Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

When ruddy Phœbus had with morning light
Subdu'd the East, & put the stars to flight,
Heav'ns hand prepar'd a fervent Easterne winde,
Whose drought together with the Sun combin'd,
The one as bellowes blowing t'others fire,
With strong united force, did both conspire
To make assault upon the fainting head
Of helplesse Ionah, that was well nye dead,
Who turning oft, and tossing to and fro,
(As they that are in torments use to doe)
And (restlesse) finding no successe of ease,
But rather that his tortures still encrease;
His secret passion to his soule betraid,
Craving no sweeter boone then death, and said,
O kill me (Lord) or loe, my heart will rive;
For better 'tis for me to dye than live.

So said, The Lord did interrupt his passion,
And said, How now, is this a seemely fashion?
Doth it become my servants heart to swell?
Can anger helpe thee? Ionah, dost thou well?

Js this a fit speech? or a well-plac'd word?
What, art thou angry (Ionah) for a Gourd?
What, if th'Arabians with their ruder traine,
Had kild thine Oxen, and thy Cattell slaine?
What if consuming fier (falne from heaven)
Had all thy servants of their lives bereaven,
And burnt thy sheepe? What, if by strong oppression
The Chaldees had usurp'd unjust possession
Vpon thy Camels? Or had Boreas blowne
His full-mouth'd blast, and cast thy houses downe,
And slaine thy sonnes amid their jollities?
Or hadst thou lest thy Vineyard full of trees?
Hadst thou beene ravisht of thine onely Sheepe,
That in thy tender bosome us'd to sleepe?
How would thine hasty spirit then bin stirr'd,
Jf thou art angry, Ionah, for a Gourd?
To which, thus Ionah vents his idle breath,
Lord, I doe well to vexe unto the death;
I blush not to acknowledge, and professe
Deserved rage, I'm angry, I confesse;
'Twould make a spirit that is thorow frozen,
To blaze like flaming Pitch, and fry like Rozen:
Why dost thou aske that thing that thou canst tell?
Thou know'st I'm angry', and it beseemes me well.

So said; the Lord to Ionah thus respake;
Doest thou bemoane, and such compassion take
Vpon a Gourd, whose seed thou didst not sow,
Nor mov'd thy busie hands to make it grow,
Whose beauty, small; and value was but slight,
Which sprang, as also perisht in a night?
Hadst thou (O dust and ashes) such a care,
Such in-bred pitty, a trifling plant to spare?
Hadst thou, (O hard and incompassionate,
To wish the razing of so brave a State)

Hadst thou (I say) compassion to bewaile
The extirpation of a Gourd so fraile?
And shall not I (that am the Lord of Lords)
Whose Fountain's never dry, but still affords
Sweet streames of mercy, with a fresh supply,
To those that thirst for grace: What shall not I,
(That am the God of mercy, and have sworne
To pardon sinners, when soc're they turne?
(I say) shall J disclaime my wonted pitty,
And bring to ruine such a goodly City,
Whose hearts (so truely penitent) implore me,
Who day and night powre forth their soules before me?
Shall I destroy the mighty Ninevie,
Whose people are like sands about the Sea?
'Mong which are sixe score thousand Babes (at least)
That hang upon their tender Mothers brest,
Whose pretty smiles could never yet descry
The deare affection of their mothers eye?
Shall I subvert, and bring to desolation
A City, (nay, more aptly term'd a Nation)
Whose walls boast lesse their beauty than their might?
Whose hearts are sorrowfull, and soules contrite?
Whose Infants are in number, so amounting?
And beasts, and cattell endlesse, without counting?
What, Ionah, shall a Gourd so move thy pity?
And shall not I spare such a goodly Citie?

Meditatio ultima.

My heart is full, my vent is too too straight;
My tongue's too trusty to my poore conceit,
My mind's in labour, and finds no redresse;
My heart conceives, my lips cannot expresse;

My organs suffer, through a maine defect;
Alas! I want a proper Dialect,
To blazon forth the tythe of what I muse;
The more I meditate, the more accrewes;
But lo, my faultring tongue must say no more,
Vnlesse she step where she hath trod before.
What? shall I then be silent? No, Ile speake
(Till tongue be tyred, and my lungs be weake)
Of dearest mercy, in as sweet a straine,
As it shall please my Muse to lend a vaine;
And when my voice shall stop within her source,
And speech shall faulter in this high Discourse,
My tyred tongue (unsham'd) shall thus extend,
Onely to name; Deare Mercy, and so end.

Oh high Imperiall King, heavens Architect!
Is Man a thing befitting thy respect?
Lord, thou art Wisedome, and thy wayes are holy,
But Man's polluted, full of filch, and folly;
Yet is he (Lord) the fabricke of thy hand,
And in his Soule he beares thy glorious Brand,
Howe're defaced with the rust of Sin,
Which hath abus'd thy stamp, and eaten in;
'Tis not the frailty' of Mans corrupted nature,
Makes thee asham'd t'acknowledge Man thy Creature;
But like a tender Father, here on earth,
(Whose Childe by nature, or abortive birth,
Doth want that sweet and favourable relish,
Wherewith, her creatures, Nature doth imbelish)
Respects him nerethelesse; even so thy Grace
(Great God) extends to Man; though sin deface
The glorious pourtraiture that man doth beare,
Whereby he loath'd and ugly doth appeare,
Yet thou, (within whose tender bowels are
Deepe gulfes of Mercy, sweet beyond compare)

Regard'st, and lov'st (with rev'rence be it said)
Nay seem'st to dote on Man; when he hath straid,
Lord, thou hast brought him to his Fold againe;
When he was lost, thou didst not then disdaine
To thinke upon a vagabond, and give
Thy dearest Sonne to dye, that he might live.
How poore a mite art thou content withall,
That Man may scape his downe-approching fall?
Though base we are, yet thou dost not abhorre us,
But (as our Story speaks) art pleading for us,
To save us harmelesse from our Foe-mans jawes;
Art thou turn'd Orator to plead our cause?

How are thy Mercies full of admiration!
How soveraigne! how sweet's their application!
Fatning the Soule with sweetnesse, and repayring
The rotten ruines of a Soule despairing.

Lo here (Malfido) is a Feast prepar'd;
Fall to with courage, and let nought be spar'd;
Tast freely of it, Here's no Misers Feast;
Eate what thou canst, and pocket-up the rest:
These precious Viands are Restoritie,
Eate then; and if the sweetnesse make thee drie,
Drinke large Carouses out of Mercies Cup,
The best lies in the bottome, Drinke all up:
These Cates are sweet Ambrosia to thy Soule,
And that which fills the brim of Mercies bowle,
Is dainty Nectar; Eate and drinke thy fill;
Spare not the one, nor yet the other spill;
Provide in time: Thy Banquet is begun,
Lay up in store against the Feast be done:
For loe, the time of banquetting is short,
And once being done, the world cannot restor't;
It is a feast of Mercy, and of Grace;
It is a Feast for all, or high, or base:

A feast for him that begs upon the way,
As well for him that does the Scepter sway;
A feast for him that howerly bemoanes
His dearest sins, with sighs, and teares and groanes;
A feast for him, whose gentle heart reformes;
A feast for Men; and so a Feast For Wormes.

Deare liefest Lord, that feast'st the World with grace,
Extend thy bounteous hand, thy glorious face:
Bid ioyfull welcome to thy hungry guest,
That we may praise the Master of the Feast;
And in thy mercy grant this boone to mee,
That I may dye to sinne, and live to thee.