Emblemes (1635) and Hieroglyphikes (1638) [in the critical edition by John Horden] |
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| 5. | THE FIFT BOOK. |
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 | Emblemes (1635) and Hieroglyphikes (1638) |  |
THE FIFT BOOK.
I. CANTICLES V. VIII.
I charge you, O daughter of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of love.
1
You holy Virgins, that so oft surroundThe Cities Saphyre Wals, whose snowy feet
Measure the pearly Paths of sacred, ground,
And trace the new Jerus'lems Jasper street;
Ah, you whose care-forsaken hearts are crown'd
With your best wishes; that enjoy the sweet
Of all your Hopes; If ere you chance to spie
My absent Love, O tell him that I lie
Deep wounded with the flames, that furnac'd from his eye.
2
I charge you, Virgins, as you hope to heareThe heav'nly Musick of your Lovers voice;
I charge you by the solemne faith ye beare
To plighted vowes, and to the loyall choice
Of your Affections; or, if ought more deare
You hold; by Hymen; by your marriage joyes,
I charge you, tell him, that a flaming dart,
Shot from his Eye, hath pierc'd my bleeding heart;
And I am sick of love, and languish in my smart.
3
Tell him, O tell him, how my panting brestIs scorch'd with flames, and how my soule is pin'd;
Tell him, O tell him, how I lie opprest
With the full torments of a troubled mind;
O tell him, tell him, that he loves in jest,
But I, in earnest; Tell him, hee's unkind:
But if a discontented frowne appeares
Upon his angry Brow, accoast his eares
With soft and fewer words, and act the rest in teares.
4
O tell him, that his cruelties depriveMy soule, of peace, while peace, in vaine, she seeks;
Tell him, those Damask roses, that did strive,
With white, both fade upon my sallow cheeks;
Tell him, no token does proclaime I live,
But teares, and sighs, and sobs, and sudden shreeks;
His harkning eare, and move a sigh, give ore
To speak; and tell him—Tell him, that I could do no more.
5
If your elegious breath should hap to rouzeA happy teare, close harb'ring in his eye,
The urge his plighted faith, the sacred vowes,
Which neither I can break, nor He deny;
Bewaile the Torments of his loyall Spouse,
That for his sake, would make a sport to die:
O blessed Virgins, how my passion tires
Beneath the burthen of her vaine desires!
Heav'n never shot such flames, Earth never felt such fires.
S. AUGUST. Med. cap. 40.
What shall I say? What shall I doe? Whether shall I goe? Where shall I seek him? Or when shall I find him? Whom shall I ask? Who will tell my beloved that I am sick of love?
GULIEL. in Cap. 5. Cant.
I live; But not I: It is my beloved that lives in me: I love my selfe, not with my owne love, but with the love of my beloved, that loves me: I love not my selfe in my selfe, but my selfe in him, and him in me.
EPIGRAM 1.
[Grieve not (my soule) nor let thy love waxe faint]
Grieve not (my soule) nor let thy love waxe faint,Weepst thou to lose the cause of thy Complaint?
Hee'l come; Love nev'r was bound to the Times nor Lawes:
Till then, thy teares complaine without Cause.
II. CANTICLES II. V.
Stay me with Flowers, and comfort me with Apples, for I am sicke with love.
1
O Tyrant love! how does thy sev'raigne pow'rSubject poore soules to thy imperious thrall!
They say, thy Cup's compos'd of sweet and sowre;
They say, thy diet's Honey, mixt with Gall;
How comes it then to passe, these lips of our
Still trade in bitter; taste no sweet at all?
O tyrant love! Shall our perpetuall toyle
Our drooping soules? Art thou all frowns, and nev'r a smile?
2
You blessed Maids of Honour, that frequentThe royall Courts of our renown'd JEHOVE,
With Flow'rs restore my spirits faint, and spent;
O fetch me Apples from Loves fruitfull Grove,
To coole my palat, and renew my sent,
For I am sick, for I am sick of Love:
These, will revive my dry, my wasted pow'rs,
And they, will sweeten my unsav'ry houres;
Resfresh me then with Fruit, and comfort me with Flow'rs.
3
O bring me Apples to asswage that fire,Which, Aetna-like, inflames my flaming brest;
Nor is it ev'ry Apple I desire,
Nor that which pleases ev'ry Palat best:
'Tis not the lasting Deuzan I require,
Nor yet the red-cheek'd Queening I request;
Nor that which, first, beshrewd the name of wife,
Nor that whose beauty caus'd the gold strife:
No, no, bring me an Apple from the Tree of life.
4
Virgins, tuck up your silken laps, and fill yeWith the faire wealth of Floras Magazine;
The purple Vy'let, and the pale-fac'd Lilly;
The Pauncy and the Organ Columbine;
The flowring Thyme, the gilt-boule Daffadilly;
The lowly Pinck, the lofty Eglentine:
The blushing Rose, the Queene of Flow'rs, and best
Of Floras beauty; but, above the rest,
Let Jesses sov'raigne Flow'r perfume my qualming brest.
5
Haste, Virgins, haste; for I lie weake and faint,Beneath the pangs of love; why stand ye mute;
As if your silence neither car'd to grant,
Nor yet your languagre to deny my suit?
No key can lock the doore of my complaint,
Untill I smell this Flow'r, or taste that Fruit;
Go, Virgins, seek this Tree, and search that Bow'r;
O, how my soule shall blesse that happy houre,
That brings to me such fruit, that brings me such a Flow'r!
GISTEN. in Cap. 2 Cant. Expos. 3.
O happy happy sicknesse! where the infirmity is not to death, but to life, that God may be glorified by it: O happy fever, that proceeds not from a consuming, but a calcining fire! O happy distemper, wherein the soule relishes no earthly things, but onely savours divine nourishment!
S. BERN. Serm. 51 in Cant.
By flowers understand faith; by fruit, good works: As the flower or blossome is before the fruit, so is faith before good works: So neither is the fruit without the flower, nor good works without faith.
EPIGRAM 2.
[Why Apples, O my soule? Can they remove]
Why Apples, O my soule? Can they removeThe Pangs of Griefe, or ease the flames of love?
It was that Fruit which gave the first offence;
That sent him hither; that remov'd him hence.
III. CANTICLES II. XVI.
My beloved is mine, and I am his; He feedeth among the Lillies.
1
Ev'n like two little bank-dividing brookes,That wash the pebles with their wanton streames,
And having rang'd and search'd a thousand nookes,
Meet both at length, in silver-brested Thames;
Where, in a greater Current they conjoyne;
So I my Best-Beloveds am; so, He is mine.
2
Ev'n so we met; and after long pursuit,Ev'n so we joyn'd; we both became entire;
No need for either to renew a Suit,
For I was Flax, and he was Flames of fire:
Our firm united soules did more than twine;
So I my Best-Beloveds am; so He is mine.
3
If all those glittring Monarchs that commandThe servile Quarters of this earthly Ball,
Should tender, in Exchange, their shares of land,
I would not change my Fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a Counter to my Coyne;
4
Nay, more; If the faire Thespian Ladies, allShould heap together their diviner treasure:
That Treasure should be deem'd a price too small
To buy a minuts Lease of half my Pleasure;
'Tis not the sacred wealth of all the Nine
Can buy my heart from Him; or His, from being mine.
5
Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bowMy least desires unto the least remove;
Hee's firmly mine by Oath; I, His, by Vow;
Hee's mine by Faith; and I am His by Love;
Hee's mine by Water; I am His, by Wine;
Thus I my Best-Beloveds am; Thus He is mine.
6
He is my Altar; I, his Holy Place;I am his Guest; and he, my living Food;
I'm his, by Poenitence; He, mine by Grace;
I'm his, by Purchace; He is mine, by Blood;
Hee's my supporting Elme; and I, his Vine:
Thus I my Best-Beloveds am. Thus He is mine.
7
He gives me wealth: I give him all my Vowes:I give Him songs; He gives me length of dayes;
With wreathes of Grace he crownes my conq'ring browes:
And I, his Temples, with a Crowne of Praise,
Which he accepts as an everlasting signe,
That I my Best-Beloveds am; and He is mine.
S. AUGUST. Manu. Cap. 24.
O my soule stampt with the Image of thy God; love him, of whom thou art so much beloved: Bend to him that bowes to thee, seeke him that seeks thee: Love thy lover, by whose love thou art prevented, being the cause of thy love: Be carefull with those that are carefull, want with those that want; Be cleane with the cleane, and holy with the holy: Choose this friend above all friends, who, when all are taken away, remaines onely faithfull to thee: In the day of thy buriall, when all leave thee, he will not deceive thee, but defend thee from the roaring Lions, prepared for their prey.
EPIGRAM 3.
[Sing Hymen to my soule: What? lost and found]
Sing Hymen to my soule: What? lost and found,Welcom'd, espous'd, enjoy'd so soone, and crown'd!
He did but climbe the Crosse; and then came downe
To th'Gates of Hell; triumph'd, and fetch'd a Crowne.
IV. CANTICLES VII. X.
I am my Beloveds, and his desire is towards me.
1
Like to, the Artick needle, that does guideThe wandring shade by his Magnetick pow'r,
And leaves his silken Gnomon to decide
The question of the controverted houre,
First franticks up and downe, from side to side,
And restlesse beats his christall'd Iv'ry case
With vaine impatience; jets from place to place,
And seeks the bosome of his frozen Bride,
At length he slacks his motion, and does rest
His trembling point at his bright Poles beloved Brest.
2
Ev'n so my soule, being hurried here and there;By ev'ry object that resents delight,
Faine would be setled, but she knowes not where;
She likes at morning what she loathes at night:
She bowes to Honour; then, she lends an eare
To that sweet Swan-like voice of dying Pleasure,
Then tumbles in the scatter'd heapes of Treasure;
Now flatter'd with false hope; now, foyl'd with Feare
Thus finding all the worlds delights to be
But empty toyes, good GOD, she point's alone to Thee.
3
But has the virtu'd Steele a pow'r to move?Or can the untouch'd Needle point aright?
Or can my wandring Thoughts forbeare to rove,
Unguided by the vertue of thy Spirit?
O has my leaden Soule the Art t'improvre
Her wasted Talent; and unrais'd, aspire
In this sad moulting time of her desire?
Not first belov'd have I the pow'r to love?
I cannot stirre, but as thou please to move me,
Nor can my heart returne thee love, untill thou love me.
4
The still Commandresse of the silent nightBorrowes her beames from her bright brothers Eye;
His faire Aspects fils her sharpe hornes with light,
If he withdraw, her flames are quench'd and die;
Ev'n so the beames of thy enlightning Sp'rite
Infus'd and shot into my dark desire,
Inflame my thoughts, and fill my soule with fire,
That I am ravisht with a new delight;
But if thou shrowd thy face, my glory fades,
And I remaine a Nothing, all compos'd of shades.
5
Eternall God, O thou that onely artThe sacred Fountaine of eternall light,
And blessed Loadstone of my better part,
O thou my hearts desire, my soules delight,
Reflect upon my soule; and touch my heart,
And then my heart shall prize no good above thee;
And then my soule shall know thee; knowing, love thee;
And then my trembling thoughts shall never start
From thy commands, or swerve the least degree,
Or once presume to move, but as they move in thee.
S. AUGUST. Med. Cap, 25.
If man can love man with so entire affection, that the one can scarce brooke the others absence; If a Bride can be joyned to her Bride-groome with so great an ardency of mind, that for the extremity of love she can enjoy no rest, nor suffring his absence without great anxiety with what affection, with what fervency ought the soule whom thou hast espoused by faith and compassion, to love thee her true God and glorious Bridegroom?
EPIGRAM 4.
[My soule; thy love is deare; 'Twas thought a good]
My soule; thy love is deare; 'Twas thought a goodAnd easie pen'worth of thy Saviours Blood:
But be not proud; All matters rightly scan'd,
'Twas over-bought: 'Twas sold at second hand.
V. CANTICLES V. VI.
My Soule melted whilst my Beloved spake.
Lord, has the feeble voice of flesh and bloodThe pow'r to work thine eares into a flood
Of melted Mercy? or the strength, t'unlock
Of marble Clouds into a morning show'r?
To stop, or snatch a falling Thunderbolt
From thy fierce hand, and make thy hand revolt
From resolute Confusion, and instead
Of Vyals, poure full Blessings on our head?
Or shall the wants of famisht Ravens cry,
And move thy mercy to a quick supply?
Or shall the silent suits of drooping flowr's
Woo thee for drops, and be refresh'd with Showr's?
Alas, what marvell then, great GOD, what wonder
If thy Hell-rouzing voice, that splits in sunder
Thy brazen Portals of eternall death;
What wonder if that life-restoring breath
Which drag'd me from th'infernall shades of night,
Should melt my ravisht soule with ore-delight?
O can my frozen gutters choose but run,
That feel the warmth of such a glorious Sun?
Me thinks his language, like a flaming Arrow,
Doth pierce my bones, and melts their wounded marrow;
Thy flames O Cupid (though the joyfull heart
Feeles neither tang of griefe, nor feares the smart
Of jealous doubts, but drunk with full desires)
Are torments weigh'd with these celestiall fires;
Pleasures that ravish in so high a measure,
That O I languish in excesse of pleasure:
What ravisht heart, that feeles these melting Joyes,
Would not despise and loathe the trech'rous Toyes
Of dunghill earth! what soule would not be proud
Of wry-mouth'd scornes, the worst that flesh and bloud
Had rancor to devise? Who would not beare
The worlds derision with a thankfull eare?
What palat would refuse full bowles of spight,
To gaine a minuts tast of such delight?
Great spring of light, in whom there is no shade
But what my interposing sinnes have made,
Whose marrow-melting Fires admit no screene
But what my owne rebellions put betweene
Their precious flames, and my obdurate eare:
Disperse these plague-distilling Clouds, and cleare
My mungy Soule into a glorious day;
Transplant this screene, remoove this Barre away;
Then, then my fluent soule shall feele the fires
Of thy sweet voice, and my dissolv'd desires
Shall turne a sov'raigne Balsome, to make whole
Those wounds my sinnes inlicted on thy soule.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap. 34.
What fire is this that so warmes my heart? What light is this that so enlightens my soule! O fire, that alwayes burnest, and never goest out, kindle me: O light, which ever shinest, and art never darkned, illuminate me: O that I had my heat from thee, most holy fire! How sweetly doest thou burne! How secretly dost thou shine! How desiderably doest thou inflame me!
BONAVENT. Stim. amoris Cap. 8.
It makes God man; and man God; things temporall, eternall; mortall, immortall; it makes an enemy a friend; a servant, a Son: vile things, glorious; cold hearts fiery, and hard things liquid.
EPIGRAM 5.
[My soule; Thy gold is true; but full of drosse]
My soule; Thy gold is true; but full of drosse;Thy SAVIOURS breath refines thee with some losse;
His gentle Fornace makes thee pure as true;
Thou must be melted, ere th'art cast anew.
VI. PSALMS LXXIII. XXV.
Whom have I in heav'n but Thee? and what desire I on earth in respect of Thee?
1
I love (and have some cause to love) the earth;She is my Makers Creature; therefore Good:
She is my Mother; for shee gave me birth;
She is my tender Nurse; she gives me food:
But what a Creature, Lord, compar'd with Thee?
Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me?
2
I love the Ayre; her dainty sweets refreshMy drooping soule, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouth'd Quire sustaine me with their flesh,
And with their Polyphonian notes delight me:
But what's the Ayre, or all the sweets that she
Can blesse my soule withall, compar'd to Thee?
3
I love the sea; She is my fellow-Creature;My carefull Purveyor; She provides me store;
She wals me round; She makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a forreigne shore;
But Lord of Oceans, when compar'd with thee,
What is the Ocean, or her wealth, to me?
4
To heav'ns high City I direct my Journey,Whose spangled Suburbs entertaine mine eye;
Mine Eye, by Contemplations Great Atturney,
Transcends the Christall pavement of the sky;
But what is heav'n, great GOD, compar'd to Thee?
Without Thy presence Heav'ns no Heav'n to me.
5
Without Thy presence Earth gives no Refection;Without Thy presence, Sea affords no treasure;
Without Thy presence Ayre's a rank Infection;
Without Thy presence Heav'ns selfe's no pleasure;
If not possest, if not enjoy'd in Thee,
What's Earth, or Sea, or Ayre, or Heav'n to me?
6
The highest Honours that the world can boastAre subjects farre too low for my desire;
The brightest beames of glory are (at most)
But dying sparkles of thy living fire:
The proudest flames that earth can kindle, be
But nightly Glow-wormes, if compar'd to Thee.
7
Without Thy presence, wealth are Bags of Cares;Wisdome, but Folly; Joy, disquiet sadnesse;
Friendship is Treason, and Delights are snares;
Pleasures but paine; and mirth, but pleasing Madnesse;
Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have they being, when compar'd with Thee.
8
In having all things, and not Thee, what have I?Not having Thee, what have my labours got?
Let me enjoy but Thee, what farther crave I?
And having Thee alone what have I not?
I wish nor Sea, nor Land; nor would I be
Possest of Heav'n, Heav'n unpossest of Thee.
BONAVENT. Cap. 1. Soliloq.
Alas my God, now I understand (but blush to confesse) that the beauty of thy Creatures have deceived mine eyes; and I have not observed that thou art more amiable than all thy creatures; to which thou hast communicated but one drop of thy inestimable Beauty; For who hath adorned the heaven with Starres? Who hath stored the ayre with fowle? the waters, with fish? the earth, with plants and flowers? But what are all these, but a small spark of divine beauty.
S. CHRYS. Hom. 5 in Ep. ad Rom.
In having nothing I have all things, because I have Christ; Having therefore all things in Him, I seek no other reward, for he is the universall Reward.
EPIGRAM 6.
[Who would not throw his better thoughts about him]
Who would not throw his better thoughts about him,And scorne this drosse within him; that, without him?
Cast up (my soule) thy clearer eye; Behold.
If thou be fully melted: There's the Mould.
VII. PSALMS CXX. V.
Woe is to me! that I remaine in Meshech and dwell in Tents of Kedar.
Is Natures course dissolv'd? Does Times glasse stand?Or has some frolick heart set back the hand
Of Fates pepetuall Clock? Wil't never strike?
Is crazy Time growne lazy, faint, or sick
With very Age? Or has that great Purroyall
Of Adamantine sisters late made tryall
Of some new Trade? Shall mortall hearts grow old
In sorrow? Shall my weary Armes infold
And underprop may panting sides for ever?
Is there no charitable hand will sever
My well-spun Thred, that my imprison'd soule
May be deliver'd from this dull dark hole
Of dungeon flesh? O shall I, shall I never
Be ransom'd, but remaine a slave for ever?
It is the Lot of man but once to die,
But ere that death, how many deaths have I?
To entertaine heav'ns joy? because conveigh'd
By the hand of death? Will nakednesse refuse
Rich change of robes, because the man's not spruise
That bought them? Or will Poverty send back
Full bags of gold, because the bringer's black?
Life is Bubble, blowne with whining breaths,
Fil'd with the torments of a thousand death's;
Which, being prickt by death (while death deprives
One life) presents the soule a thousand lives:
O frantick mortal; how has earth bewitch'd
Thy bedlam soule, which has so fondly pitch'd
Upon her false delights! Delights, that cease
Before enjoyment finds a time to please;
Her fickle joyes breed doubtfull feares; her feares
Being hopefull Griefes; her griefes weep fearfull teares,
Tears coyne deceitfull hopes; hopes, carefull doubt,
And surly passion justles passion out:
To day, we pamper with a full repast
Of lavish mirth; at night, we weepe as fast:
To night we swim in wealth, and lend; To morrow,
We sink in want, and find no friend to borrow:
In what a Climat does my soule reside!
Where pale-fac'd Murther, the first-borne of pride,
Sets up her kingdome in the very smiles,
And plighted faiths of men-like Crocadiles;
A land, where each embroydred Sattin word
Is lin'd with Fraud; where Mars his lawlesse sword
Exiles Astraeas Balance; where that hand
O that my dayes of bondage would expire
In this lewd Soyle! Lord, how my Soule's on fire
To be dissolv'd! that I might once obtaine
These long'd for joyes, long'd for, so oft, in vaine!
If Moses-like, I may not live possest
Of this faire land; LORD, let me see't, at least.
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. Cap. 2.
My life is a fraile life; a corruptible life; A life, which the more increases, the more decreases: The farther it goes, the nearer it comes to death: A deceitfull life, and like a shadow; full of the snares of death: Now I rejoyce; now I languish; now I flourish; now infirme; now I live, and straight I die; now I seeme happy, alwayes miserab; le, now I laugh, now I weepe: Thus all things are subject to mutability, that nothing continues an houre in one state: O Joy above Joy, exceeding all Joy, without which there is no Joy, when shall I enter into thee, that I may see my God that dwels in thee?
EPIGRAM 7.
Art thou so weake? O canst thou not digestAn houre of travell for a night of Rest?
Cheare up, my soule; call home thy spir'ts, and beare
One bad Good-Friday; Full-mouth'd Easter's neare.
VIII. ROMANS VII. XXIV.
O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?
Behold thy darling, which thy lustfull carePampers; for which thy restlesse thoughts prepare
Such early Cates; For whom thy bubbling brow
So often sweats, and bankrupt eyes do owe
Such midnight scores to Nature, for whose sake
Base earth is Sainted, the Infernall Lake
Unfear'd; the Crowne of Glory poorely rated;
Thy GOD neglected, and thy brother hated:
Behold thy darling, whom thy soule affects
So dearely; whom thy fond Indulgence decks
And puppets up in soft, in silken weeds:
Behold thy darling, whom thy fondnesse feeds
With farre-fetch'd delicates, the deare-bought gaines
Of ill-spent Time, the price of halfe thy paines:
Behold thy darling, who, when clad by Thee,
Derides thy nakednesse; and, when most free,
Most full, then stikes th'indulgent Feeder dead:
What meanst thou thus, my poore deluded soule,
To love so fondly? Can the burning Cole
Of thy Affection last without the fuell
Of counter-love? Is thy Compere so cruell,
And thou so kind, to love unlov'd againe?
Canst thou sow favours, and thus reape disdaine?
Remember, O remember thou art borne
Of royall blood; remember, thou art sworne
A Maid of Honour in the Court of Heav'n;
Remember what a costly price was giv'n
To ransome thee from slav'ry thou wert in;
And wilt thou now, my soule, turne slave agin?
The Son and Heire to Heav'ns triune JEHOVE
Would faine become a suitor of thy Love,
And offers for thy dow'r, his Fathers Throne,
To sit for Seraphims to gaze upon;
Hee'l give thee Honour, Pleasure, Wealth, and Things
Transcending farre the Majesty of Kings:
And wilt thou prostrate to the odious charmes
Of this base Scullion? Shall his hollow Armes
Hugg thy soft sides? Shall these course hands untie
The sacred Zone of thy Virginitie?
For shame, degen'rous soule, let thy desire
Be quickned up with more heroick fire;
Be wisely proud; let thy ambitious eye
Read nobler objects; let thy thoughts defie
Such am'rous basenesse; Let thy soule disdaine
Th'ignoble profers of so base a Swaine;
Or if thy vowes be past, and Himens bands
Have ceremonyed your unequall hands,
Annull, at least avoid thy lawlesse Act
With insufficience, or a Praecontract:
Or if the Act be good, yet maist thou plead
A second Freedome; for the flesh is dead.
NAZIANZ. Orat. 16.
How am I joyned to this body, I know not; which when it is healthfull, provokes me to warre, and being damaged by warre, affects me with grief; which I both love as a fellow servant, and hate as an utter enemy: It is a pleasant foe, and a perfidious friend: O strange Conjunction and Alienation! What I feare I embrace, and what I love I am afraid of; Before I make warre, I am reconcil'd; Before I enjoy peace, I am at variance.
EPIGRAM 8.
[What need that House be daub'd with flesh and blood?]
What need that House be daub'd with flesh and blood?Hang'd round with silks and gold; repair'd with food?
Cost idly spent! That cost does but prolong
Thy thraldome; Foole, thou mak'st thy Jayle too strong.
IX. PHILIPPIANS I. XXIII.
I am in a streight betweene two, having a desire to be dissolv'd, and to be with Christ.
1
What meant our carefull parents so to weare,And lavish out their ill expended houres,
To purchase for us large possessions, here
Which (though unpurchas'd) are too truly ours?
What meant they, ah what meant they to indure
Such loads of needlesse labour, to procure,
And make that thing our own, which was our own too sure.
2
What meane these liv'ries and possessive kayes?What meane these bargaines, and these needlesse sales?
What need these jealous, these suspitious wayes
Of law-devis'd, and law-dissolv'd entailes?
No need to sweat for gold; wherewith, to buy
Estates of high-priz'd land; no need to tie
Earth to their heires, were they but clog'd with earth as I.
3
O were their soules but clog'd with earth, as I,They would not purchase with so salt an Itch;
They would not take, of Almes, what now they buy;
Nor call him happy, whom the world counts rich:
They would not take such paines, project and prog,
To charge their shoulders with so great a log;
Who has the greater lands, has but the greater clog.
4
I cannot do an act which earth disdaines not;I cannot think a thought which earth corrupts not;
I cannot speake a word which earth prophanes not;
I cannot make a vow earth interrupts not;
If I but offer up an early groane,
Or spread my wings to heav'ns long long'd for Throne
She darkens my complaints, and drags my Offring downe.
5
Ev'n like the Hawlk, (whose keepers wary handsHave made a prisner to her wethring stock)
Forgetting quite the pow'r of her fast bands,
Makes a rank Bate from her forsaken Block,
But her too faithfull Leash does soone restraine
Her broken flight, attempted oft in vaine;
It gives her loynes a twitch, and tugs her backe againe.
6
So, when my soule directs her better eyeTo heav'ns bright Pallace (where my treasure lies)
I spread my willing wings, but cannot flie,
Earth hales me downe, I cannot, cannot rise;
When I but strive to mount the least degree,
Earth gives a jerk, and foiles me on my knee;
LORD, how my soule is rackt, betwixt the world and Thee.
7
Great GOD, I spread my feeble wings, in vaine;In vaine I offer my extended hands;
I cannot mount till thou unlink my chaine;
I cannot come till thou release my Bands:
Which if thou please to break, and then supply
My wings with spirit, th'Eagle shall not flie
A pitch that's half so faire, nor half so swift as T.
BONAVENT. Cap. 1. Soliloq.
Ah sweet Jesus, pierce the marrow of my soule with the healthfull shafts of thy love, that it may truly burne, and melt, and languish with the onely desire of thee; that it may desire to be dissolv'd, and to be with thee: Let it hunger alone for the bread of life; let it thirst after thee, the spring and fountaine of eternall light, the streame of true pleasure: let it alwayes desire thee, seek thee, and find thee, and sweetly rest in thee.
EPIGRAM 9.
[What? will thy shackles neither loose, nor breake?]
What? will thy shackles neither loose, nor breake?Are they too strong? or is thy Arme too weake?
Art will prevaile where knotty strength denies;
My soule; there's Aqua fortis in thine eyes.
X. PSALMS CXLII. VII.
Bring my soule out of prison, that I may praise thy Name.
My Soule is like a Bird; my Flesh, the Cage;Wherein, she weares her weary Pilgrimage
Of houres as few as evill, daily fed
With sacred Wine, and Sacramentall Bread;
The keyes that locks her in, and lets her out,
Are Birth, and Death; 'twixt both, she hopps about
From perch to perch; from Sense to Reason; then,
From higher Reason, downe to Sense agen:
From Sense she climbes to Faith; where, for a season,
She sits and sings; then, down againe to Reason;
From Reason, back to Faith; and straight, from thence
She rudely flutters to the Perch of Sense;
From Sense, to Hope; then hopps from Hope to Doubt;
From Doubt, to dull Despaire; there, seeks about
For desp'rate Freedome; and at ev'ry Grate,
She wildly thrusts, and begs th'untimely date
Of unexpired thraldome, to release
Th'afflicted Captive, that can find no peace:
Thus am I coop'd within this fleshly Cage,
I weare my youth, and waste my weary Age,
Spending that breath which was ordain'd to chaunt
Heav'ns praises forth, in sighs and sad complaint:
Whilst happier birds can spread their nimble wing
From Shrubs to Cedars, and there chirp and sing
In choice of raptures, the harmonious story
Of mans Redemption and his Makers Glory:
You glorious Martyrs; you illustrious Troopes,
That once were cloyster'd in your fleshly Coopes
As fast as I, what Reth'rick had your tongues?
What dextrous Art had your Elegiak Songs?
What Paul-like pow'r had your admir'd devotion?
What shackle-breaking Faith infus'd such motion
To your strong Pray'rs, that could obtaine the boone
To be inlarg'd, to be uncag'd so soone?
When I (poore I) can sing my daily teares,
Growne old in Bondage, and can find no eares:
You great partakers of eternall Glory,
That with your heav'n-prevailing Oratory,
Releas'd your soules from your terrestriall Cage,
Permit the passion of my holy Rage
To recommend my sorrowes (dearely knowne
To you, in dayes of old; and, once, your owne)
To your best thoughts, (but oh't does not befit ye
To moove our pray'rs; you love and joy; not pitie:
Great LORD of soules, to whom should prisners flie,
And, for my sake, thy pleasure was to know
The sorrowes that it brought, and feltst them too;
O set me free, and I will spend those dayes,
Which now I wast in begging, in Thy praise
ANSELM. in Protolog. Cap. 1.
O miserable condition of mankind, that has lost that for which he was created! Alas! What has hee left? And what has hee found? He has lost happinesse for which he was made, and found misery for which he was not made: What is gone? and what is left? That thing is gone, without which hee is unhappy; that thing is left, by which he is miserable: O wretched men! From whence are we expell'd? To what are we impell'd? Whence are we throwne? And whether are we hurried? From our home into banishment; from the sight of God into our owne blindnesse; from the pleasure of immortality to the bitternesse of death: Miserable change? From how great a good, to how great an evill? Ah me: What have I enterpriz'd? What have I done? Whither did I goe? Whither am I come?
EPIGRAM 10.
[Pauls Midnight voice prevail'd; his musicks thunder]
Pauls Midnight voice prevail'd; his musicks thunderUnhing'd the prison doores; split bolts in sunder:
And fitst thou here? and hang'st the feeble wing?
And whin'st to be enlarg'd? Soule, learn to sing.
XI. PSALMS XLII. I.
As the Hart panteth after the water-brooks, so panteth my soule after thee O God.
1
How shall my tongue espresse that hallow'd fireWhich heav'n has kindled in my ravisht heart!
What Muse shall I invoke, that will inspire
My lowly Quill to act a lofty part!
What Art shall I devise t'expresse desire,
Too intricate to be exprest by Art!
Let all the nine be silent; I refuse
Their aid in this high task, for they abuse
The flames of Love too much: Assist me Davids Muse.
2
Not as the thirsty soyle desire soft showres,To quicken and refresh her Embrion graine;
Nor as the drooping Crests of fading flowres
Request the bounty of a morning Raine,
Do I desire my GOD: These, in few houres,
Re-wish, what late their wishes did obtaine,
But as the swift-foot Hart, does, wounded, flie
To th'much desired streames, ev'n so do I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom, I must find, or die.
3
Before a Pack of deep-mouth'd Lusts I flee;O, they have singled out my panting heart,
And wanton Cupid, sitting in a Tree,
Hath pierc'd my bosome with a flaming dart;
My soule being spent, for refuge, seeks to Thee,
But cannot find where Thou my refuge art:
Like as the swift-foot Hart does, wounded, flie
To the desired streames, ev'n so do I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom I must find, or die.
4
At length, by flight, I over-went the Pack;Thou drew'st the wanton dart from out my wound;
The blood, that follow'd, left a purple track,
Which brought a Serpent, but in shape, a Hound;
We strove; He bit me; but thou brak'st his back,
I left him grov'ling on th'envenom'd ground;
To the long-long'd for streames, ev'n so did I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom I must find or die.
5
If lust should chafe my soule, made swift by fright,Thou art the streames where to my soule is bound:
Or if a Jav'lin wound my sides, in flight,
Thou art the Balsom, that must cure my wound:
If poyson chance t'infest my soule, in sight,
Thou art the Treacle that must make me sound;
Ev'n as the wounded Hart, embost, does flie
To th'streames extremely long'd for, so do I
Pant after Thee, my GOD, whom I must find, or die.
CYRIL. lib. 5 in Joh. Cap. 10.
O precious water, which quenches the noysome thirst of this world, that scoures all the staines of sinners; that waters the earth of our soules with heavenly showers, and brings backe the thirsty heart of man to his onely God!
S. AUGUST. Soliloq. 35.
O fountaine of life, and veine of living waters, when shall I leave this forsaken, impassible, and dry earth, and taste the waters of thy sweetnesse, that I may behold thy vertue, and thy glory, and slake my thirst with the streames of thy mercy? Lord, I thirst: Thou art the spring of life, satisfie me; I thirst, Lord, I thirst after thee the living God.
EPIGRAM 11.
[The Arrow-smitten Hart, deep wounded, flies]
The Arrow-smitten Hart, deep wounded, fliesTo th'Springs with water in his weeping eyes:
Heav'n is thy Spring: If Sathans fiery dart
Pierce thy faint sides; do so, my wounded Hart.
XII. PSALMS XLII. II.
When shall I come and appeare before God?
What is my soule the better to be tindeWith holy fire? What boots it to be coynd
With heav'ns own stamp? What vantage can there be
To soules of heav'n-descended Pedegree,
More than to Beasts, that grovell? Are not they
Fed by th'Almighties hand? and, ev'ry day,
Fill'd with His Blessing too? Do they not see
Do they not tast Thee? heare Thee? nay, what Sense
Is not partaker of Thine Excellence?
What more do we? Alas, what serves our reason,
But, like dark lanthornes, to accomplish Treason
With greater closenesse? It affords no light,
Brings Thee no nearer to our purblind sight;
No pleassure rises up the least degree,
Great GOD, but in the clearer view of Thee:
What priv'ledge more than Sense, has Reason than?
What vantage is it to be borne a man?
How often has my patience built, (deare LORD)
Vaine Tow'rs of Hope upon Thy gracious Word?
How often has Thy Hope-reviving Grace
Woo'd my suspitious eyes to seek Thy face!
How often have I sought Thee? Oh how long
Hath expectation taught my perfect tongue
Repeated pray'rs, yet pray'rs could nev'r obtaine;
In vaine I seek Thee, and I beg in vaine:
If it be high presumption to behold
Thy face, why didst Thou make mine eyes so bold
To seek it? If that object be too bright
For mans Aspect, why did thy lips invite
Mine eye t'expect it? If it might be seene,
Why is this envious curtaine drawne betweene
My darkened eye and it? O tell me, why
Thou dost command the thing Thou dost deny?
Why dost thou give me so unpriz'd a treasure,
And then deny'st my greedy soule the pleasure
To view thy gift? Alas, that gift is void,
And is no gift, that may not be enjoy'd:
If those refulgent Beames of heav'ns great light
Guild not the day, what is the day, but night?
The drouzie Shepheard sleeps; flowres droop and fade;
The Birds are sullen, and the Beast is sad;
But if bright Titan art, his golden Ray,
And, with his riches, glorifie the day,
The jolly Shepheard pipes; Flowres freshly spring;
The beast growes gamesome, and the birds they sing:
Thou art my Sun, great GOD, O when shall I
View the full beames of thy Meridian eye?
Draw, draw this fleshly curtaine, that denies
The gracious presence of thy glorious eyes;
Or give me Faith; and, by the eye of Grace,
I shall behold Thee, though not face to face.
S. AUGUST. in Psal. 39
Who created all things is better than all things; who beautified all things is more beautifull than all things: who made strength is stronger than all things: who made great things is greater than all things: Whatsoever thou lovest he is that to thee: Learne to love the workman in his worke; the Creator in his creature: Let not that which was made by Him possesse thee, lest thou lose Him by whom thy selfe was made.
S. AUGUST. Med. Cap 37.
O thou most sweet, most gracious, most amiable, most faire, when shall I see Thee? when shall I be satisfied with Thy beauty? When wilt thou lead me from this darke dungeon, that I may confesse thy name?
EPIGRAM 12.
[How art thou shaded in this vale of night]
How art thou shaded in this vale of night,Behind thy Curtaine flesh? Thou seest no light,
But what thy Pride does challenge as her owne;
Thy Flesh is high: Soule, take this Curtaine downe.
XIII. PSALMS LV. VI.
O that I had the wings of a Dove, for then I would flee away and be at rest.
1
And am I sworne a dunghill slave for everTo earths base drudg'ry? Shall I never find
A night of Rest? Shall my Indentures never
Be cancel'd? Did injurious nature bind
My soule earths Prentice, with no Clause, to leave her?
No day of freedome? must I ever grinde?
O that I had the pineons of a Dove
That I might quit my Bands, and sore above
And powre my just Complaints before the great JEHOVE!
2
How happy are the Doves, that have the pow'r,When ere they please, to spread their ayry wings!
Or cloud-dividing Eagles, that can tow'r
Above the Sent of these inferiour things!
How happy is the Lark, that ev'ry howre,
Leaves earth, and then for joy, mounts up and sings!
Had my dull soule but wings as well as they,
How I would spring from earth, and clip away,
As wise Astraea did, and scorne this ball of Clay!
3
O how my soule would spurne this Ball of Clay,And loath the dainties of earths painfull pleasure!
O how I'de laugh to see men night and day,
Turmoyle, to gaine that Trash they call their treasure!
O how I'de smile to see what plots they lay
To catch the blast, or owne a smile from Caesar!
Had I the pineons of a mounting Dove,
How I would sore and sing, and hate the Love
Of transitory Toyes, and feed on Joyes above!
4
There should I find that everlasting Pleasure,Which Change removes not, and which Chance prevents not;
There should I find that everlasing Treasure
Which force deprives not, fortune dis-augments not;
There should I find that everlasting Caesar,
Whose hand recals not, and whose heart repents not:
Had I the pineons of a clipping Dove,
How I would climbe the skies, and hate the Love
Of transitory Toyes, and joy in Things above!
5
No rank-mouth'd slander, there, shall give offence,Or blast our blooming names, as here they doe;
No liver-scalding Lust shall, there, incense
Our boyling veines: There is no Cupids Bow:
LORD, give my soule the milk-white Innocence
Of Doves, and I shall have their pineons too:
Had I the pineons of a sprightly Dove,
How I would quit this earth, and sore above,
And heav'ns blest kingdome find, with heav'ns blest King JEHOVE.
S. AUGUST. in Psal. 138.
What wings should I desire but the two precepts of love, on which the Law and the Prophets depend? O if I could obtaine these wings, I could fly from thy face to thy face, from the face of thy Justice to the face of thy Mercy: Let us find those wings by love which we have lost by lust.
S. AUGUST. in Psal. 76.
Let us cast off whatsoever hinders, entangles or burthens our flight untill we attaine that which satisfies: beyond which nothing is; beneath which, all things are; of which, all things are.
EPIGRAM 13.
[Tell me, my wishing soule, didst ever trie]
Tell me, my wishing soule, didst ever trieHow fast the wings of Red-crost Faith can flie?
Why beg'st thou the the pineons of a Dove?
Faiths wings are swifter, but the swiftest, Love.
XIV. PSALMS LXXXIV. I.
How amiable are thy Tabernacles O god of Hosts.
Ancient of dayes, to whom, all things are Now,Before whose Glory, Seraphims do bow
Their blushing Cheeks, and vale their blemisht faces:
That, uncontaind, at once, dost fill all places,
How glorious, O how farre beyond the height
Of puzzled Quils, or the obtuse conceit
Of flesh and Blood, or the too flat reports
Of mortall tongues, are thy expreslesse Courts!
Whose glory to paint forth with greater Art,
Ravisht my Fancy, and inspire my heart,
Excuse my bold attempt, and pardon me
For shewing Sense, what Faith alone should see.
Ten thousand Millions, and ten thousand more
Of Angell-measur'd leagues from th'Easterne shore
Of dungeon earth this glorious Palace stands,
Before whose pearly gates, ten thousand Bands
Of armed Angels wait, to entertaine
Those purged soules, for whom the Lamb was slaine,
Whose guiltlesse death, and voluntary yeelding
Of whose giv'n life gave this brave Court her building;
The lukewarme Blood of this deare Lamb being spilt,
To Rubies turn'd, whereof her posts were built;
And what dropte downe in cold and gelid gore,
Did turne rich Saphyrs, and impav'd her floore:
The brighter flames, that from his eye-balls ray'd,
Grew Chrysolites, whereof her wals were made:
The milder glaunces sparkled on the Ground.
And grunsild ev'ry doore with Diamond:
But, dying, darted upwards, and did fixe
A Battlement of puret Sardonix:
Her streets with burnisht Gold are paved round:
Starres lie like pebbles scattered on the ground:
Pearle, mixt with Onyx, and the Jasper stone,
Made gravil'd Causewayes to be trampled on:
There shines no Sun by day; no Moone, by night;
There is no time to measure motion by,
There, time is swallow'd with Eternity;
Wry-mouth'd disdaine, and corner-haunting lust,
And twy-fac'd Fraud; and beetle-brow'd Distrust;
Soule-boyling Rage; and trouble-state sedition;
And giddy doubt; and goggle-ey'd suspition;
And lumpish sorrow, and degen'rous feare
Are banisht thence, and death's a stranger there:
But simple love, and sempiternall joyes,
Whose sweetnesse neither gluts, nor fulnesse cloyes;
Where face to face, our ravisht eye shall see
Great ELOHIM, that glorious One in Three,
And Three in One; and, seeing Him, shall blesse Him,
And blessing, love Him; and, in love, possesse Him:
Here stay, my soule, and ravish in relation:
Thy words being spent; spend now, in Contemplation.
S. GREG. in Psal. 7 poenitent.
Sweet Jesus, the World of the Father, the brightnesse of paternall glory, whom Angels delight to view, teach me to do thy will; that, led by thy good Spirit, I may come to that blessed City, where day is eternall, where there is certaine security, and secure eternity, and eternall peace, and peacefull happinesse, and happy sweetnesse, and sweet pleasure; where thou O God with the Father and the holy Spirit livest and raignest world without end.
Ibid.
There is light without darknesse; Joy without griefe; desire without punishment; love without sadnesse; satiety without loathing; safety without feare; health without disease; and life without death.
EPIGRAM 14.
[My soule, pry not too nearely; The Complexion]
My soule, pry not too nearely; The ComplexionOf Sols bright face is seen, but by Reflexion:
But wouldst thou know what's heav'n? Ile tell thee what;
Think what thou canst not think, and Heav'n is that.
XV. CANTICLES VIII. XIV.
Make haste my Beloved, and be like the Roe or the young Hart upon the Mountaines of Spices.
Go, gentle Tyrant, goe; thy flames do pierceMy soule too deep; thy flames are too too fierce:
My marrow melts; my fainting Spirits fry
Ith'torrid Zone of thy Meridian Eye;
Away, away: Thy sweets are too perfuming;
Turne, turne thy face; Thy fires are too consuming:
Hast hence; and let thy winged steps out-goe
The frighted Roe-buck, and his flying Roe.
But wilt thou leave me then? O thou that art
Life of my Soule, Soule of my dying heart,
Without the sweet Aspect of whose faire Eyes,
My soule does languish, and her solace dies;
Art thou so easly woo'd? So apt to heare
The frantick language of my foolish Feare?
Leave, leave me not; nor turne thy beauty from me,
Looke, looke upon me, though thine eyes ov'rcome me.
O how they wound! But, how my wounds content me!
How sweetly these delightfull paines torment me!
How I am tortur'd in excessive measure
Of pleasing cruelties too cruell pleasure!
Turne, turne away; remove they scorching beames;
I languish with these bitter-sweet extreames:
Hast then, and let thy winged steps out-goe
The flying Roe-buck, and his frighted Roe.
Turne back, my deare; O let my revisht eye
Once more behold thy face before thou flie;
What? shall we part without a mutuall kisse?
O who can leave so sweet a face as this?
Looke full upon me; for my soule desires
To turne a holy Martyr in those fires:
O leave me not, nor turne thy beauty from me;
Looke, looke upon me, though thy flames ov'rcome me.
If thou becloud the Sun-shine of thine eye,
I freeze to death; and if it shine, I frie;
Which like a Fever, that my soule has got,
Makes me burne too cold, or freeze to hot:
Alas, I cannot beare so sweet a smart,
Nor canst thou be lesse glorious than thou art:
Hast then, and let thy winged steps out-goe
The frighted Roe-buck, and his flying Roe.
But goe not farre beyond the reach of breath;
Too large a distance makes another death:
My youth is in her Spring; Autumnall vowes
When after-times have burnish'd my desire,
Ile shoot thee flames for flames, and fire for fire.
O leave me not, nor turne thy beauty from me;
Looke, looke upon me, though thy flames ov'rcome me.
Author scalae Paradisi. Tom. 9. Aug. Cap. 8.
Feare not O Bride, nor despaire; Thinke not thy self contemn'd, if thy Bridegroome withdraw his face awhile: All things co-operate for the best: Both from his absence, and his presence thou gainest light: He comes to thee, and he goes from thee: He comes, to make thee consolate; He goes, to make thee cautious, lest thy abundant consolation puffe thee up: He comes, that thy languishing soule may be comforted; He goes; lest his familiarity should be contemned; and, being absent, to be more desired; and being desired, to be more earnestly sought; and being long sought, to be more acceptably found.
EPIGRAM 15.
[My soule, sinnes monster, whom, with greater ease]
My soule, sinnes monster, whom, with greater easeTen thousand fold, thy GOD could make than please:
What wouldst thou have? Nor pleas'd with Sun, nor shade?
Heav'n knowes not what to make of what He made.
THE FAREWELL.
Be thou faithfull unto death, and I will give thee the crowne of life.
REVELATION II. X.
1
Be faithfull? LORD, what's thatBelieve: 'Tis easie to Believe; But what?
That He whom thy hard heart has wounded,
And whom thy scorne has spit upon,
Has paid thy Fine, and has compounded
For those foule deeds thy hands have done.
Believe, that He whose gentle palmes
Thy needle-pointed Sinnes have nail'd,
Hath borne thy slavish load (of Almes)
And made supply where thou hast fail'd:
Did ever mis'ry find so strange Relief?
It is a Love too strong for man's Beliefe.
2
Believe that He whose sideThy crimes have pierc'd with their rebellions, di'd,
Ten thousand horrid deaths, from whence
There was no scape, there was no flying,
But through his dearest bloods expence:
Believe, this dying Friend requires
No other thanks for all his paine;
But ev'n the truth of weake desires,
And for his love, but love againe;
Did ever mis'ry find so true a Friend?
It is love too vast to comprehend.
3
With Floods of teare baptizeAnd drench these dry, these unregen'rate eyes;
LORD, whet my dull, my blunt beliefe,
And break this fleshly rock in sunder,
That from this heart, this hell of griefe
May spring a Heav'n of love and wonder:
O, if thy mercies will remove
And melt this lead from my beliefe,
My griefe will then refine my love,
My love will then refresh my griefe:
Then weepe mine eyes as He has bled; vouchsafe
To drop for ev'ry drop an Epitaph.
4
But is the Crowne of GloryThe wages of a lamentable Story?
Or can so great a purchase rise
From a salt Humour? Can mine eye
Run fast enough t'obtaine this Prize?
If so, LORD, who's so mad to die?
Thy Teares are Trifles; Thou must doe:
Alas, I cannot; Then endeavour:
I will: But will a tugg or two
Suffice the turne? Thou must persever:
Ile strive till death; And shall my feeble strife
Be crown'd? Ile crowne it with a Crowne of life.
5
But is there such a dearth,That thou must buy what is thy due by birth?
He whom Thy hands did forme of dust,
And gave him breath upon Condition,
To love his great Creator, must
He now be thine, by Composition?
Art thou a gracious GOD, and mild,
Or head-strong man rebellious rather?
O, man's a base rebellious Child,
And thou a very gracious Father:
Thou giv'st us Faith; and Faith, a Crowne of Life.
THE END.
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