Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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Medita. 12.
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 | Divine poems |  |
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!
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.
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
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.
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.
| Divine poems | |