Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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Meditat. 2.
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 | Divine poems |  |
270
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,
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?
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,
271
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,
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.
272
Make me deserve that honour thou hast lent
To my fraile trust, and I will rest content.
| Divine poems | |