thoughts for ever bend
To Hellish Actions? shall I ne'r amend?

Angell.
Amend.

Man.
Amend I cannot, guifts of Grace I lacke
Like him that weares Heav'ns Livery on's backe
Hells favour in his bosom; wretched I
Will Fate afford no present remedie!

Devill.
Die.

Man.
My soule must then miscarrie and be damb'd.

Devill.
Be dam'd.

Man.
Is that the onely solace, all the pitty
Sterne Fate affords poore Man in misery?

Devill.
I.

Man.
Was my Creation in the Wombe of woe
Ordain'd for Hell? no otherwise then so.

Devill.
So.

Man.
Die then I must; and will, appoint me where.

Devill.
Here.

Man.
So quicke: O true Physition, for to die
I hold it best; and to linke suddenly.
Here in this Desart then, where no eye sees,
Expresse the meanes to die among these Trees.

Devill.
These Trees.

Man.
If 'mong these Trees appoint to me an Altar?

Devill.
An Halter.

Man.
To be hang'd is base, better to drowne my selfe,

Devlll.
Do, drowne thy selfe.

Man.
No no, I will not die so like a Rat,
A Cicken, or a Mouse, a Dog, a Cat,
But like the desp'rate Statesman I will be
Made nothing by a Dramme; poyson to me
Is pretious balme; I will die by poyson.

Devill
I, poyson,

Man.
'Tis the true death, best Cure 'gainst discontent
The Noble-Mans consumption; my intent
Huggs thē conceit; And yet my soule to slay
By touch or tast, is no true Roman way
Canst thou not change thy word?

Devill.
Thy sword.

Man.
Shall my Sword then set free from all the strife
Of Worldly woes? this mockery of life:
Can my sword soone quit me from out this straight?

Devill.
Straight.

Man.
I tifle time; come forth thou maine sole good,
Thou cure to all my cares; sweete sword in blood
I'le drowne thy friendly Blade; tis the best Part
Thou ere canst Act, to cleave thy Masters heart.
Fly soule to Ayre, Flame, Dust, I know not where,
Earth, serve thou me for Coffin and for Beere,

Angell.
Forbeare.

Man.
Who bids forbeare? what Potent power commands
My soule to live? my sword and trembling hand
To stop their bloudy course? is it in Fate
To alter Mans intent before too late,
Turning swift mischiefe to that sudden stay
Whom death but ev'n now would make her Prey?

Angell.
Pray.

Man.
Pray, unto whom? my soule is in a mist,
See see, me thinkes the Everlasting Fist
Of Heav'n is stretcht, waving the Crowne of grace
Over my Cursed head, Soule, sinfull Face.
Ayme accurst; I doe deserve the Rod
Of Vengeance rather then to pray to God
For the least drop of Mercy: No I must
Not dare to pray to him, for he is just.

Angell.
Just.

Man.
And by his Iustice, my impietie
Merits Eternall endlesse miserie,
Sinnes just reward; O teach me yet the way
Thou Divine Eccho; to what place to pray,
From whence implored mercy may be giv'n,
To cleare my sinnes great score, and make all ev'n.

Angell.
Heav'n.

Man.
What words will best he fit, and not betray me,

Angell.
Aye-mee.

Man.
Despaire deteines me backe, commands me say
I have no Will; no Minde, no heart to pray
What shall I doe? my soule is in a Feaver
And in that word despaire I shall end ever.

Angell
Endeavour.

Man.
O sacred sweetnesse, true Cælestiall witt,
Thou summe of sweetnes stampt in sacred writ,
Endeavour, yes, sinnes strife is the best play,
My soule can Act; God give, heav'n I obey.

Angell.
Obey.