Ex otio Negotium :: :: University of Virginia Library

What strange noise strikes mine eare? what suddain sound?
As though the rowling windes were all unbound
And met at once, by one joynt fury hurld
To overturn the hinges of the world?
This Scæne fore-runs some dreadfull Act to come,
Some greater wonder issuing from the womb
Of Providence than what has pass'd our eye?
Sure there's no second Son of God to dye?
Nor summons to the dead once more to rise
And scare the bloudy City's Sacrifice?

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Nor does the chearfull Sun dance through the sphears
As though he meant to fetch his last carrears?
Time's not so near its Exit? nor the fall
And conflagration of this circled Ball?

But yet behold a fire! most contrary
To its own nature posting from on high!
Kindling a sad suspition, cleft in rayes
As though design'd to catch all sorts of waies!
Sure tis no wanton flame, such whifling Lights
Quench with the night-mark of tempestuous nights,
Not daring to attempt the daye's bright eye
To judge their non-existent frippery.
No, this descends more stayd, reach'd from above,

‘O 'tis the very God of peace and love!
But how so strange devided? can there bee
Twelve parts like Tribes couch'd in the dietie?
That it appears multipartite? in th'dress
Of Cloven Tongues? what tongue can this express?
Yet though it seems in Sections to appear
Most like the soul 'Tis wholly every where.
The Spirit's omnipresent, nor can bee
Confin'd to number, measure, or degree.
But why in fire? and such myrac'lous flame?
Fix'd on a stay, yet not consume the same?
Are men like Moses bush? can bodyes burn
Insensible? and not to ashes turn?

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The wonder's great! but not so deep as high.
‘Nature must needs leave work, when God stands by.

Descend on me Great God! but in such fire
May not consume, but kindle my desire.
Descend on me in flames! but such as move
Winged by th'inspiration of the Dove.
Descend in Cloven Tongues! such as dispence
No double meanings in a single sense.

Hence all you wilde pretenders, you that blaze
Like Meteors lapp'd in zeal, and dance the maze
Of non-conformity in antique fits,
Yea even from your selves curss'd Hereticks;
Light not your frighted censors here: no Quaker,
Frisker, Baboon, or Antinomian shaker
Must fire his brand from hence, the Spirit claims
No holder-forth that dwells on second aimes;
But Comes t'reprove the worlds Judaick press
Of Sin, of Judgment, and of Righteousness.

No strange fanatick spark that gaping flyes
And leaves its Audience skared with extasies.
No Skipper in divinity, no Hinter,
No radled Cardinal, no dreaming minter
Of words and faces, no Quire of the Brisle,
No squib, no squeaker of the puny grisle
Approach this glory: For the beauteous Sun
Admits no maskers till the day be done.
No Chymical St. Martins pass the Test
Till the pure Oare's exild, or gone to rest.

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Shine out bright God, dispel these smoaky foggs
Of schisme and heresie that smears and clogs
The chariot of thy Gospell, that truth may
Break forth in its own glosse and proper ray.
That the Blue-apron'd Crackers of the times.
Those wilde-fire Rockets, whose ambition climbes
To wound the world with broils, set all on fire,
And sink a glorious Church through base desire,
May dwindle to their bulks, and there indite
Long small-drink Anthems of the Saints good night.
While it contents the boyes to nod at last
November and my Ld. Mayors day are past.