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. 15.
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 | Divine poems |  |
Meditat. 15.
Dost thou not tremble? does thy troubled eare
Not tingle? nor thy spirits faint to heare
The voice of those, whose dying shriekes proclaime
Their tortures, that are broyling in the flame?
She, whose illustrious beautie did not know
Where to be matcht, but one poore houre agoe;
She, whose faire eyes were apt to make man erre
From his knowne faith, and turne Idolater;
She, whose faire cheeks, inricht with true complexion,
Seem'd Beauties store-house of her best perfection;
See how she lies, see how this beautie lies,
A foule offence, unto thy loathing eyes;
A fleshly Cinder, lying on the floore
Starke naked, had it not beene covered ore
With bashfull ruines, which were fallen downe
From the consumed roofe, and rudely throwne
On this halfe roasted earth. O; canst thou reade
Her double storie, and thy heart not bleed?
What art thou more than she? Tell me wherein
Art thou more priviledg'd? Or can thy sinne
Plead more t'excuse it? Art thou faire and young?
Why so was she: Were thy temptations strong?
Why so were hers: What canst thou plead, but she
Had power to plead the same, as well as thee?
Nor was't her death alone, could satisfie
Revenge; her father, and his house must die:
Vnpunisht crimes doe often bring them in,
That were no lesse than strangers to the sinne:
Ely must die; because his faire reproofe
Of too foule sinne, was not austere enough:
Was vengeance now appeas'd? Hath not the crime
Paid a sufficient Intrest for the time?
Remove thine eye to the Philistian fields
See what increase their fruitfull harvest yeelds:
There's nothing there, but a confused heape
Of ruinous Ashes: There's no corne to reape:
Behold the poyson of unpunisht sinne:
For which the very earth's accurst againe:
Famine must act her part; her griping hand,
For one mans sinne must punish all the land:
Is vengeance now appeas'd? Hath sinne given ore
To cry for plagues? Must vengeance yet have more?
O, now th'impartiall sword must come; and spill
The bloud of such, as famine could not kill:
The language of unpunisht sinne cryes loud,
It roares for Iustice, and it must have bloud:
Famine must follow, where the fire begun;
The sword must end, what both have left undone.
Not tingle? nor thy spirits faint to heare
The voice of those, whose dying shriekes proclaime
Their tortures, that are broyling in the flame?
She, whose illustrious beautie did not know
Where to be matcht, but one poore houre agoe;
She, whose faire eyes were apt to make man erre
From his knowne faith, and turne Idolater;
She, whose faire cheeks, inricht with true complexion,
Seem'd Beauties store-house of her best perfection;
See how she lies, see how this beautie lies,
A foule offence, unto thy loathing eyes;
A fleshly Cinder, lying on the floore
Starke naked, had it not beene covered ore
With bashfull ruines, which were fallen downe
From the consumed roofe, and rudely throwne
On this halfe roasted earth. O; canst thou reade
Her double storie, and thy heart not bleed?
340
Art thou more priviledg'd? Or can thy sinne
Plead more t'excuse it? Art thou faire and young?
Why so was she: Were thy temptations strong?
Why so were hers: What canst thou plead, but she
Had power to plead the same, as well as thee?
Nor was't her death alone, could satisfie
Revenge; her father, and his house must die:
Vnpunisht crimes doe often bring them in,
That were no lesse than strangers to the sinne:
Ely must die; because his faire reproofe
Of too foule sinne, was not austere enough:
Was vengeance now appeas'd? Hath not the crime
Paid a sufficient Intrest for the time?
Remove thine eye to the Philistian fields
See what increase their fruitfull harvest yeelds:
There's nothing there, but a confused heape
Of ruinous Ashes: There's no corne to reape:
Behold the poyson of unpunisht sinne:
For which the very earth's accurst againe:
Famine must act her part; her griping hand,
For one mans sinne must punish all the land:
Is vengeance now appeas'd? Hath sinne given ore
To cry for plagues? Must vengeance yet have more?
O, now th'impartiall sword must come; and spill
The bloud of such, as famine could not kill:
The language of unpunisht sinne cryes loud,
It roares for Iustice, and it must have bloud:
Famine must follow, where the fire begun;
The sword must end, what both have left undone.
Iust God! our sinnes doe dare thee to thy face;
Our score is great, our Ephah fills apace;
The leaden cover threatens every minut,
To close the Ephah, and our sinnes within it.
Turne backe thine eye: Let not thine eye behold
Such vile pollutions: Let thy vengeance hold:
Looke on thy dying Sonne, there shalt thou spie
An object, that's more fitter for thine eye;
His sufferings (Lord) are farre above our finnes:
O, looke thou there; Ere Iustice once begins
T'unsheath her sword: O let one precious drop
Fall from that pierced side, and that will stop
The eares of vengeance, from that clamorous voice
Of our loud sinnes, which make so great a noise:
O, send that drop, before Revenge begins,
And that will crie farre louder than our sinnes.
Our score is great, our Ephah fills apace;
The leaden cover threatens every minut,
To close the Ephah, and our sinnes within it.
341
Such vile pollutions: Let thy vengeance hold:
Looke on thy dying Sonne, there shalt thou spie
An object, that's more fitter for thine eye;
His sufferings (Lord) are farre above our finnes:
O, looke thou there; Ere Iustice once begins
T'unsheath her sword: O let one precious drop
Fall from that pierced side, and that will stop
The eares of vengeance, from that clamorous voice
Of our loud sinnes, which make so great a noise:
O, send that drop, before Revenge begins,
And that will crie farre louder than our sinnes.
| Divine poems | |