Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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Medita. 12.
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 | Divine poems |  |
48
Medita. 12.
How poore a thing is mā! How vain's his mind!
How strāge, how base! & wav'ring like the wind
How uncouth are his wayes! how full of danger!
How to himselfe, is hee himselfe a stranger!
His heart's corrupt, and all his thoughts are vaine,
His actions sinfull, and his words prophane,
His will's deprav'd, his senses are beguil'd,
His reason's darke, his members all defil'd,
His hasty feet are swift and prone to ill,
His guilty hands are ever bent to kill.
His tongue's a spunge of venome, (or of worse)
Her practice is to sweare, his skill to curse;
His eyes are fire-bals of lustfull fire,
And outward helps to inward foule desire,
His body is a well erected station,
But full of folly and corrupted passion:
Fond love; and raging lust; and foolish feares;
Griefes overwhelmed with immoderate teares;
Excessive joy; prodigious desire,
Vnholy anger, red and hot as fire;
These daily clog the soule, that's fast in prison,
From whose encrease this lucklesse brood is risen,
Respectlesse pride, and lustfull idlenesse,
Base ribbauld talke, and loathsome drunkennesse,
Faithlesse Despaire, and vaine Curiosity;
Both false, yet double-tongu'd Hypocrisie;
Soft flattery, and haughty-ey'd Ambition;
Heart-gnawing Hatred, and squint-ey'd Suspition,
Selfe-eating Envy, envious Detraction,
Hopelesse distrust, and too-too sad Dejection;
Revengefull Malice, hellish Blasphemy,
Idolatry, and light Inconstancy;
Daring Presumption, wry-mouth'd Derisson,
Damned Apostasie, Fond superstition,
How strāge, how base! & wav'ring like the wind
How uncouth are his wayes! how full of danger!
How to himselfe, is hee himselfe a stranger!
His heart's corrupt, and all his thoughts are vaine,
His actions sinfull, and his words prophane,
His will's deprav'd, his senses are beguil'd,
His reason's darke, his members all defil'd,
His hasty feet are swift and prone to ill,
His guilty hands are ever bent to kill.
His tongue's a spunge of venome, (or of worse)
Her practice is to sweare, his skill to curse;
His eyes are fire-bals of lustfull fire,
And outward helps to inward foule desire,
His body is a well erected station,
But full of folly and corrupted passion:
Fond love; and raging lust; and foolish feares;
Griefes overwhelmed with immoderate teares;
Excessive joy; prodigious desire,
Vnholy anger, red and hot as fire;
These daily clog the soule, that's fast in prison,
From whose encrease this lucklesse brood is risen,
Respectlesse pride, and lustfull idlenesse,
Base ribbauld talke, and loathsome drunkennesse,
Faithlesse Despaire, and vaine Curiosity;
Both false, yet double-tongu'd Hypocrisie;
Soft flattery, and haughty-ey'd Ambition;
Heart-gnawing Hatred, and squint-ey'd Suspition,
Selfe-eating Envy, envious Detraction,
Hopelesse distrust, and too-too sad Dejection;
Revengefull Malice, hellish Blasphemy,
Idolatry, and light Inconstancy;
49
Damned Apostasie, Fond superstition,
What heedfull watch? Ah what continuall ward?
How great respect, and howerly regard,
Stands man in hand to have; when such a brood
Of furious hel-hounds seeke to suck his blood?
Day, night, and hower, they rebell and wrastle,
And never cease, till they subdue the Castle.
How great respect, and howerly regard,
Stands man in hand to have; when such a brood
Of furious hel-hounds seeke to suck his blood?
Day, night, and hower, they rebell and wrastle,
And never cease, till they subdue the Castle.
How slight a thing is man? how fraile and brittle?
How seeming great is he? How truly little?
Within the bosome of his holiest works,
Some hidden Embers of old Adam lurkes,
Which oftentimes in men of purest wayes,
Burst out in flame, and for a season blaze
How seeming great is he? How truly little?
Within the bosome of his holiest works,
Some hidden Embers of old Adam lurkes,
Which oftentimes in men of purest wayes,
Burst out in flame, and for a season blaze
Lord, teach our hearts, and give our soules directions,
Subdue our passions, curb our stout affections,
Nip thou the bud, before the bloome begins:
Lord, shield thy servants from presumptuous sins.
Subdue our passions, curb our stout affections,
Nip thou the bud, before the bloome begins:
Lord, shield thy servants from presumptuous sins.
| Divine poems | |