Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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Medita. 3.
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 | Divine poems |  |
Medita. 3.
The proudest pitch of that victorious spirit
Was but to win the World, whereby t'inherit
The ayrie purchase of a transitory
And glozing Title of an ages Glory;
Would'st thou by conquest win more fame thā He?
Subdue thy selfe; thy selfe's a world to thee:
Earth's but a Ball, that Heaven hath quilted o're
With wealth and Honour, banded on the floore
Of fickle Fortunes false and slippery Court,
Sent for a Toy, to make us Children sport,
Mans satiate spirits, with fresh delights supplying,
To still the Fondlings of the world, from crying,
And he, whose merit mounts to such a Ioy,
Gaines but the Honour of a mighty Toy.
Was but to win the World, whereby t'inherit
The ayrie purchase of a transitory
And glozing Title of an ages Glory;
Would'st thou by conquest win more fame thā He?
Subdue thy selfe; thy selfe's a world to thee:
Earth's but a Ball, that Heaven hath quilted o're
With wealth and Honour, banded on the floore
Of fickle Fortunes false and slippery Court,
Sent for a Toy, to make us Children sport,
Mans satiate spirits, with fresh delights supplying,
To still the Fondlings of the world, from crying,
186
Gaines but the Honour of a mighty Toy.
But would'st thou conquer, have thy conquest crown'd
By hands of Seraphins, trimph'd with the sound
Of heavens loud Trumpet, warbled by the shrill
Celestiall quire, recorded with a quill,
Pluckt from the Pinion of an Angels wing,
Confirm'd with joy, by heavens Eternall King?
Conquer thy selfe, thy rebell thoughts repell,
And chase those false affections that rebell.
Hath Heaven dispoil'd what his full hand had givē thee?
Nipt thy succeeding Blossomes? or bereaven thee
Of thy deare latest hope, thy bosome Friend?
Doth sad Despaire deny these griefes an end?
Despair's a whispring Rebell, that within thee,
Bribes all thy Field, and sets thy selfe agin thee:
Make keene thy Faith, and with thy force let flee,
If thou not conquer him, hee'll conquer thee:
Advance thy Shield of Patience to thy head,
And whē griefe strikes, twill strike the striker dead:
The patient man, in sorrow spies reliefe,
And by the taile, he couples Ioy with Griefe.
By hands of Seraphins, trimph'd with the sound
Of heavens loud Trumpet, warbled by the shrill
Celestiall quire, recorded with a quill,
Pluckt from the Pinion of an Angels wing,
Confirm'd with joy, by heavens Eternall King?
Conquer thy selfe, thy rebell thoughts repell,
And chase those false affections that rebell.
Hath Heaven dispoil'd what his full hand had givē thee?
Nipt thy succeeding Blossomes? or bereaven thee
Of thy deare latest hope, thy bosome Friend?
Doth sad Despaire deny these griefes an end?
Despair's a whispring Rebell, that within thee,
Bribes all thy Field, and sets thy selfe agin thee:
Make keene thy Faith, and with thy force let flee,
If thou not conquer him, hee'll conquer thee:
Advance thy Shield of Patience to thy head,
And whē griefe strikes, twill strike the striker dead:
The patient man, in sorrow spies reliefe,
And by the taile, he couples Ioy with Griefe.
In adverse fortunes be thou strong and stout,
And bravely win thy selfe, Heaven holds not out
His Bow, for ever bent. The disposition
Of noblest spirits, doth, by opposition
Exasperate the more: A gloomy night
Whets on the morning, to returne more bright;
A blade well tri'd, deserves a treble price,
And Vertu's purest, most oppos'd by Vice:
Brave mindes, opprest, should (in despight of Fate)
Looke greatest, (like the Sunne) in lowest state.
And bravely win thy selfe, Heaven holds not out
His Bow, for ever bent. The disposition
Of noblest spirits, doth, by opposition
Exasperate the more: A gloomy night
Whets on the morning, to returne more bright;
A blade well tri'd, deserves a treble price,
And Vertu's purest, most oppos'd by Vice:
Brave mindes, opprest, should (in despight of Fate)
Looke greatest, (like the Sunne) in lowest state.
But ah! shal God thus strive with flesh and blood?
Receives he Glory from, or reapes he Good
In mortals Ruine, that he leaves man so
To be or'ewhelm'd by his unequall Foe?
Receives he Glory from, or reapes he Good
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To be or'ewhelm'd by his unequall Foe?
May not a Potter, that from out the ground,
Hath fram'd a Vessell, search if it be sound?
Or if by forbushing, he take more paine
To make it fairer, shall the Pot complaine?
Mortall, thou art but Clay: Then shall not he,
That fram'd thee for his service, season thee?
Man, close thy lips; Be thou no undertaker
Of Gods designes, Dispute not with thy Maker.
Hath fram'd a Vessell, search if it be sound?
Or if by forbushing, he take more paine
To make it fairer, shall the Pot complaine?
Mortall, thou art but Clay: Then shall not he,
That fram'd thee for his service, season thee?
Man, close thy lips; Be thou no undertaker
Of Gods designes, Dispute not with thy Maker.
Lord, 'tis against thy nature to doe ill;
Then give me power to beare, and worke thy Will;
Thou know'st what's best, make thou thine owne conclusion
Be glorifi'd, although in my confusion.
Then give me power to beare, and worke thy Will;
Thou know'st what's best, make thou thine owne conclusion
Be glorifi'd, although in my confusion.
| Divine poems | |