University of Virginia Library

THE FLESH.

The Flesh unto the Soul's a bitter Pill,
Sweet gilded poyson, Candide o're to kill,
Hurrid, Caroacht in Pride, with glitt'ring showe
Of swelling pompe, whose sweet effect, is woe.
Fleshly delights begets much misery,
Makes couples married unadvisedly,
Thinking Love tittle tattles, can feede their wishes,
Love soone growes cold, where there is empty dishes.
Of all the sinnes that are, when nothing can
Ruine the soule; the Flesh prevailes with man.
Mans eyes no sooner on devotion waite,
But in steps Carnall concupiscence straight,
Shee's at his Elbow still, to itch him on,
Th' unhappie path to his confusion.
Chast Wives are Saints, women that wantonize,
Witches, all poyson, hell is in their eyes,
In which, as in a wildernesse of woe,
In striving to get out, on mad men goe,
Starke mad, past sense, spight of all bookes & Schooles
Ruine their Fortunes; prove the slaves to Fooles
For an alluring minutes trifling joy
Insatiate Licorish longing, a meere toy.
The flesh (false Traytor like) strives to betray
The soule to Hell, as Heav'ns just cast-away.
Fleshly delight in Man, feares want of breath
More then his God; sinne, or Eternall death.
When just Plagues come, then sin-sicke sots can tremble,
Make knowne to all the world, how they dissemble;
Pray with the Lip, (not heart) wrest sacred Text
To serve their owne ends first; and then Gods next,
Provide to live, in pestilent Times beginne,
Take greater care to fly from death, then sinne.
Ther's nothing in our Flesh but wickednesse,
Desire to live, and obscene wantonnesse.
O vaine desire of mortalls, can there be
In flight or Physick crue 'gainst heav'ns decree?
No, no, ther's no escape; no way to this:
Mans good life onely, meets with mercies kisse.
We forget now that dreadfull dismall chance,
The terrible Arrow of Gods vengeance,
When death buried farre more, then the earth could swallow,
And no man to the Grave his friend durst follow.
O why should Mortalls wish long life to live?
What comfort? what true joy do's this live give?
Ther's nothing, not one thought that do's us good,
But it is strangl'd straight, by flesh and blood.
Holy Saint Paul, finding the flesh rebell,
Desir'd to be dissolv'd, proud flesh to quell:
And Sacred Symeon sung 'gainst sinnes increase;
Lord let thy servant now depart in peace.
Shall such soule sweenting preparations be
Forgotten quite; O blind securitie.
What is it, we behold in this vaine life?
But daily dangers soule-bewitching strife,
The Flesh is full of dagger; (never quiet)
'Mong fullfed dishes, and Luxurious diet.
When my Soule-Erring Eyes, staring behold
A dang'rous strumpet, flame in glittering gold
(And murd'ring beauty; sparkling from her Eye
Burning temptation;) then, me thinkes I spie
My most apparent mischeife, plainely see,
How I ne'r strive to please my God, as shee
Strives to please men; such is the flaming pride
Of the vaine flesh, it hurts on ev'ry side.
Ther's nothing constant in us, if to day
Vertue we love, to morrow Vice obey.
What a notorious Coxcombe unto sinne;
Lust makes of Man, slave to a whores soft skinne.
What's a delicious Harlot? but a cheater,
A poyson'd Marmalad Box, that rots the eater,
A Harlot, Man most fitly may compare
To Quicksilver; whose Mettall (like asnare)
When er'e it meets with gold, does evermore
Mingle it selfe; so commonly a whore.
'Tis not the Man, but money she respects,
And mingling with the one, she both infects,
Drinks deepe in Taverns, Swaggers, Sweares, and raves,
Gets gold from fooles, to spend it upon knaves.
The cheife praise of a good wife do's not lie
In outward shew; but inward pietie:
If Vertue rules her bloud, she merits love,
If not, I will assure thee shee will prove
Like a deceitfull glasse; where man may see,
Hee's meerly cheated in her; O miserie,
Man makes lewd women proud with looking at,
And wondrous wanton to, beleeve that.
The onely cure, Lust's raging flames to quench
Is Aqua Lachrymarum; that will stench
The wounds proud women so delight to make
On the poore soule of Man; make him to quake,
A fear'd to stand on that false rocke of Ice
Idlenesse feeder of foule carnall Vice.
Nurse of blacke thoughts, south-Fogg, which rots the minde
Leapours the soule, and is the Northerne winde
The cause of all sinnes stormes; that dang'rous flood
Lusts surging Ocean swelling in Mans blood.
O Devill desire of Lust, me, me forsake,
I charge thee hence, by him that made hell quake.
By that Almighty One, in sacred Trine,
All holy spells, and Charmes, Magick Divine;
By that sweet Excellent Sacred Puritie
(Sister of Angells) Virgin Chastity,
Fly from me all base thoughts, be just mine eyes,
And be your selves; hate wantons Witcheries.