Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Then Eliphas, his pounded tongue repliev'd,
And said, shold I contēd, thou wold'st be grievd;
Yet what man can refraine, but he must breake
His angry silence, having heard thee speake?
O sudden change! many hast thou directed,
And strengthned those, whose minds have bin dejected;
Thy sacred Thewes, and sweet Instructions, did
Helpe those were falling, rais'd up such as slid:
But now it is thy case, thy soule is vext,
And canst not help thy selfe, thy selfe perplext;
Thou lov'st thy God but basely for thy profit,
Fear'st him in further expectation of it;
Iudge then: Did Record ever round thine eare,
That God forsooke the heart that was sincere?
But often have we seene, that such as plow
Lewdnesse, and mischiefe, reape the same they sow:
So have proud Tyrants from their thrones bin cast,
With all their off-spring, by th'Almighties Blast;
And they whose hands have bin imbrew'd in blood,
Have with their Issue dyed, for want of Food:

A Vision lately appear'd before my sight,
In depth of darknesse, and the dead of night,
Vnwonted feare usurpt me round about,
My trembling bones were sore, from head to foot:

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Forthwith, a Spirit glanc'd before mine eyes,
My browes did sweat, my moistned haire did rise,
The face I knew not, but a while it staid,
And in the depth of silence, thus it said,

Is man more just, more pure then his Creator?
Amongst his Angels, (more upright by nature
Then man) he hath found Weaknesse; how much more
Shall he expect in him, that's walled ore
With mortall flesh and blood, founded, and floor'd
With Dust, and with the Wormes to be devour'd?
They rise securely with the Morning Sunne,
And (unregarded) dye ere Day be done;
Their glory passes with them as a breath,
They die (like Fooles) before they think of death.

Rage then, and see who will approve thy rage,
What Saint will give thy railing Patronage?
Anger destroyes the Foole, and he that hath
A wrathfull heart, is slaine with his owne wrath;
Yet have I seene, that Fooles have oft beene able
To boast with Babel, but have falne with Babel:
Their sons despairing, roare without reliefe
In open ruine, on the Rocks of Griefe:
Their harvest (though but small) the hungry eate,
And robbers seize their wealth, thogh ne'r so great:
But wretched man, were thy Condition mine,
I'de not despaire as thou dost, nor repine,
But offer up the broken Sacrifice
Of a sad soule, before his angry eyes,
Whose workes are Miracles of admiration,
He mounts the meeke, amidst their Desolation,
Confounds the worldly wise, that (blindfold) they
Grope all in darknesse, at the noone of day:
But guards the humble from reproach of wrong,
And stops the current of the crafty Tongue.

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Thrice happy is the man his hands correct:
Beware lest Fury force thee to reject
Th'Almighties Tryall; He that made thy wound
In Iustice, can in Mercy make it sound:
Feare not though multiply'd afflictions shall
Besiege thee; He, at length, will rid them all;
In Famine he shall feed, in Warre defend thee,
Shield thee from slander, & in griefes attend thee,
The Beasts shall strike with thee eternall Peace,
The Stones shall not disturbe thy fields Encrease;
Thy House shall thrive, replenisht with Content,
Which, thou shalt rule, in prosp'rous Government,
The number of thy Of-spring shall abound,
Like Summers Grasse upon a fruitfull Ground,
Like timely Corne well ripened in her Eares,
Thou shalt depart thy life, strucke full of yeeres:
All this, Experience tells: Then (Iob) advise,
Thou hast taught many, now thy selfe be wise.

Meditat. 7.

The perfect Modell of true Friendship's this:
A rare affection of the soule, which is
Begun with ripened judgement, doth persever
With simple Wisedome, & concludes with Never.

'Tis pure in substance, as refined Gold,
That buyeth all things, but is never sold:
It is a Coyne, and most men walke without it;
True Love's the Stamp, Iehovah's writ about it;
It rusts unus'd, but using makes it brighter,
'Gainst Heav'n high treason 'tis, to make it lighter.

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'Tis a Gold Chain, links soule and soule together
In perfect Vnity, tyes God to either.

Affliction is the touch, whereby we prove,
Whether't be Gold, or gilt with fained Love.

The wisest Moralist, that ever div'd
Into the depth of Natures bowels, striv'd
With th'Augur of Experience, to bore
Mens hearts so farre, till he had found the Ore
Of Friendship, but, despairing of his end,
My friends (said he) there is no perfect Friend.

Friendship's like Musicke, two strings tun'd alike,
Will both stirre, though but onely one you strike.

It is the quintessence of all perfection
Extracted into one: A sweet connexion
Of all the Vertues Morall and Divine,
Abstracted into one. It is a Mine,
Whose nature is not rich, unlesse in making
The state of others wealthy by partaking:

It bloomes and blossomes both in Sun and shade,
Doth (like the Bay in winter) never fade:
It loveth all, and yet suspecteth none,
Is provident, yet seeketh not her owne:
'Tis rare it selfe, yet maketh all things common,
And is judicious, yet it judgeth no man.

The noble Theban, being asked which
Of three (propounded) he suppos'd most rich
In vertues sacred treasure, thus reply'd:
Till they be dead, that doubt cannot be tryde.

It is no wisemans part to weigh a Friend,
Without the glosse and goodnesse of his End:
For Life, without the death considered, can
Afford but halfe a Story of the Man.

'Tis not my friends affliction, that shall make
Me either Wonder, Censure, or Forsake:

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Iudgement belongs to Fooles; enough that I
Find he's afflicted, not enquier, why:
It is the hand of Heaven, that selfe-same sorrow
Grieves him to day, may make me grone to morrow

Heaven be my comfort; In my highest griefe,
I will not trust to Mans, but Thy reliefe.