Prison-Pietie or, Meditations Divine and Moral. Digested into Poetical Heads, On Mixt and Various Subjects. Whereunto is added A Panegyrick to The Right Reverend, and most Nobly descended, Henry, Lord Bishop of London. By Samuel Speed, Prisoner in Ludgate, London |
 |
On Humility. |
 | Prison-Pietie |  |
On Humility.
Nosce teipsum hard is to be learn'd;A mans own faults are not with ease discern'd.
The faults of other men are writ in Text,
Easie to read, when ours are not annext.
The eye that's fixt on Natures choicest shelf,
Can all things see, yet not behold it self.
Presumptuous Confidence goes bleeding home,
When humble Fear triumphantly doth come.
Great Alexander would be deifi'd,
Confess'd himself a man, his blood espi'd.
The humble man, within another minds
All things are excellent; but when he finds
He doth decline in Vertue, noble Elf,
He is the first that shall condemn himself.
His eyes are full of his continual want,
Sees others worth, and grieves himself is scant.
When he hath but a mite of his deserts,
Others he magnifies. Thus he imparts
His generosity to famous use,
Whilst others do repay him with abuse.
From pride and malice none is more exempt;
Asham'd of honour, values no contempt.
51
That hides its head with leaves; and he is found
Like that, with fragrant smells which so bewray
That his own Vertues do his Worth betray.
In his Discourse he never flies aloft;
His words are few, and those few words are soft.
Modestly speaking, not self-glorious,
Nor peremptory, nor censorious.
Because he thinks all other men more wise,
Corrects himself by his own modest eyes.
When his Devotions do the time beguile,
He makes himself a nothing, wretched, vile;
Doth no man emulate: if understood,
He hates none but himself, because not good.
A mite of Comfort doth his wants supply;
And none more patient when in misery,
Because he knows that his deserts are such,
That having sin'd, cannot be plagu'd too much.
He a low Valley is, and planted sweet,
Where fresh and fragrant Odours often meet;
And like the proud mans earth is trampled on,
Though full of wealthy Mines; a pretious stone
Fit for foundation-work, not plac'd aloof,
God's holy Temple built with lowly roof.
Camomile-like, and Palm-tree, when deprest,
Doth higher rise, wearied to take his rest.
Zacheus from the Sycamore came down,
And that descension made the Lord his own.
'Tis not the Proud that do in Christ believe,
Not Lofty, but the Humble him receive.
Fruitfullest Trees do in the Valleys grow,
And thrive the better for their being low:
When taller Trees an interruption finde,
By the strong blast of a contagious winde:
Yet the tall Tree hangs down its head, to say,
For this God made me, and I do obey.
The humble man considers Earth's his Womb,
And then remembers Earth must be his Tomb.
Unto Humility God's Grace is given,
Who with that Grace a Ladder makes to Heaven.
| Prison-Pietie | |