Men-Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou, since thy thicke Afflictions first begun,
Mak'st Dioclesian's dayes all Calme, and Sun,
And when thy Tragicke Annals are compil'd,
Old Persecutions shall be Piety stil'd,
The Stake and Faggot shall be Temp'rate names,
And Mercy weare the Character of Flames:
Men knew not then Thrift in the Martyrs breath,
Nor weav'd their lives into a foure-yeares Death,
Few ancient Tyrants do our stories Taxe,
That slew first by Delayes, then by the Axe,

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But these (Tiberius like) alone do cry,
Tis to be Reconcil'd to let thee Dy.

Observe we then a while, into what Maze,
Compasse, and Circle they contrive Delaies,
What Turnes and wilde Perplexities they chuse,
Ere they can forge their slander, and Accuse:
The Sun hath now brought his warme Chariot backe,
And rode his Progresse round the Zodiacke,
When yet no Crime appeares, when none can tell,
Where thy guilt sleepes, not when 'twill breake the shell,
Why is His shame deferr'd? what is't that bring's
Your Justice backe, spoiles Vengeance of her Wings?
Hath mercy seiz'd you? will you rage no more?
Are Winds growne tame? have seas forgot to roare?
No, a wilde fiercenesse hath your minds possest,
Which time and sins must cherish and digest:
You durst not now let His cleare Blood be spilt,
You were not yet growne up to such a guilt,
You try if Age if seaventy yeares can Kill;
Then y'have your Ends, and you are Harmelesse still.
But when this fail'd, you do your Paths enlarge,
But would not yet whole Innocence discharge;
You'l not be Devill All, you faine would prove
Good at faire Distance, within some Remove,

“Virtue hath sweets which are good Mens due gaine,
“Which Vice would not Deserve, yet would Retaine.

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This was the Cause, why once it was your Care,
That Stormes and Tempests in your sin might share,
You did engage the Waves, and strongly stood
To make the Water guilty of his Blood.
Boats are dispatcht in hast, and 'tis his doome,
Not to his charge, but to his shipwracke come;
Fond men, your cruell Project cannot doe,
Tempests and stormes must learne to kill from you,
When this came short; He must Walke Pilgrimage,
No Coach nor mule, that may susteine his Age;
Must trace the City (now a Desert rude)
And combate salvage Beasts the multitude.
But when his Guardian Innocence can fling
Awe round about, and save him by that Ring.
When the Just cause can fright the Beast away,
And make the Tyger tremble at her prey.
When neither Waves dare seize him nor the Rout,
The storme with Reason, nor the storme without:
Lost in these streights when Plots have Vanquisht bin,
And sin perplext hath no Releife, but sin.
Agents and Instruments now on you fall,
You must be Judges, People, Waves and All,

Yet 'cause the Rout will have't perform'd by you,
And long to see done what they dare not Doe.
You put the Crime to use, it swels your Heape,
Your sin's your Wealth, nor are you Guilty cheape,

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You Husband All; there's no Appearance lost,
Nor comes he once to th' Barre but at their cost;
A constant Rate well Taxt, and Levied right,
And a Just value set upon each sight.
At last they finde the Dayes by their owne purse,
Lesse knowne from him then what they do disburse:
But when it now strikes high for him t' appeare,
And Chapmen see the Bargaine is growne deare;
They Muster hands, and their hot suits enlarge,
Not to persue the Man, but save the Charge.
Then lest you loose their Custome, (a just feare)
Selling your sinnes and others Blood too deare.
You grant their suits, the Manner, and the Time.
And he must Dye for what no Law calls crime.
Th' Afflicted Martyrs, when their paines began,
Their Trajan had, or Dioclesian.
Their Tortures weare some Colour and proceed,
Though from no guilt, yet 'cause they disagreed;
What League, what Freindship there? They could not joyne,
And fix the Arke and Dagon in one Shrine.
Faith, combats Faith, and how agree can they,
That still goe on, but still a severall way?
Zeale, Martyrs Zeale, and Heate 'gainst Heate conspires,
As Theban Brothers fight though in their fires.
Yet as two diff'rent Starres unite their Beames,
And Rivers mingle Waves, and mix their Streames,

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And though they challenge each a severall Name,
Conspire because their moisture is the same.
So Parties knit, though they be diverse knowne,
The men are many, but the Christians, one.
Trajan, no Trajan was to his owne Heard,
And Tygers are not by the Tygers fear'd.
What strange excesse then? what's that menstrous Power,
When flames do flames, and streams do streams devoure?
Where the same faith, 'gainst the same faith doth knock,
And sheep are wolves to sheepe of the same flocke?
Where Protestant the Protestant defies,
Where both Assent, yet one for Dissent dyes?
Let those that doubt this, through his Actions Wade,
Where some must needes Convince, All may perswade.

Was he Apostate, who your Champion stood,
Bath'd in his Inke before, as now in Blood?
He that unwindes the subtile Jesuite,
That Feeles the Serpents Teeth, and is not bit?
Vnties the Snake, findes each Mysterious knot,
And turnes the Poyson into Antidot.
Doth Nicety with Nicety undoe?
And makes the Labyrinth the Labyrinth's clew?
That sleight by sleight subdues, and clearely proves,
Truth hath her Serpents too, as well as Doves?
Now, you that blast his Innocence, Survey,
And veiw the Triumphs of this Glorious day;

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Could you (if that might be) if you should come
To seale God's cause with your owne Martyrdome,
Could all the Blood whose tydes move in your veines,
(Which then perhaps were Blood, but now is staines,)
Yeeld it that Force and strength, which it hath took
(Should we except his Bloud) from this his Booke,
Your Flame or Axe would lesse evince to Men,
Your blocke and stake would prop lesse then his Pen;

Is he Apostate, whom the Baitos of Rome
Cannot seduce, though all her Glories come?
Whom all her specious Honours cannot hold,
Who hates the snare although the Hooke be Gold?
Who Prostituted Titles can despise,
And from despised Titles, greater Rise?
Whom Names cannot Amuse, but seates withall
The Protestant above the Cardinall?
Who sure to his owne soule, doth scorne to finde
A Crimsoncap the Purchase of his minde?

“Who is not Great, may blame his Fate's Offence,
“Who would not be, is Great in's Conscience,
Next these His Sweat and Care how to advance
The Church but to Her Just Inheritance,
How to gaine backe her Owne, yet none Beguile,
And make her Wealth her purchase, nor her spoile:
Then, shape Gods worship to a joynt consent;
'Till when the seamelesse Coate must still be Rent:

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Then, to repaire the shrines, as Breaches sprung,
Which we should heare, could we lend Pauls a Tongue.

Speake, speake! great Monument! while thou yet art such,
And Reare him 'bove their Scandalls and their Touch;
Had he surviv'd, thou might'st in Time Declare,
Vast things may comely be, and Greatest Faire.
And though thy Limbs spreud high, and Bulk exceed,
Thou'dst prov'd that Gyants are no monstrous breed:
Then 'bove Extent thy Lustre would prevaile,
And 'gainst Dimension Feature turne the Scale;
But now, like Pyrrah's halfe adopted Birth,
Where th'issue part was Woman, Part was Earth,
Where Female some, and some to stone was Bent,
And the one halfe was t'others Monument,
Thou must imperfect lye, and learne to Groane,
Now for his Ruine, straight way for thine owne:
But this and Thousand such Abortives are,
By Bloody Rebels Ravish't from his care,
But yet though some miscarried in the Wombe,
And Deeds Still-borne have hastned to their Tombe,
God (that Rewards him now) forbad his store,
Should all ly hid, and he but give ith' Ore,
Many are Stamp't, and shap't, and do still shine,
Approv'd at Mint, a firme, and Perfect Coyne.
Witnesse that Mart of Bookes that yonder stands,
Bestow'd by him, though by anothers Hands:

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Those Attick Manuscripts, so rare a Peice,
They tell the Turke, he hath not Conquer'd Greece,

Next these, a second Beauteous Heape is throwne,
Of Easterne Authors, which were all his owne.
Who in so Various Languages appeare,
Babel, could scarce be their Interpreter.

To These, we may that Faire-built Colledge bring,
Which proves that Learning's no such Rustick thing;
Whose structure well contriv'd doth not relate
To Antick finenesse, but strong lasting state:
Beauty well mixt with strength, that it complyes
Most with the Gazer's use, much with his Eyes,
On Marble Columnes thus the Arts have stood,
As wise Seth's Pillars sav'd 'em in the Flood.
But did he leave here Walls, and only Owne
A glorious Heape, and make us rich in Stone?
Then had our Chanc'lour seem'd to faile, and here
Much honour due to the Artificer:
But this Our Prudent Patron long fore-saw,
When he Refi'nd rude Statutes into Law;
Our Arts and Manners to his Building falls,
And he erects the Men, as well as Walls:

“Thus Solons Lawes his Athens did Renowne,
“And turn'd that throng of Buildings to a Towne.
Yet neither Law nor Statute, can be knowne
So strickt, as to Himselfe, he made his owne,

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Which in his Actions Inventory lies,
Which Hell or Prinne can never scandalize:
Where every Act his rigid eye surveyes,
And Night is Barre, and Judge to all his Dayes;
Where all his secret Thoughts he doth comprize,
And every Dreame is summon'd to an Assize;
Where he Arraignes each Circumstance of care,
Which never parts dismiss'd without a Prayer,
See! how he sifts and searches every part,
And ransackes all the closets of his heart;
He puts the houres upon the Racke and Wheele,
And all his minutes must confesse or feele:
If they reveale one Act which forth did come.
When Humane frailty crept into the Loome,
If one Thread staine, or sully, breake or faint,
So that the man does interrupt the Saint,
He hunts it to its Death, nor quits his feares,
Till't be Embalm'd in Prayers, or drown'd in Teares.

The Sunne in all his journeys ne're did see
One more devout, nor one more strict then He.

Since his Religion then's Unmixt and Fine,
And Workes doe warrant faith, as o're the Mine:
What can his crime be now? Now you must lay
The Kingdome's Lawes subverted in his way:
See! no such crime doth o're his Conscience grow,
(Without which Witnesse ne're can make it so)

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A cleare Transparent White, bedecks his mind,
Where nought but Innocence can shelter find,
Witnesse that Breath which did your staine and blot
Wipe freely out, (though Heaven I feare will not)
Witnesse that Calme and Quiet in His Brest,
Prologue and Preface to His Place of Rest;
When with the World He could undaunted part,
And see in Death nor meagre Lookes, nor Dart:
When to the Fatall Blocke His Gray Age goes
With the same Ease, as when he tooke Repose.
“He like old Enoch to His Blisse is gone,
“'Tis not His Death, but His Translation.