University of Virginia Library

Of this sad Passion I may knowledge take,
And well say somewhat for acquaintance sake.
'Tis a disease that doth possesse so many,
It neither doth forbeare nor favour any.
Come when it will an ill report it gains,
And every one of his hard usage plains.
Then, tis beside so troublesome a guest:
None that do harbour it have any rest:
And which is worse, though he his host diseases,
'Tis thought he cannot rid him when he pleases.

And yet methinks if man would use his might,
He may asswage, if not out-weare it quite:
It is at least his duty; for should he
That must on earth th' Almighties Viceroy be?
Should he to whom the Soveraigne Lord hath given
A countenance that should behold the heaven?
With Sorrows visage hide his manly grace,
And groveling turn to earth his blubber'd face?
Is't not a shame to see the man who saith,
That he a Christian is, and seems t'have faith,
Should for misfortune without remedie,
Be passionate in such extremity,
That childish teares not onely stain his face,
(Which may be born withall in many a case)
But also raves, grows furious; and extends
His griefe past reasons limits? who commends
A man for that? Say, is it any lesse,
Than to deny by deed what words professe?
For who would think which sees how he bewailes
The losse of breath that in a moment fails
That he beleeves, but rather thinks 'tis vain
To hope or trust the flesh shall rise again?
Or that there were, as holy Scripture saith,
Any reward for them that die in faith.
It's a plain token of a mis-beleefe,
When Christians so o'er-whelm themselves in griefe:
And therefore, though I do not discommend
The moderate bewailing of a friend;
I wish th' extream hereof men might despise,
Lest their profession they do scandalize.

Beside, (though as I seem'd to say before)
Vnles't be common, 'tis no common sore,
Because it hurts but those that entertain it,
Yet good it were if all men could refrain it.
For it not onely makes mans visage be
Wried, deform'd and wrinkled as we see;
Himselfe exiling from the common eye,
To vex and grieve alone he knows not why:
But also brings diseases with his death,
By the untimely stopping of his breath.
It makes his friends to loath his company,
And greatly hinders his commodity.
For who to deale in his affaires is fit,
Vnlesse with good-will he attendeth it?
And howsoe'er it seeme; yet surely this,
As farre from vertue as bad pleasure is:
For as through th' one we to much evill run,
So many good things the other leaves undone.

I wonder that this Passion should touch
The hearts of men to make them grieve so much
As many doe for present miseries?
Have they no feeling of felicities
That are to come? If that they be in paine,
Let hope give ease; it will not alwaies raine.
Calmes doe the roughest stormes that are attend,
And the longst night that is, will have an end.

But 'tis still bad thou saist: take't patiently,
An Age is nothing to Eternity.
Thy time's not here; envie not, though that some
Seeme to thee happy; their bad day's to come:
And if thou knewst the griefe they must sustaine,
Thou would'st not thinke so hardly of thy paine.

I must confesse, 'twas once a fault of mine
At every misadventure to repine.
I sought preferment and it fled me still,
Whereat I griev'd, and thought my fortune ill.
I vext to see some in prosperity,
Deride and scoffe at my adversity.
But since, advis'd and weighing in my minde
The course of things I soone began to finde
The vainenesse of them. Those I saw of late
In blisse (as I thought) scorning my estate,
I see now ebbing and the once full tide
That overflow'd the lofty banks of pride,
Hath left them like the sand-shore, bare and dry,
And almost in as poore a case as I.
Besides I view'd my daies now gone and past,
And how my fortunes from the first to th' last
Were link'd together: I observ'd, I say,
Each chance and deed of mine, from day to day,
That memorie could keepe; yet found I none,
Not one thing in my life that was alone,
But still it either did depend on some
That was already passed or to come
Yea the most childish, idle, trifling thing,
That seemed no necessity to bring,
In that, hath the beginnings oft bin hid,
Of some the weightiest things that ere I did.
But chiefly to abate th' excessive joying
In worldly things, and to prevent th' annoying
Of any sorrow, this I noted thence,
(And eversince have made it a defence
For both these Passions) I have truly seene;
That those things wherewith I have joyed beene
Highly delighted and the dearest lov'd;
E'en those same very things have often prov'd
My chiefest care. And I have found againe,
That which I deem'd my greatest losse or paine,
And wherewithall I have beene most annoi'd,
And should have deem'd a blessing to avoid;
That which my heart hath ask'd for: and wherein
I thought me most unhappy, that hath bin
The ground of my best joyes. For which cause, I
Advise all men that are in miserie
To stand unmov'd. For why, they doe not know
Whether it be to them for good or no.
They ought not for to murmure, or to pine
At any thing, shall please the power divine
To lay upon them, for my minde is this,
Each sorrow is an entrance into blisse.
And that the greatest pleasure we attaine,
Is but a signe of some ensuing paine.
But to be plainer; this our life's a toy,
That hath nought in it worth our griefe or joy.

But there are some base-minded dunghill Elves,
That sorrow not for any but themselves.
Or if they doe, tis onely for the losse
Of some old crest-falne Iade: but that's a crosse
Past bearing; be it but a rotten sheepe,
Or two stale egges, they will such yelling keepe
As if thereby had perished a brood
In which consisteth halfe the kingdomes good.

But I intreat them (since cares must befall)
They would be patient; Who can doe withall?
And also let them of much griefe beware:
For they have heard what dangers therein, are.
And every one almost can tell them, that
'Tis an old saying, Cars will kill a Cat.
Then let them take heart: chiefly, sith they see
None live but sometime they must losers be.
Which is an ease: for I have heard them tell,
With mates they care not if they goe to hell.

But in good earnest now let us not run
Willingly here into as we have done.
Avoid it rather as a hurtfull foe,
That can effect nought but our overthrow.
And for the same receive into our brest
An honest mirth, which is a better guest.
And whatsoe'er our former griefe hath bin
Let us ne'er sorrow more but for our sinne.
So with this Passion end the rest will I,
Because it ends not till our end is nigh.