Divine poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

When as the ancient world did all imbark
Within the compass of good Noahs Arke,
Forth to the new-washt earth a Dove was sent,
Who in her mouth return'd an Olive plant,
Which in a silent language this related:
How that the waters were at length abated,
Those swelling waters, is the wrath of God,
And like the Dove, are Prophets sent abroad;
The Olive-leafe's a joyfull Type of peace,
A faithfull signe Gods vengeance doth decrease;

They salve the wounded heart, and make it whole,
They bring glad tydings to the drooping soule,
Proclaiming grace to them that thirst for Grace,
Mercy to those that Mercy will embrace.

Malfido, thou, in whose distrustfull brest
Despaire hath brought in sticks to build her nest,
Where she may safely lodge her lucklesse brood,
To feed upon thy heart, and sucke thy blood,
Beware betimes, lest custome and permission
Prescribe a title, and so claime possession.

Despairing man, whose burthen makes thee stoop
Vnder the terror of thy sinnes, and droop
Through dull despaire, whose too too sullen griefe
Makes heav'n unable to apply reliefe;
Whose eares are dull'd with noyse of whips and chaines;
And yels of damned soules, through tort'red pains,
Come here, and rouze thy selfe, unseele those eyes,
Which sad Despaire clos'd up; Arise, Arise,
And goe to Nineveh, the worlds great Palace,
Earths mighty wonder, and behold the Ballace,
And burthen of her bulke, is nought but sin,
Which (wilfull) she commits, and wallowes in;
Behold her Images, her fornications,
Her crying sinnes, her vile abominations;
Behold the guiltlesse blood that she did spill,
Like Spring-tides in the streets, and reeking still:
Behold her scorching lusts, and taint desier
Like sulph'rous Ætna, blaze, and blaze up higher;
She rapes, and rends, and theeves, & there is none
Can justly call the thing he hath, his owne;
That sacred Name of God, that Name of wonder,
In stead of worshipping, she teares in sunder;
She's not enthrall'd to this Sin, or another,
But like a Leper's all infected over;

Not onely sinfull, but in sinnes subjection,
Shee's not infected, but a meere infection.

No sooner had the Prophet (Heav'ns great Spy)
Begun an onset to his lowder Cry,
But she repented, sigh'd, and wept, and tore
Her curious hayre, and garments that she wore,
She sate in ashes, and with Sack-cloth clad her,
All drencht in brine, that griefe cannot be sadder;
She calls a Fast, proclames a prohibition
To man and beast; (sad tokens of contrition)

No sooner pray'd, but heard; No sooner groan'd,
But pittied; No sooner griev'd but moan'd;
Timely Repentance speedy grace procur'd,
The sore that's salvd in time, is eas'ly cur'd:
No sooner had her trickling teares ore-flowne
Her blubber'd cheeks, but heav'n was apt to mone
Her pensive heart, wip'd her suffused eyes,
And gently strok'd her cheekes, and bid her rise;
No faults were seene, as if no fault had bin,
Deare Mercy made a Quittance for her sin.

Malfido, rouze thy leaden spirit, bestirre thee;
Hold up thy drouzy head, here's comfort for thee
What if thy zeale be frozen hard? What then?
Thy Saviours blood will thaw that frost agen:
Thy pray'rs that should be fervent, hot as fier,
Proceed but coldly from a dull desier;
What then? Grieve inly, But do not dismay,
Who heares thy pray'rs, will give thee strength to pray:
Though left a while, thou art not quite giv'n ore,
Where Sinne abounds, there Grace aboundeth more:
This, this is all the good that I can doe thee,
To ease thy griefe, I here commend unto thee
A little booke, but a great Mystery,
A great delight, A little History;

A little branch slipt from a saving tree,
But bearing fruit as great, as great mought be;
A small abridgement of thy Lords great love;
A message sent from heaven by a Dove:
It is a heavenly Lecture, that relates
To Princes, Pastors, People, all Estates
Their sev'rall duties.

Peruse it well, and binde it to thy brest,
The rests the Cause of thy defect of rest:
But read it often, or else read it not:
Once read, is not observ'd, and soone forgot,
Nor is't enough to read, but understand,
Or else thy tongue, for want of wit's prophan'd,
Nor is't enough to purchase knowledge by it;
Salve heales no sore, unlesse the party' apply it;
Apply it then; which if thy flesh restraines,
Strive what thou canst, & pray for what remaines.