Schola Cordis or the Heart of it Selfe, gone away from God ::

The Soule.
Brave, dainty, curious, rare, rich, precious things!
Able to make fate-blasted mortals blest,
Peculiar treasures, and delights for Kings,
That having pow'r of all would choose the best.
How doe I hugge mine happinesse that have
Present possession of what others crave?

Christ.
Poore, silly, simple, sense-besotted soule,
Why dost thou hugge thy self-procured woes?
Release thy freeborne thoughts, at least controul
Those passions, that enslave thee to thy foes.
How would'st thou hate thy self, if thou did'st know
The basenesse of those things thou prizest so!

The Soule.
They talk of goodnesse, vertue, piety,
Religion, honesty, I know not what;
So let them talk for me: so long as I
Have goods and lands, and gold, and jewells, that
Both equall and excell all other treasure,
Why should I strive to make their paine my pleasure

Christ.
So Swine neglect the pearles that lie before them,
Trample them under foote, and feed on draffe:
So fooles gild rotten Idols, and adore them,
Cast all the corne away, and keep the chaffe.
That ever reason should be blinded so,
To graspe the shadow, let the substance goe!

The Soule.
All's but opinion that the world accounts
Matter of worth: as this or that man sets
A value on it, so the price amounts:
The sound of strings is vari'd by the frets.
My mind's my kingdome: why should I withstand,
Or question that, which I my selfe command?

Christ.
Thy tyrant passions captivate thy reason:
Thy lusts usurpe the guidance of the mind:
Thy sense-led fancy barters good for geason:
Thy seed is vanity, thine harvest wind:
Thy rules are crooked, and thou writ'st awry:
Thy wayes are wand'ring, and thine end to die.

The Soule.
This table summes me myriads of pleasure:
That booke enroules mine honours inventory:
These bags are stuft with millions of treasure:

Those writings evidence my state of glory:
These bells ring heav'nly musicke in mine eares,
To drown the noise of cumbrous cares and feare.

Christ.
Those pleasures one day will procure thy paine:
That which thou glori'st in will be thy shame:
Thou'lt finde thy losse in what thou thought'st thy gaine:
Thine honour will put on another name.
That musicke in the close will ring thy knell,
In stead of heaven toll thee into hell.

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But why doe I thus wast my words in vaine
On one, that's wholly taken up with toyes,
That will not loose one dramme of earth to gaine
A full eternall weight of heav'nly joyes?
All's to no purpose, 'tis as good forbeare,
As speak to one, that hath no heart to heare.

University of Virginia Library

Ode. 4.

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