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. 16.
It was a sharpe revenge: But was it just?Shall one man suffer for another? Must
The childrens teeth be set on edge, because
Their fathers ate the grapes? Are heavens lawes
So strict? whose lips did, with a promise, tell,
That no such law should passe in Israel:
Because the injurous Timnits treacherous hand
345
Sinne is a furious plague, and it infects
The next inhabitant, if he neglects
The meanes t'avoid it: Tis not because he sinnes
That thou art punisht: No, it then begins
T'infect thy soule; when, thou a stander by,
Reprov'st it not: or when thy carelesse eye
Slights it as nothing: If a sinne of mine
Grieve not thy wounded soule, it becomes thine.
Thinke yee that God commits the Sword of power
Into the hands of Magistrates, to scower
And keep it bright? Or onely to advance
His yet unknowne Authority? Perchance,
The glorious Hilt and Scabberd make a show
To serve his turne, have it a blade, or no,
He neither knowes, nor cares: Is this man fit
T'obtaine so great an honor, as to sit
As Gods Lievtenant, and to punish sinne?
Know leaden Magistrates, and know agin,
Your Sword was giv'n to draw, and to be dyde
In guilty blood, not to be layd aside
At the request of friends, or for base feare,
Lest when your honor's ended with the yeare,
Ye may be baffled: 'tis not enough that you
Finde bread be waight, or that the waights be true:
'Tis not enough, that every foule disorder
Must be refer'd to your more wise Recorder:
The charge is given to you: You must returne
A faire account, or else, the Land must mourne:
You keepe your swords too long a season in,
And God strikes us, because you strike not sinne:
Y'are too remisse, and want a Resolution:
Good Lawes lie dead for lack of execution:
An oath is growne so bold, that it will laugh
346
And reele with priviledge: and we can trample
Vpon our shame-shrunke cloakes, by your example:
You are too dull: too great offences passe
Vntoucht; God loves no service from the Asse;
Rouze up, O use the spurre, and spare the bridle,
God strikes, because your swords, and you are idle;
Grant Lord that every one may mend a fault;
And then our Magistrates may stand for nought.
| Divine poems | |