University of Virginia Library

CHAP. IV. D

DÆDALUS.

He who hath Faith's swift wings to flye
Out of the labyrinth of sin,
In pride will neither soare too high,
Nor flye too low, lest he fall in
The sea of desperation;
He knows the golden mean is best.
Or if he with the pinion
Of honour flyes; or if he's blest
With Fortunes wing, hee'l alwayes hold
The middle way; and when he flyes
With mounting thoughts, he'l not be bold
In needlesse curiosities.
On that bright lamp he will not stare,
Nor draw too nigh with waxen wings
Of humane reason, but forbear
To pry into transcendent things.
What mortall blear-eye can abide
The splendour of those flaming rayes,
From which the purest Angels hide
Their faces; O who knows his wayes,
Whose light is inaccessible;
Whose paths in the deep waters lye,
Whose wayes are all unsearchable,
Whose judgements no man can discry.
O that I had Faiths nimble wing,
To cut this airy region,
Away how quickly would I spring
Out of this sinfull dungeon;
Where Satan that great Minotaure
Lyes feeding on the souls of men;
Lord let him not my soul devoure,
But raise me out of his black den:
For none can furnish me with wings,
But thou alone, whose mighty pow'r
Exceedeth all created things.
And thou can'st kill the Minotaure.
Lord guide me in my flight, lest I
Should flye too low in vain desire
Of earthly things, or least too high
In proud conceits my heart aspire.
I crave not honours airy wing,
For golden Feathers I'le not call:
And if I flye not with a King,
Then with a King I shall not fall:
High hils, tall trees, and lofty towers,
To storms and windes are subject more
Then vallies, shrubs, and poor mens bowers;
The mean estate give me therefore.
Each fall doth answer his ascent;
The highest elevations
Of Planets in the firmament,
Have lowest declinations.

DEUCALION.

---

117

The happinesse of Britain.

Clap hands, O happy British clime,
Thrice happy, if thou knew the time
Of this thy happinesse:
Wherein thou dost injoy sweet peace,
With health, and freedom, and increase
Of wealth and godlinesse.
Thy roses and thy thistles blow,
Thy fields with milk and honey flow,
Thy ships like mountains trace
In Neptunes watry Kingdom; and
With traffick they inrich thy land
And goods from every place:
From where the morning wings are spread,
From where the evenings face looks red,
And from the torrid Zone:
And from the pole and freezing Bares,
Thou furnishest thy self with wares,
And with provision.
Thou hast no foe to crosse thy gain,
Thy Altars are not made profane
With vain Idolatry:
Thy Priests are cloath'd with holinesse,
Thy Saints sing all with joyfulnesse,
And calm security.
Here each man may at leasure dine
Under the shadow of his vine;
Thou hear'st no Canons rore:
Thou hear'st not Drums and Trumpets sound,
Dead carkasses spread not thy ground;
Thy land's not red with goare:
Thy Temples Hymns and Anthemns ring,
And Panegyricks to the King
Of this great Universe;
Down from thy sounding Pulpits fall
Gods Word like Nectar, who can all
Thy happinesse rehearse?
Sure thou art that Pernassus hill,
On which Deucalion did dwell
When all the earth was drown'd:
So whil'st the earth now swims in blood,
And men walk through in a Crimson flood,
Thy head with peace is crown'd.
Here all the Muses with their King,
Bay-brow'd Apollo sit and sing
Their envied quietnesse:
So nothing's wanting as we see,
To make thee blest, except it be
Submissive thankfulnesse.
Here we have just Deucalions
Who make wise men of stupid stones,
And who behinde them cast
The love of earth; whose innocence
Keeps off the flood of wars from hence,
So that our hill stands fast.
Much of this happinesse we gain
By him, whose sacred brows sustain
The three-fold Diadem
Of these Sea-grasping Isles, whose ground
Joves brother doth not onely round,
But as his own doth claim.
Great God, prime author of our peace,
Let not this happinesse decrease,
But let it flourish still:
Take not thy mercie from this land,
Nor from the man of thy right hand,
So shall we fear no ill.

DIANA.

Who would a chaste and constant virgin be,
Must shun the worlds impure society;
And idlenesse, for want of exercise,
Corrupts our limbs, and kills our souls with vice.
On cloud-transcending meditations
We must have still our conversations;
In Cities, chaste Diana never dwels,
But in green woods, and on the airy hils:
In woods she hunts wilde beasts, on hils she dances,
And on her shoulder blades her bow advances:
Oreades about her in a ring
In measures trace the ground, and sweetly sing.
Oh that I had Diana's wings, that I
From tumults to these calm retreats might flye,
Where she amongst her Nymphs doth reign as queen,
Where Flora keeps her fragrant Magazin;
Where wood-Musitians with their warbling throats
Chant forth untaught, but yet melodious notes
Neer Chrystall-brested rivers; O that I
Could still enjoy this harmlesse companie,
Which know-not pride, nor malice, nor deceits,
Nor flattery, the moth and bane of states.
O that I had Diana's silver bow,
To kill my beastly sins, before they grow
Too savage; if I had the nimble feet
Of her two Stags, then would I be as fleet
As they, to run the way of Gods commands,
Then would I hold the Lyon in my hands,
And Leopard; O if I could subdue
My wilde unruly sins, a savage crew.
O let my weary soul be carried, Lord,
In that bright silver chariot of thy Word;
And let thy fear, and milk-white innocence,
Be these two Stags to draw my soul from hence.
And whil'st my glasse runs in obscurity,
Let me not lose my virgin purity;
And let not fair Diana, thy chaste love,
Thy spotlesse Church, thy silver feather'd Dove
Abuse her self with grosse idolatry,
And lose the honour of virginity.
Let that Ephesian perish with disgrace,
Who would her Temple and her state deface:
Let no Records eternize that foul name,
And let it not be mention'd but with shame.