Mel Heliconium :: :: University of Virginia Library

Loe then the hundred-headed dog at last
Is bound with Adamantine chains so fast,
That though he bark and foame, yet cannot bite,
H'hath lost his power, but hath not lost his spite.
How much are we beholding to our Lord,
Who by his power and all-subduing word,
Charms monsters three, black-mouth'd infernall hounds,
Death, Hell, and Satan, and their power confounds.
When he descended to black Pluto's Tower,
Where this three-yawning Mastiff keeps the dore,
He caus'd him to disgorge himself of those
Which in his bowels he did long inclose.
He durst not stare upon these glorious rayes,
Which turn the darkest nights to cleerest dayes:
But frets and foames; his Snakes, as with a spell,
Stood all amaz'd to see such light in Hell.
Then let us all with one joynt harmony
Chant forth his noble praise, and pierce the sky;
That as the winged quirristers still sing
Cœlestiall Hallelujahs to this King;
So we with them may chant, and Carroll forth

With warbling notes his everlasting worth,
Who freed us from this prison where we lay,
And makes us now injoy a brighter day,
Then any that within our Horizon
Was ever seen, or in the burning Zone.
And you rich hounds who almost split with store,
And yet your jaws are yawning still for more,
Your ill-got gobbets vomit up in time,
Remember you'r but dust, and gold's but slime.
Unlock your iron Goals, break up your caves,
In which your gold lyes buried as in graves.
And let your pale-fac'd money see the Sun,
Let free these captives from their dungeon:
That they may walk abroad, and let them serve
Poor men that are in want, and like to starve.
And thou, O Lord, who onely durst encounter,
And only couldst, with that three-headed monster;
And who hath pull'd the prey out of his jaws,
And broke his teeth, & par'd his scratching claws;
So satisfie my craving appetite,
That it in thee alone may take delight;
For neither honours (Lord) nor wealth I see,
This gaping heart of mine can satisfie:
For what are these but transitory toyes,
Compar'd with thee, compar'd with inward joyes,
The more my soul feeds on these aiery dishes,
The more she hungers, and the more she wishes.
Hydropick men, still drink, and still are dry,
The horse-leach cryes, Give, give, and so do I:
Then seeing there's no end of my desire,
But wealth, like oil, doth still increase this fire;
Give not too much, but what's sufficient,
And having thee, with thee I'le be content.