Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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 | Divine poems |  |
Meditat. 4.
What shallow judgment, or what easie braine
Can choose but laugh at those, that strive in vaine
To build a Tower, whose ambitious Spire
Should reach to heaven? what foole would not admire
To see their greater folly? who would raise
A Tower, to perpetuate the praise
And lasting Glory of their renowned Name,
What have they loft but Monuments of shame?
How poore and slender are the enterprises
Of man; that onely whispers and advises
With heedlesse flesh and blood, and never makes
His God, of counsell, where he undertakes!
How is our God and wee of late falne out!
We rather chuse to languish in our doubt,
Then be resolv'd by him; We rather use
The helpe of hell-bred wizzards, that abuse
The stile of wise men then to have recourse
To him that is the Fountaine and the sourse
Of all good Counsels, and from whom, proceeds
A living Spring, to water all our needs;
How willing are his Angels to descend
From off their throne of Glory, and attend
Vpon our wants! How oft returne they back
Mourning to heaven, as if they griev'd for lack
Of our imployment! O how prone are they
To be assistant to us, every way!
Have wee just cause to joy? They'll come and sing
About our beds: Does any judgement bring
Iust cause of griefe? they'll fall a grieving too;
Doe we triumph? their joyfull mouthes will blow
Their louder Trumpets, Or doe feares affect us?
They'l guard our heads from danger, & protect us:
Are we in prison, or in Persecution?
They'l fill our hearts with joy, and resolution:
Or doe we languish in our sickly beds?
They'l come & pitch their Tents about our heads;
See they a sinner penitent, and mourne
For his bewail'd offences, and returne?
They clap their hands, and joyne their warbling voyces,
They sing, and all the Quire of Heaven rejoyces.
Can choose but laugh at those, that strive in vaine
To build a Tower, whose ambitious Spire
Should reach to heaven? what foole would not admire
To see their greater folly? who would raise
A Tower, to perpetuate the praise
And lasting Glory of their renowned Name,
What have they loft but Monuments of shame?
How poore and slender are the enterprises
Of man; that onely whispers and advises
With heedlesse flesh and blood, and never makes
His God, of counsell, where he undertakes!
How is our God and wee of late falne out!
We rather chuse to languish in our doubt,
Then be resolv'd by him; We rather use
The helpe of hell-bred wizzards, that abuse
The stile of wise men then to have recourse
To him that is the Fountaine and the sourse
Of all good Counsels, and from whom, proceeds
A living Spring, to water all our needs;
284
From off their throne of Glory, and attend
Vpon our wants! How oft returne they back
Mourning to heaven, as if they griev'd for lack
Of our imployment! O how prone are they
To be assistant to us, every way!
Have wee just cause to joy? They'll come and sing
About our beds: Does any judgement bring
Iust cause of griefe? they'll fall a grieving too;
Doe we triumph? their joyfull mouthes will blow
Their louder Trumpets, Or doe feares affect us?
They'l guard our heads from danger, & protect us:
Are we in prison, or in Persecution?
They'l fill our hearts with joy, and resolution:
Or doe we languish in our sickly beds?
They'l come & pitch their Tents about our heads;
See they a sinner penitent, and mourne
For his bewail'd offences, and returne?
They clap their hands, and joyne their warbling voyces,
They sing, and all the Quire of Heaven rejoyces.
What is in us poore Dust and Ashes, Lord,
That thou should'st looke upon us, and afford
Thy precious favours to us, and impart
Thy gracious Counsels? what is our desert,
But Death, and Horror? What can we more clame,
Then they, that now are scorching in that flame,
That hath nor moderation, rest, nor end?
How does thy mercy, above thought extend
To thē thou lov'st! Teach me (great God) to prize
Thy sacred Counsels: open my blinde eyes,
That I may see to walke the perfect way;
For as I am, Lord, I am apt to stray
And wander to the gulph of endlesse woe:
Teach me what must be done, and helpe to doe.
That thou should'st looke upon us, and afford
Thy precious favours to us, and impart
Thy gracious Counsels? what is our desert,
But Death, and Horror? What can we more clame,
Then they, that now are scorching in that flame,
That hath nor moderation, rest, nor end?
How does thy mercy, above thought extend
To thē thou lov'st! Teach me (great God) to prize
Thy sacred Counsels: open my blinde eyes,
That I may see to walke the perfect way;
For as I am, Lord, I am apt to stray
And wander to the gulph of endlesse woe:
Teach me what must be done, and helpe to doe.
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