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

Two massy weights, Surfeiting, Drunkennesse,
Like mighty logs of lead, doe so oppresse
The heav'n-borne hearts of men, that to aspire
Vpwards they have nor power nor desire.

Ode. 6.

1

Monster of sins! See how th' inchanted soule
O'rcharg'd already calls for more.
See how the hellish skinker plies his bowle,
And's ready furnished with store,
Whilst cups on every side
Planted attend the tide.

2

See how the piled dishes mounted stand,
Like hills advanced upon hills,
And the abundance both of sea and land
Doth not suffice, ev'n what it fills,
Mans dropsy appetite,
And Cormorant delight.

3

See how the poyson'd body's puft, and swell'd,
The face enflamed glowes with heat,
The limbs unable are themselves to welld,
The pulses deaths alarme doe beat:
Yet man sits still, and laughs,
Whilst his owne bane he quaffes.

4

But where's thine heart the while, thou senselesse sot?
Looke how it lieth crusht, and quell'd,
Flat beaten to the board, that it cannot
Move from the place, where it is held,
Nor upward once aspire
With heavenly desire.

5

Thy belly is thy God, thy shame thy glory,
Thou mindest only earthly things;
And all thy pleasure is but transitory,
Which grief at last and sorrow brings:
The courses thou dost take
Will make thine heart to ake.

6

Is't not enough to spend thy precious time
In empty idle complement,
Unlesse thou straine (to aggravate thy crime)
Nature beyond its owne extent,
And force it to devoure
An age within an houre?

7

That which thou swallow'st is not lost alone,
But quickly will revenged be,
By seasing on thine heart, which like a stone

Lyes buri'd in the midd'st of thee,
Both void of common sense
And reasons excellence.

8

Thy body is diseases rendevouze,
Thy mind the market place of vice,
The devill in thy will keeps open house,
Thou liv'st, as though thou would'st intice
Hell torments unto thee,
And thine owne devill be.

9

Oh, what a dirty dunghill art thou growne,
A nasty stinking kennell foule!
When thou awak'st and seest what thou hast done,
Sorrow will swallow up thy soule,
To think how thou art foyl'd,
And all thy glory spoyl'd.

10

Or if thou canst not be asham'd, at least
Have some compassion on thy self:
Before thou art transformed all to beast,
At last strike saile, avoid the shelf,
Which in that gulfe doth lie,
Where all that enter die.

University of Virginia Library

The oppression of the Heart.

Epigr. 6.

Ode. 6.

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