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,
But Thee? Thou hadst thy Cage, as well as I:
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?
