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. 6.
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 | Divine poems |  |
28
Meditat. 6.
Lo, Death is now, as alwaies it hath bin,
The just procured stipend of our sinne:
Sinne is a golden Causie, and a Road
Garnisht with joyes, whose pathes are even & broad
But leads at length to death, and endlesse griefe,
To torments, and to paines without reliefe.
Iustice feares none, but maketh all afraid,
And then fals hardest, when tis most delaid,
But thou reply'st, thy sinnes are daily great,
Yet thou sittst uncontrold upon thy seat;
Thy wheat doth flourish, and thy barnes do thrive,
Thy sheepe encrease, thy sonnes are all alive,
And thou art buxom, and hast nothing scant,
Finding no want of any thing, but want,
Whil'st others, whom the squint-ey'd world counts holy,
Sit sadly drooping in a melancholy,
With brow dejected, and downe-hanging head,
Or take of almes, or poorely begge their bread:
But young man, know there is a Day of doome,
The Feast is good, untill the reck'ning come.
The time runnes fastest, where is least regard,
The stone thats long in falling, falleth hard;
There is a dying day, (thou prosp'rous foole)
When all thy laughter shall be turn'd to Doole,
Thy roabes to tort'ring plagues, & fel tormenting
Thy whoops of Ioy, to howles of sad lamenting:
Thy tongue shall yell, and yawle, and never stop,
And wish a world, to give for one poore drop,
To flatter thine intolerable paine;
The wealth of Pluto could not then obtaine
A minutes freedome from that hellish rout,
Whose fire burnes, and never goeth out:
Nor house, nor land, not measur'd heaps of wealth,
Can render to a dying man, his health:
Our life on earth is like a thred of flax,
That all may touch, and being toucht, it craks.
The just procured stipend of our sinne:
Sinne is a golden Causie, and a Road
Garnisht with joyes, whose pathes are even & broad
But leads at length to death, and endlesse griefe,
To torments, and to paines without reliefe.
Iustice feares none, but maketh all afraid,
And then fals hardest, when tis most delaid,
But thou reply'st, thy sinnes are daily great,
Yet thou sittst uncontrold upon thy seat;
Thy wheat doth flourish, and thy barnes do thrive,
Thy sheepe encrease, thy sonnes are all alive,
And thou art buxom, and hast nothing scant,
Finding no want of any thing, but want,
Whil'st others, whom the squint-ey'd world counts holy,
Sit sadly drooping in a melancholy,
With brow dejected, and downe-hanging head,
Or take of almes, or poorely begge their bread:
But young man, know there is a Day of doome,
The Feast is good, untill the reck'ning come.
The time runnes fastest, where is least regard,
The stone thats long in falling, falleth hard;
There is a dying day, (thou prosp'rous foole)
When all thy laughter shall be turn'd to Doole,
Thy roabes to tort'ring plagues, & fel tormenting
Thy whoops of Ioy, to howles of sad lamenting:
Thy tongue shall yell, and yawle, and never stop,
And wish a world, to give for one poore drop,
To flatter thine intolerable paine;
The wealth of Pluto could not then obtaine
29
Whose fire burnes, and never goeth out:
Nor house, nor land, not measur'd heaps of wealth,
Can render to a dying man, his health:
Our life on earth is like a thred of flax,
That all may touch, and being toucht, it craks.
As when an Archer shooteth for his sport,
Sometimes his shaft is gone, sometimes 'tis short,
Somtimes o'th'left hād, wide, sometimes o'th right
At last, (through often tryall) hits the White;
So death sometimes with her uncertaine Rover,
Hits our Superiours (and so shoots over)
Sometimes for change, shee strikes the meaner sort,
Strikes our Inferiours (and then comes short)
Sometimes upon the left hand wide shee goes,
And so (still wounding some) shee strikes our foes;
And sometimes wide upon the right hand bends,
There with Imperiall shafts, she strikes our friends;
At length (through often triall) hits the White,
And so strikes us into Eternall night.
Sometimes his shaft is gone, sometimes 'tis short,
Somtimes o'th'left hād, wide, sometimes o'th right
At last, (through often tryall) hits the White;
So death sometimes with her uncertaine Rover,
Hits our Superiours (and so shoots over)
Sometimes for change, shee strikes the meaner sort,
Strikes our Inferiours (and then comes short)
Sometimes upon the left hand wide shee goes,
And so (still wounding some) shee strikes our foes;
And sometimes wide upon the right hand bends,
There with Imperiall shafts, she strikes our friends;
At length (through often triall) hits the White,
And so strikes us into Eternall night.
Death is a Kalender compos'd by Fate,
Concerning all men, never out of Date:
Her dayes Dominicall, are writ in blood;
She shewes more bad daies, than she sheweth good:
She tels when dayes, & monthes, & termes expire,
Meas'ring the lives of mortals by her squire.
Concerning all men, never out of Date:
Her dayes Dominicall, are writ in blood;
She shewes more bad daies, than she sheweth good:
She tels when dayes, & monthes, & termes expire,
Meas'ring the lives of mortals by her squire.
Death is a Pursivant, with Eagles wings,
That knocks at poore mens door, & gates of Kings.
Worldling, beware betime; death sculks behind thee
And as she leaves thee, so will Iudgement find thee.
That knocks at poore mens door, & gates of Kings.
Worldling, beware betime; death sculks behind thee
And as she leaves thee, so will Iudgement find thee.
| Divine poems | |