Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Within the Tents of Zorah dwelt a man
Of Iacobs seed, and of the Tribe of Dan,
Knowne by the name of Manoah; to whom
Heaven had deny'd the treasure of the wombe;
His Wife was barren; And her prayers could not
Remove that great reproach, or clense that blot
Which on her fruitlesse name appear'd so foule,
Not to encrease the Tribe of Dan one soule:
Lōg had she, doubtles, stroven with heavē by prair's
Made strong with teares & sighs; hopes & despaires

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No doubt had often tortur'd her desire
Vpon a Rack, compos'd of frost and fire:
But Heaven was pleas'd to turne his deafned eares
Against those prai'rs made strōg with sighs & tears:
She often pray'd; but pray'rs could not obtaine:
Alas; she pray'd, she wept, she sigh'd in vaine:
She pray'd, no doubt; but pray'rs could finde no roome;
They prov'd, alas, as barren as her wombe.

Vpon a time (when her unanswer'd pray'r
Had now given just occasion of despaire,
(Even when her bed-rid faith was grown so fraile,
That very Hope grew hartlesse to prevaile)
Appear'd an Angel to her; In his face,
Terrour and sweetnesse labour'd for the place:
Sometimes his Sunbright eies would shine so fierce
As if their pointed beames would even pierce
Her soule, and strike th'amaz'd beholder dead:
Sometimes, their glory would disperse, and spread
More easie flames; and, like the Starre, that stood
O're Bethlem, promise and portend some good:
Mixt was his bright aspect; as if his breath
Had equall errands both of life and death:
Glory and Mildnesse seemed to contend
In his faire eyes so long, till in the end,
In glorious mildnesse, and in milder glory,
He thus salutes her with this pleasing story.

Woman; Heaven greets thee well: Rise up, and feare not;
Forbeare thy faithlesse tremblings; I appeare not
Clad in the vestments of consuming fire;
Cheare up, I have no warrant to enquire
Into thy sinnes; I have no Vyals here,
Nor dreadfull Thunderbolts to make thee feare:
I have no plagues t'inflict; nor is my breath
Charg'd with destruction; or my hand with death.

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No, no; cheare up, I come not to destroy;
J come to bring thee tidings of great joy:
Rowze up thy dull beliefe; for I appeare,
To exercise thy Faith, and not thy Feare:
The Guide, and great Creator of all things,
Chiefe Lord of Lords, and supreme King of Kings,
To whom an Host of men are but a swarme
Of murm'ring Gnats, whose high prevailing arme
Can crush ten thousand worlds, and at one blow
Can strike the earth to nothing, and ore-throw
The Lofts of Heaven; He that hath the Keyes
Of wombe;, to shut, and ope them when he please;
He that can all things, that he will, this day,
Is pleas'd to take thy long reproach away:
Behold; thy womb's inlarg'd; and thy desires
Shall finde successe: Before long time expires,
Thou shalt conceive: Ere twise five months be runne,
Be thou the joyfull mother of a sonne;
But see, thy wary palate doe forbeare
The juice of the bewitching Grape; Beware,
Lest thy defiers tempt thy lips to wine,
Which must be faithfull strangers to the Vine.
Strong drinke thou must not taste, and all such meate
The Law proclaimes uncleane, refraine to eate:
And when the fruit of thy restored wombe
Shall see the light, take heed no Rasor come
Vpon his fruitfull head; for from his birth,
Seene as the wombe entrusts him on the earth,
The child shall be a Nazarite, to God;
By whose appointment, be shall prove a Rod,
To scourge the proud Philistians; and recall
Poore suffring Israel from their slavish thrall.

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Meditat. 2.

How impudent is Nature to account
Those acts her own, that doe so farre surmount
Her easie reach! How purblinde are those eyes
Of stupid mortals, that have power to rise
No higher then her lawes, who takes upon her
The worke, and robs the Author of his honour!
Seest thou the fruitfull Wombe? How every yeare
It moves thy Cradle; to thy slender cheare
Invites another Ghest, and makes thee Father
To a new Sonne, who now, perchance, hadst rather
Bring up the old, esteeming propagation
A thanklesse worke of Supererogation:
Perchance the formall Mid-wife seemes to thee
Lesse welcome now; than she was wont to bee:
Thou standst amaz'd to heare such needlesse Ioy,
And car'st as little for it, as the Boy
That's newly borne into the world; Nay worse,
Perchance, thou grumblest, counting it a curse
Vnto thy faint estate, which is not able
T'encrease the bounty of thy slender Table:
Poore miserable man what ere thou bee,
I suffer for thy crooked thoughts; not thee:
Thou tak'st thy children to be gifts of nature;
Their wit, their flowring beauty, comely stature,
Their perfect health; their dainty disposition,
Their vertues, and their easie acquisition
Of curious Arts, their strengths attain'd perfection
You attribute to that benigne complexion,

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Wherewith your Goddesse Nature hath endow'd
Their well-disposed Organs; and are preud;
And here your Goddesse leaves you, to deplore,
That such admir'd perfections should be poore:
Advance thine eyes, no lesse then wilfull blinde,
And with thine eyes, advance thy drooping mindes
Correct thy thoughts; Let not thy wondring eye
Adore the servant, when the Master's by:
Looke on the God of Nature: From him come
These underprized blessings of the wombe:
He makes thee rich in childrē; whē his store
Crowns thee with wealth, why mak'st thou thy self poor?
He opes the womb: why then should'st thou repine?
They are his children, mortall, and not thine:
We are but Keepers; And the more he lends
To our tuition, he the more commends
Our faithfull trust; It is not every one
Deserves that honour, to command his Son;
She counts it as a fortune, that's allow'd
To nurse a Prince; (What nurse would not be proud
Of such a Fortune?) And shall we repine,
Great God, to foster any Babe of thine?
But 'tis the Charge we feare: our stock's but small;
If heaven, with Children, send us wherewithall
To stop their craving stomacks, then we care not;
Great God!
How hast thou crackt thy credit, that we dare
Trust thee for bread? How is't, we dare not venture
To keepe thy Babes, unlesse thou please to enter
In bond, for paiment? Art thou growne so poore,
To leave thy famisht Infants at our doore,
And not allow them food? Canst thou supply
The empty Ravens, and let thy children die?

Send me that stint, thy wisedome shall thinke fit,

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Thy pleasure is my will; and I submit:
Make me deserve that honour thou hast lent
To my fraile trust, and I will rest content.