Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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The Proposition of the Worke.
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 | Divine poems |  |
171
The Proposition of the Worke.
Wouldst
thou discover in a curious Map,
That Iland, which fond worldlings call Mishap,
Surrounded with a sea of briny tears,
The rockie dangers, and the boggie Feares,
The stormes of Trouble, the afflicted Nation,
The heavy soyle, the lowly scituation?
On wretched Iob then spend thy weeping eye,
And see the colour painted curiously.
That Iland, which fond worldlings call Mishap,
Surrounded with a sea of briny tears,
The rockie dangers, and the boggie Feares,
The stormes of Trouble, the afflicted Nation,
The heavy soyle, the lowly scituation?
On wretched Iob then spend thy weeping eye,
And see the colour painted curiously.
Wouldst thou behold a Tragick Sceane of sorrow,
Whose wofull Plot the Author did not borrow
From sad invention? The sable Stage,
The lively Actors with their equipage?
The Musicke made of Sighs, the Songs of Cries,
The sad Spectators with their watry Eyes?
Behold all this, comprized here in one;
Expect the Plaudit, when the Play is done.
Whose wofull Plot the Author did not borrow
From sad invention? The sable Stage,
The lively Actors with their equipage?
The Musicke made of Sighs, the Songs of Cries,
The sad Spectators with their watry Eyes?
Behold all this, comprized here in one;
Expect the Plaudit, when the Play is done.
Or wouldst thou see a well built Pinace tost
Vpon the swelling Ocean, split (almost)
Now on a churlish Rocke; now, fiercely striving
With labouring Winds; now, desperately driving
Vpon the boyling Sands, her storme-rent Flags,
Her Main-mast broke, her Canvas torne to rags,
Her Treasure lost, her men with lightning slaine,
And left a wrecke to the relentlesse Maine?
This, this and more, unto your moistned Eyes,
Our patient Iob shall lively moralize.
Vpon the swelling Ocean, split (almost)
Now on a churlish Rocke; now, fiercely striving
With labouring Winds; now, desperately driving
Vpon the boyling Sands, her storme-rent Flags,
172
Her Treasure lost, her men with lightning slaine,
And left a wrecke to the relentlesse Maine?
This, this and more, unto your moistned Eyes,
Our patient Iob shall lively moralize.
Wouldst thou behold unparalleld distresse,
Which minds cannot out-think, nor tongs express
Full to the life, the Anvill, whereupon
Mischiefe doth worke her master-piece, for none
To imitate; the dire Anatomy
Of (curiously-dissected) Misery;
The face of Sorrow, in her sternest lookes,
The rufull Arg'ment of all Tragicke bookes?
In briefe, Would tender eyes, endure to see
(Summ'd up) the greatest sorrowes, that can be?
Behold they then, poore Iob afflicted here,
And each Beholder spend (at least) his Teare.
Which minds cannot out-think, nor tongs express
Full to the life, the Anvill, whereupon
Mischiefe doth worke her master-piece, for none
To imitate; the dire Anatomy
Of (curiously-dissected) Misery;
The face of Sorrow, in her sternest lookes,
The rufull Arg'ment of all Tragicke bookes?
In briefe, Would tender eyes, endure to see
(Summ'd up) the greatest sorrowes, that can be?
Behold they then, poore Iob afflicted here,
And each Beholder spend (at least) his Teare.
| Divine poems | |