Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Bride she begs, and begs in vaine:
But like to a prevailing wooer,
She sues, and sues, and sues againe;
At last he reads the Riddle to her.

When the next morning had renew'd the day,
And th'early twilight now had chac'd away
The pride of night, and made her lay aside
Her spangled Robes, the discontented Bride
(Whose trobled thoghts were tyred with the night,
And broken slumbers long had wisht for light)
With a deepe sigh her sorrow did awake
Her drowsie Bridegroome, whom she thus bespake:
O, if thy love could share an equall part
In the sad griefes of my afflicted heart,
Thy closed eyes had never, in this sort,
Bin pleas'd with rest, and made thy night so short:
Perchance, if my dull eyes had slumbred too,
My dreames had done, what thou deny'd to doe:
Perchance, my Fancy would have bin so kinde,
T'unsolve the doubts of my perplexed minde,
Twas a small suite, that thy unluckie Bride
Must light upon: Too small to be denyde:
Can love so soone—? But ere her lips could spend
The following words, he said, suspend, suspend
Thy rash attempt, and let thy tongue dispense
With forc'd denyall: Let thy lips commence

320

Some greater Suite, and Samson shall make good
Thy faire defiers with his dearest blood:
Speake then, my love; thou shalt not wish, and want;
Thou canst not beg, what Samson cannot grant:
Onely, in this, excuse me: and refraine
To beg, what thou, perforce, must beg in vaine.

Inexorable Samson: Can the teares
From those faire eyes, not move thy deafned eares?
O can those drops, that trickle from those eyes
Vpon thy naked bosome, not surprize
Thy neighb'ring heart? and force it to obey?
O can thy heart not melt as well as they?
Thou little thinkst thy poore afflicted wife
Importunes thee, and woes thee for her life:
Her Suit's as great a Riddle to thine eares,
As thine, to hers; O, these distilling teares
Are silent pleaders, and her moistned breath
Would faine redeeme her, from the gates of death?
May not her teares prevaile; Alas, thy strife
Is but for wagers; Her's, poore Soule, for life.

Now when this day had yeelded up his right
To the succeeding Empresse of the night,
Whose soone-deposed raigne did reconvay
Her crowne and Scepter to the new borne day,
The restlesse Bride (feares cannot brooke denyall)
Renewes her suit, and attempts a further tryall;
Entreats; conjures; she leaves no way untride:
She will not, no, she must not be denyd:
But he (the portalls of whose marble heart
Was lockt and barr'd against the powerfull art
Of oft repeated teares,) stood deafe and dumbe;
He must not, no, he will not be ore-come.

321

Poore Bride! How is thy glory overcast!
How is the pleasure of the Nuptialls past,
When scarce begun! Alas, how poore a breath
Of joy, must puffe thee to untimely death!
The day's at hand, wherein thou must untie
The Riddles tangled Snarle, or else must dye:
Now, when that day was come wherein the feast
Was to expire; the Bride, (whose pensive brest
Grew sad to death) did once more undertake
Her too resolved Bridegroome thus, and spake:

Vpon these knees, that prostrate on the floore,
Art lowly bended, and shall ne're give ore
To move thy goodnesse, that shall never rise,
Untill my Suit finde favour in thine eyes,
Vpon these naked knees, I here present
My sad request: O let thy heart relent;
A Suitor sues, that never sued before;
And she begs now, that never will beg more:
Hast thou vow'd silence? O remember, how
Thou art engaged by a former vow;
Thy heart is mine; The secrets of thy heart
Are mine; Why art thou dainty to impart
Mine owne, to me? Then, give me leave to sue
For what, my right may challenge as her due;
Vnfold thy Riddle then, that J may know,
Thy love is more; then only love in show:

The Bridegroome, thus enchanted by his Bride,
Vnseal'd his long-kept silence, and replyde:
Thou sole, and great commandresse of my heart,
Thou hast prevail'd; my bosome shall impart
The summe of thy desiers, and discharge
The faithfull secrets of my soule, at large;

Know then, (my joy) Vpon that very day,
I, first, made knowne my'affection, on the way,

322

I met, and grappled with a sturdy Lyon,
Having nor staffe nor weapon, to relie on,
I was enforc'd to prove my naked strength;
Vnequall was the match, but at the length,
This brawny Arme receiving strength from him
That gave it life, I tore him limme from limme,
And left him dead: Now when the time was come,
Wherin our promis'd nuptialls were to summe,
And perfect all my joyes, as I was comming
That very way, a strange confused humming,
Not distant farre, possest my wondring eare,
Where guided by the noyse, there did appeare
A swarme of Bees, whose busie labours fill'd
The Carkasse of that Lyon which I kill'd,
With Combes of Honey, wherewithall I fed
My lips and thine: And now my Riddle's read.

323

Medita. 12.

The soule of man, before the taint of Nature,
Bore the faire Image of his great Creator;
His understanding had no cloud: His will
No crosse: That, knew no Error; This, no ill:
But man transgrest; And by his wofull fall,
Lost that faire Image, and that little all
Was left, was all corrupt; His understanding
Exchang'd her object; Reason left commanding;
His Memory was depraved, and his will
Can finde no other subject now; but Ill:
It grew distemperd, left the righteous reine
Of better Reason, and did entertaine,
The rule of Passion, under whose command,
It suffered Ship-wracke, upon every Sand:
Where it should march, it evermore retires;
And, what is most forbid, it most desires:
Love makes it see too much, and often, blinde;
Doubt makes it light, and waver like the winde:
Hate makes it fierce, and studious; Anger, mad;
Ioy makes it carelesse; Sorrow, dull and sad;
Hope makes it nimble, for a needlesse tryall;
Feare makes it too impatient of deniall.
Great Lord of humane soules; O thou, that art
The onely true refiner of the heart;
Whose hands created all things perfect good,
What canst thou now expect of flesh and blood?
How are our leprous Soules put out of fashion!
How are our Wills subjected to our passion!

324

How is thy glorious Image soil'd, defac'd,
And stain'd with sinne! How are our thoughts displac'd!
How wav'ring are our hopes, turn'd here and there
With every blast! How carnall is our feare!
Where needs no feare, we start at every shade,
But feare not, where we ought to be affraid.

Great God! If thou wilt please but to refine
Our hearts, and reconforme our wils, to thine,
Thou'lt take a pleasure in us, and poore we
Should finde as infinite delight in Thee;
Our doubts would cease, our fears would al romove,
And all our passions would turne Ioy, and Love;
Till then, expect for nothing that is good:
Remember, Lord, we are but Flesh and Blood.