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. 21.
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 | Divine poems |  |
Meditat. 21.
See, how the crafty Serpent, twists and windes
Into the brest of man! What paths he findes,
And crooked by wayes! With how sweet a baite
He hides the hooke of his inveterate hate!
What suger'd words, and eare-delighting Art
He uses, to supplant the yeelding heart
Of poore deceived man, who stands and trusts
Vpon the broken staffe of his false lusts!
He tempts; allures; suggests; and, in conclusion,
Makes Man the Pander to his owne confusion:
The fruit was faire and pleasing to the eyes,
Apt to breed knowledge, and to make them wise;
Must they not taste so faire a fruit, not touch?
Yes, doe: Twill make you Gods, and know as much
As he that made it: Thinke you, you can fall
Into deaths hands? Yee shall not dye at all:
Thus fell poore man: his knowledge proved such,
Better't had bin, he had not knowne so much:
Thus this old Serpent takes advantage still
On our desiers, and distemperd will:
Art thou growne Covetous? wouldst thou faine be rich?
He comes and strikes thy heart with the dry itch
Of having: Wealth wil rouze thy heartles friends;
Make thee a potent Master of thy Ends;
'Twill bring thee honour; make thy suites at Law
Prosper at will; and keepe thy Foes in awe:
Art thou Ambitious? He will kindle fire
In thy proud thoughts & make thy thoughts aspire;
Hee'l come and teach thy honour how to scorne
Thy old acquaintance, whom thou hast outworne:
Hee'l teach thee how to Lord it, and advance
Thy servants fortunes, with thy Countenance:
Wouldst thou enjoy the Pleasures of the flesh?
Hee'l bring thee wanton Ladies, to refresh
Thy drooping soule: He'l teach thine eyes to wander;
Instruct thee how to wooe; Hee'l be thy Pander:
Hee'l fill thy amorous soule with the sweet passion
Of powerfull Love: Hee'l give thee dispensation,
To sinne at pleasure; He will make thee Slave
To thy own thoughts: hee'l make thee beg & crave
To be a drudge: hee'l make thy treacherous breath
Destroy thee, and betray thee to thy death.
Into the brest of man! What paths he findes,
And crooked by wayes! With how sweet a baite
He hides the hooke of his inveterate hate!
What suger'd words, and eare-delighting Art
He uses, to supplant the yeelding heart
Of poore deceived man, who stands and trusts
Vpon the broken staffe of his false lusts!
He tempts; allures; suggests; and, in conclusion,
Makes Man the Pander to his owne confusion:
371
Apt to breed knowledge, and to make them wise;
Must they not taste so faire a fruit, not touch?
Yes, doe: Twill make you Gods, and know as much
As he that made it: Thinke you, you can fall
Into deaths hands? Yee shall not dye at all:
Thus fell poore man: his knowledge proved such,
Better't had bin, he had not knowne so much:
Thus this old Serpent takes advantage still
On our desiers, and distemperd will:
Art thou growne Covetous? wouldst thou faine be rich?
He comes and strikes thy heart with the dry itch
Of having: Wealth wil rouze thy heartles friends;
Make thee a potent Master of thy Ends;
'Twill bring thee honour; make thy suites at Law
Prosper at will; and keepe thy Foes in awe:
Art thou Ambitious? He will kindle fire
In thy proud thoughts & make thy thoughts aspire;
Hee'l come and teach thy honour how to scorne
Thy old acquaintance, whom thou hast outworne:
Hee'l teach thee how to Lord it, and advance
Thy servants fortunes, with thy Countenance:
Wouldst thou enjoy the Pleasures of the flesh?
Hee'l bring thee wanton Ladies, to refresh
Thy drooping soule: He'l teach thine eyes to wander;
Instruct thee how to wooe; Hee'l be thy Pander:
Hee'l fill thy amorous soule with the sweet passion
Of powerfull Love: Hee'l give thee dispensation,
To sinne at pleasure; He will make thee Slave
To thy own thoughts: hee'l make thee beg & crave
To be a drudge: hee'l make thy treacherous breath
Destroy thee, and betray thee to thy death.
Lord; if our Father Adam could not stay
In his upright perfection, one poore day;
How can it be expected, we have power
To hold out Seige, one scruple of an hower:
Our Armes are bound with too unequall bands;
We cannot strive; We cannot loose our hands:
In his upright perfection, one poore day;
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To hold out Seige, one scruple of an hower:
Our Armes are bound with too unequall bands;
We cannot strive; We cannot loose our hands:
Great Nazarite, awake; and looke upon us:
Make haste to helpe; The Philistines are on us.
Make haste to helpe; The Philistines are on us.
| Divine poems | |