Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Insatiate Samson! Could not Azza smother
Thy flaming Lust; but must thou finde another?
Is th'old growne stale? And seekst thou for a new?
Alas, where Two's too many, Three's too few:
Mans soule is infinite, and never tires
In the extension of her owne desires:
The sprightly nature of his active minde
Aimes still at further; Will not be confinde
To th'poore dimensions of flesh and blood;
Something it still desiers: Covets good,
Would faine be happy, in the sweet enjoyment
Of what it prosecutes, with the imployment
Of best endeavours; but it cannot finde
So great a good, but something's still behind:
It first propounds, applauds, desires, endeavours;
At last enjoyes; but (like to men, in Feavours,
Who fancy alway those things that are worst)
The more it drinks, the more it is athirst:
The fruitfull earth (whose nature is the worse
For sin; with man partaker in the curse)
Aimes at perfection; and would faine bring forth
(As first it did) things of the greatest worth;
Her colder wombe endeavours (as of old)
To ripen all her Metals, unto Gold;
O, but that sin-procured curse hath chill'd
The heate of pregnant Nature, and hath filld
Her barren seed, with coldnesse, which does lurke
In her faint wombe, that her more perfect worke

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Is hindred; and, for want of heate, brings forth
Imperfect metals, of a baser worth:
Even so, the soule of Man, in her first state,
Receiv'd a power, and a will to that
Which was most pure, and good; but, since the losse
Of that faire freedome, onely trades in drosse;
Aimes shee at Wealth? alas, her proud desire
Strives for the best; but failing to mount higher
Than earth, her errour grapples, and takes hold
On that, which earth can onely give her, Gold:
Aimes she at Glory? Her ambition flies
As high a pitch, as her dull wings can rise;
But, failing in her strength, she leaves to strive,
And takes such Honour, as base earth can give:
Aimes she at Pleasure? her desires extend
To lasting joyes, whose pleasures have no end;
But, wanting wings, she grovels on the Dust,
And, there, she lights upon a carnall Lust:
Yet nerethelesse, th'aspring Soule desires
A perfect good; but, wanting those sweet fires,
Whose heate should perfect her unrip'ned will,
Cleaves to th'apparent Good, which Good is ill;
Whose sweet enjoyment, being farre unable
To give a satisfaction answerable
To her unbounded wishes, leaves a thirst
Of re-enjoyment, greater than the first.

Lord; When our fruitlesse fallowes are growne cold;
And out of heart, we can inrich the mould
With a new heate; wee can restore againe
Her weakned soile; and make it apt for graine;
And wilt thou suffer our faint soules; to lie
Thus unmanur'd, that is thy Husbandry?
They beare no other bulke, but idle weeds,
Alas, they have no heart, no heate; Thy seedes

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Are cast away, untill thou please t'enspire
New strength, & quench them with thy sacred fire:
Stirre thou my Fallowes, and enrich my mould,
And they shal bring thee' encrease, a hundred fold.