University of Virginia Library

EUMENIDES.

See how the grim-fac'd hags from Hells black lake
Ascend, and all their hissing tresses shake:
They look as fearfull as their mother night,
Their black flam'd torches yeeld a dismall light:
Who rais'd these monsters from hot Phlegeton,
These ghastly daughters of sad Acharon
To torture men; hark how their lashes sound,
See how they poyson men, and burn and wound.
Alas, we can accuse none but our selves,
We are the raisers of these dreadfull elves,
And we'r the cause of all the misery
That fals on us and our posterity.
Our sin, alas, procures us all our woe,
Sin makes our dearest friend our greatest foe:
Almighty God, whose high-born progeny
We are, is now become our enemy,
And he gives way to these infernall hounds
To roame abroad, and rage beyond their bounds.
Gold-fingred avarice, with yawning jaws,
And piercing eyes, and ever-scraping claws:
Whose heart like bird-lime clings to every thing
It sees, and still is poor in coveting:
Flyes over all, and which (the more's the pitie)
Hath poyson'd both the Country and the City;
A greedy dog, that's never fill'd with store,
But eating still, and barking still for more.
The cryes and grones of poor men wrong'd, can tell
That this devouring fury came from hell.
Then pale-fac'd, squint-ey'd, black-mouth'd envie flyes,
And with her sable wings beats out mens eyes,
That they cannot on vertues glitt'ring gold
Look cheerfully, nor good mens works behold.
Like Owls they see by night, black spots they spy,
Then run their tongues on wheels of obloquy,
But have not eyes to see the shining day
Of goodnesse; nor good words have they to say.
This fury is the bane of each good action,
And is the spightfull mother of detraction:
She blasts the buds and blossomes of true worth,
And chokes all brave atchievements in their birth.
Her pestilentiall breath, her murth'ring eye,
Her slandring tongue which goodnesse doth belye;
Her whip, and torch, and crawling looks can tell,
That she's one of those hags that came from hell.
Then raging anger with a scarlet face,
And flaming eyes, and feet that run apace
To shed mans blood, who for a harmlesse word
Will make thy heart a scabberd for her sword;
Whose heart is alwayes boyling in her brest,
And whose revengefull thoughts are ne're at rest.
The panting breath, the trembling lip, the eyes
Sparkling with fire, the grones and hideous cryes:
The stammering tongue, the stamping foot of those
That are possess'd with these infernall foes,
May let us see, that when there's so much ire
Without, the heart within is set on fire.
By that sulphurious torch of Tisiphon,
Kindled with flames of fiery Phlegeton;
The cry of so much blood shed in this age,
Doth shew how much these hellish monsters rage.
These are the hellish furies, but from them
Swarm multitudes, which now I cannot name;
As pride, theft, lust, bribes, rapes, ambition,
And sacriledge, drunkennesse, oppression:
And thousands more which I cannot rehearse,
And, if I could, I would not put in verse
This damned crue; these furies causes are
That we are scourg'd, with famine, plague, and war:
Famine with meagre cheeks, and hollow eyes,
Lank belly, feeble knees, and withred thighs,
Doth often by th'Almighties just command,
Rage, roare, and domineer within our land.
The wasting plague with sudden unseen darts
Invades the stourest, and assaults their hearts;
And with a secret fire dryes up the bloud,
And carries all before her like a flood.
How often doth this spotted fury rage,
With pale-fac'd horrour on this mortall stage,
And makes our Towns and Cities desolate,
And doth whole countries too depopulate:
But War the barbarous mistresse of disorders,
How doth she rage within our Christian borders?
Good God, who can without a briny flood
Of tears, behold the losse of so much bloud?
Who can, but such whose hearts are made of stones,
Hear (with dry eyes) the mournfull sighs and grones,
The screechings, yellings, roarings of all ages,
Weltring in blood, where this grim monster rages:
Temples profan'd, maids ravish'd, Cities raz'd,
And glory of Christs kingdom thus defac'd;
Where ought to raign peace and tranquillity,
With love, and goodnesse, truth, and civility.
And then to see the Turk that barbarous Lord,
Inlarge his horned Moon by our discord,
And daily to insult on Christs poor sheep,
These things would make a Niobe to weep.
O turn for shame your fratricidall swords
Into the sides of those proud Scythian Lords,
Who rais'd themselves by our unhappy fall,
And now aim at the ruine of us all.
Recover once again your ancient glories,
And make your valour Themes of future stories.
Alas, I may with tears expresse my grief,
Which hath a tongue to speak, but no relief:
Except, O thou that art the God of wars,
Compose in time our too too civill jars.
We grant, O Lord, thy plagues we have deserved,
Who have so often from thy precepts swerved;
And that of thee we should be quite forlorn,
And be the objects of contempt and scorn:
But Lord, let not thy wrath for ever burn,
Remember those that now in Sion mourn:
And save us though we have deserv'd thy stroke,
And keep us from the proud imperious yoke
Of Ottomans, who like dogs lap our blood,
And take our flesh like Canibals for food.
And Lord preserve in constant union
The little world of this our Albion;
Inlarge his life, who doth inlarge our peace,
And make his glory with his life increase:
That being mounted on the wings of fame,
This age may see his worth, the next admire his name.