Emblemes (1635) and Hieroglyphikes (1638) :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE both in blood and virtue; and most accomplisht LADIE MARY COUNTESS OF DORSET; LADY GOVERNESS to the most Illustrious, CHARLES, Prince of great BRITAIN, and JAMES, Duke of YORKE.

The minde of the Frontispeece.

This Bubble's Man: Hope, Feare, False Joy and Trouble,
Are those Foure Winds which daily toss this Bubble.

HIEROGLIPH I.

Behold I was shaped in Iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me. PSALMS 51. 5.

Man is mans A B C: There is none that can
Reade God aright, unless he first spell Man;
Man is the Stayres, whereby his knowledge climes
To his Creator; though it oftentimes
Stumbles for want of light, and sometimes tripps
For want of carefull heed; and sometimes slips
Through unadvised hast; and when at length
His weary steps have reach'd the top, his strength
Oft fayles to stand; his giddy braines turne round,
And Phaeton like, falls headlong to the ground:
These stayres are often darke, and full of danger
To him whom want of practice makes a stranger
To this blind way: The Lamp of nature lends
But a false Light; and lights to her owne ends:
These be the wayes to Heav'n; These paths require
A Light that springs from that diviner fire
Whose humane soule-enlightning sunbeames dart
Through the bright Crannies of th'immortall part.
And here, thou great Originall of Light,
Whose error-chaceing Beames do unbenight
The very soule of Darkness, and untwist
The Clouds of Ignorance; do thou assist
My feeble Quill; Reflect thy sacred Rayes
Upon these lines, that they may light the wayes
That lead to thee; So guide my heart, my hand,
That I may doe, what others understand:
Let my heart practice what my hand shall write;
Till then, I am a Tapour wanting light.
This golden Precept, Know thy selfe, came downe
From heav'ns high Court; It was an Art unknowne
To flesh and blood. The men of Nature tooke
Great Journies in it; Their dim eyes did looke
But through a Mist; Like Pilgrims they did spend
Their idle steps, but knew no Journies end:
The way to Know thyselfe, is first to cast
Thy fraile beginning, Progresse, and thy Last:
This is the Summe of Man: But now returne
And view this Tapour standing in this Urne:
Behold her Substance, sordid and impure,
Useless and vaine, and (wanting light) obscure:
Tis but a Span at longest, nor can last
Beyond that Span; ordain'd, and made to waste:
Ev'n such was Man (before his soule gave light

To his vile substance) a meere Child of night;
Ere he had life, estated in his Vrne,
And markt for death; by nature, borne to burne:
Thus liveless, lightless, worthless first began
That glorious, that presumptuous thing, call'd Man.

St. AUGUST.

Consider O man what thou wert before thy Birth, and what thou art from thy birth to thy death, and what thou shalt be after death: Thou wert made of an impure substance, cloathed and nourished in thy Mother's blood.

EPIGRAM 1.

[Forbeare fond Tapour: What thou seek'st, is Fire]

Forbeare fond Tapour: What thou seek'st, is Fire:
Thy owne distruction's lodg'd in thy desire:
Thy wants are farre more safe than their supply:
He that begins to live, begins to die.

HIEROGLIPH II.

And God said, Let there bee light; and there was light. GENESIS 1. 3.

1

This flame-expecting Tapour hath, at length,
Received fyre; and, now, begins to burne:
It hath no vigour yet, it hath no strength;
Apt to be puft and quencht at ev'ry turne:
It was a gracious hand that thus endow'd
This snuffe with flame: But marke, this hand doth shroud
It selfe from mortall eyes, and folds it in a Cloud.

2

Thus man begins to live; An unknowne flame
Quickens his finisht Organs; now, possest
With motion; and which motion doth proclaime
An active soule, though in a feeble brest:
But how, and when infus'd, ask not my Pen;
Here flyes a Cloud before the eyes of men:
I can not tell thee, how; nor can thou tell mee, when.

3

Was it a parcell of celestiall fire,
Infus'd, by Heav'n, into this fleshly mould?
Or was it (think you) made a soule entire?
Then; was it new created? Or of old?
Or is't a propagated Spark, rak'd out
From Natures embers? Whilst we goe about,
By reason, to resolve, the more we raise a doubt.

4

If it be part of that celestiall Flame,
It must be ev'n as pure, as free from spot
As that eternall fountaine whence it came:
If pure, and spotlesse; then, whence came the blot?
It selfe, being pure, could not it selfe defile;
Nor hath unactive Matter pow'r to soile
Her pure and active Forme, as Jarrs corupt their Oyle.

5

Or, if it were created, tell me, when?
If in the first sixe dayes, where kept till now?
Or, if the soule were new created, then
Heav'n did not all, at first, he had to doe:
Six dayes expird, all Creation ceast,
All kinds, even from the greatest to the least
Were finisht, and compleat, before the day of Rest.

6

But why should Man, the Lord of Creatures, want
That priviledge which Plants and Beasts obtaine?
Beasts bring forth Beasts, the Plant a perfect Plant;
And every like brings forth her like againe:
Shall fowles, and fishes, beasts and plants convey
Life to their issue? And Man lesse than they?
Shall these get living soules? And Man, dead lumps of clay?

7

Must humane soules be generated then?
My water ebbs; behold, a Rock is nigh:
If Natures worke produce the soules of men,
Mans soule is mortall: All that's borne must die.
What shall we then conclude? What sun-shine will
Disperse this gloomy cloud? Till then, be still,
My vainely striving thoughts; Lie down, my puzz'ld quill.

ISODOR.

Why doest thou wonder, O man, at the height of the Starres? or the depth of the sea? Enter into thine owne soule, and wonder there.

The soule by creating is infused; by infusion, created.

EPIGRAM 2.

[What art thou now the better by this flame?]

What art thou now the better by this flame?
Thou knowst not how, nor when, nor whence it came:
Poore kind of happiness, that can returne
No more accompt but this, to say, I burne!

HIEROGLIPH III.

The wind passeth over it and it is gone. PSALMS 103. 16.

1

No sooner is this lighted Tapour set
Upon the transitory Stage
Of eye-bedarkning night,
But it is straight subjected to the threat
Of envious windes, whose wastfull rage
Disturbs her peacefull light,
And makes her substance wast, and makes her flames lesse bright

2

No sooner are we borne, no sooner come
To take possession of this vast,
This soule-afflicting earth;
But Danger meets us at the very wombe,
And Sorrow with her full mouthd blast,
Salutes our painefull birth,
To put out all our Joyes, and puffe out all our mirth.

3

Nor Infant Innocence, nor childish teares,
Nor youthfull wit, not manly power,
Nor politick old age,
Nor virgins pleading, nor the widows prayers,
Nor lowely Cell, nor lofty Tower,
Nor Prince, nor Peere, nor Page
Can scape this common blast, or curb her stormy rage.

4

Our life is but a pilgrimage of blasts;
And ev'ry blast brings forth a feare;
And ev'ry feare, a death;
The more it lengthens, ah, the more it wasts:
Were, were we to continue here
The dayes of long lif'd Seth,
Our sorrowes would renew, as we renew our breath:

5

Tost too and fro, our frighted thoughts are driv'n
With ev'ry puffe, with every Tide
Of self-consuming Care;
Our peacefull flame, that would point up to heav'n,
Is still disturb'd, and turnd aside;
And ev'ry blast of Ayre
Commits such wast in man, as man cannot repaire.

6

W'are all borne Detters, and we firmely stand
Oblig'd for our first Parents Det,
Besides our Interest;
Alas we have no harmeless Counterband,
And we are, ev'ry hou'r, beset
With threatnings of Arrest,
And till we pay the Det, we can expect no Rest.

7

What may this sorrow-shaken life present
To the false relish of our Tast,
That's worth the name of sweet?
Her minits pleasure's choakt with discontent,
Her glory soyld with ev'ry blast;
How many dangers meet
Poore man, betwixt the Biggin and the Winding sheet!

St. AUGUST.

In this world, not to bee grieved, not to bee afflicted, not to bee in danger, is impossible.

Ibid.

Behold; the world is full of troubles; yet, beloved; What if it were a pleasing world? How wouldst thou delight in her Calmes, that canst so well endure her stormes?

EPIGRAM 3.

[Art thou consum'd with soule-afflicting crosses?]

Art thou consum'd with soule-afflicting crosses?
Disturb'd with griefe? annoy'd with worldly losses:
Hold up thy head; The Tapour lifted high
Will brook the wind, when lower Tapours dye.

HIEROGLIPH IV.

The whole need not the Physitian. MATTHEW 9, 12.

1

Always pruning? alwaies cropping?
Is her brightnesse still obscur'd?
Ever dressing? ever topping?
Alwaies cureing? never cur'd?
Too much snuffing makes a waste;
When the spirits spend too fast,
They will shrinke at ev'ry blast.

2

You that alwaies are bestowing
Costly paines in lifes repairing,
Are but alwaies overthrowing
Natures worke, by overcaring:
Nature meeting with her Foe,
In a work she hath to doe,
Takes a pride to overthrow.

3

Nature knowes her owne perfection,
And her pride disdaines a Tutor,
Can not stoope to Arts correction,
And she scornes a Coadjutor;
Saucy Art should not appeare
Till she whisper in her eare:
Hagar flees, if Sara beare.

4

Nature worketh for the better,
If not hindred, that she cannot;
Art stands by as her Abettor,
Ending nothing she began not;
If distemper chance to seize,
(Nature foyl'd with the disease)
Art may helpe her if she please.

5

But to make a Trade of trying
Drugs, and Dosies, always pruning,
Is to dye, for feare of dying;
Hee's untun'd, thats alwaies tuneing.
He that often loves to lack
Deare bought Drugs, has found a Knack
To foyle the man, and feede the Quack.

6

O the sad, the fraile Condition
Of the pride of Natures glory!
How infirme his Composition!
And, at best, how Transitory!
When his Ryot doth impayre
Natures weaknesss, then his care
Adds more ruine, by repaire.

7

Hold thy hand, healths Deare maintainer,
Life perchance may burne the stronger:
Having substance to sustaine her,
She, untoucht, may last the longer:
When the Artist goes about
To redresse her flame, I doubt,
Oftentimes he snuffes it out.

NICOCLES

Physitian of all men are most happy; what good success soever they have, the world proclaimes, and what faults they commit, the earth covers.

EPIGRAM 4.

[My purse be'ng heavy, if my Light appeare]

My purse be'ng heavy, if my Light appeare
But Dimme, Quack comes to make all cleare;
Quack, leave thy trade; Thy Dealings are not right,
Thou tak'st our weighty gold, to give us light.

HIEROGLIPH V.

And hee will give his Angels charge over thee. PSALMS 91.

1

O how mine eyes could please themselves, and spend
Perpetuall Ages in this precious sight!
How could I woo Eternity, to lend
My wasting day an Antidote for night!
And how my flesh could with my flesh contend,
That views this object with no more delight!
My work is great, my Tapour spends too fast:
'Tis all I have, and soone would out, or wast,
Did not this blessed Screene protect it from the blast.

2

O, I have lost the Jewell of my soule,
And I must finde it out, or I must dye:
Alas! my sin-made darknesse, doth controule
The bright endeavours of my carefull eye:
I must goe search, and ransack ev'ry hole;
Nor have I other light to seek it by:
O if this light be spent, my work not done,
My labour's worse than lost; my Jewel's gone,
And I am quite forlorne, and I am quite undone.

3

You blesse Angels, you that doe enjoy
The full fruition of eternall Glory,
Will you be pleas'd to fancy such a Toy
As man, and quit your glorious Territory,
And stoop to earth, vouchsafing to imploy
Your cares to guard the dust that lies before yee?
Disdaine you not these lumps of dying Clay,
That, for your paines, doe often times repay
Neglect, if not disdaine, and send you griev'd away?

4

This Tapour of our lifes, that once was plac'd
In the faire Suburbs of Eternity,
Is now, alas, confin'd to ev'ry blast,
And turn'd a May-pole for the sporting Fly;
And will you, sacred Spirits, please to cast
Your care on us, and lend a gracious eye?
How had this slender Inch of Tapour beene
Blasted, and blaz'd, had not this heav'nly Screene
Curb'd the proud blast, and timely stept betweene!

5

O Goodnesse, farre transcending the report
Of lavish tongues! too vast to comprehend!
Amazed Quill, how farre dost thou come short
T'express expressions, that so farre transcend!
You blessed Courtiers of th'eternall Court,
Whose full-mouth'd Hallelujahs have no end,
Receive that world of praises that belongs
To your great Sov'raigne; fill your holy tongues
With our Hosannas, mixt with your Seraphick Songs.

St. BERN.

If thou desirest the helpe of Angels, flee the comforts of the world, and resist the Temptations of the Devill.

He will give his Angels charge over thee? O what reverence, what love, what confidence deserves so sweet a saying? For their presence, reverence; for their goodwill, love; for their tuition, confidence.

EPIGRAM 5.

[My flame, art thou disturb'd, diseas'd, and driven]

My flame, art thou disturb'd, diseas'd, and driven
To Death with stormes of grief? Poynt thou to heav'n:
One Angel, there, shall ease thee more, alone,
Then thrice as many thousands of thy owne.

HIEROGLIPH VI.

To every thing there is an appointed time. ECCLESIASTES 3. 1.

Time. Death.
Time:
Behold the frailty of this slender snuffe;
Alas it hath not long to last:
Without the helpe of either Thiefe, or puffe,
Her weakness knows the way to wast:
Nature hath made her Substance apt enough
To spend it selfe, and spend too fast:
It needs the help of none,
That is so prone
To lavish out, untoucht; and languish all alone.

Death:
Time, hold thy peace, and shake thy slow pac'd Sand;
Thy idle Minits make no way:
Thy glass exceeds her how'r, or else does stand,
I can not hold; I can not stay;
Surcease thy pleading, and enlarge my hand
I surfet with too long delay:
This brisk, this boldfac'd Light
Does burne too bright;
Darkness adornes my throne; my day is darkest night.

Time:
Great Prince of darknesse, hold thy needless hand;
Thy Captiv's fast, and can not flee:
What arme can rescue? Who can countermand,
What pow'r can set thy Pris'ner free?
Or if they could, what close, what forrein land
Can hide that head, that flees from Thee?
But if her harmeless light,
Offend thy sight,
What needst thou snatch at noone, what will be thine at night?

Death:
I have outstaid my patience; My quick Trade
Growes dull and makes slow returne:
This long-liv'd det is due, and should bin paid
When first her flame began to burne:
But I have staid too long, I have delayd
To store my vast, my craving Urne.
My Patent gives me pow'r,
Each day, each how'r,

To strike the Peasants thatch, and shake the Princely Tow'r.

Time:

5

Thou count'st too fast: Thy Patent gives no Pow'r
Till Time shall please to say, Amen.

Death:
Canst thou appoint my shaft?

Time:
Or thou my How'r?

Death:
Tis I bid, doe:

Time:

Tis I bid, When.
Alas, thou canst not make the poorest Flow'r
To hang the drooping head, till then:
Thy shafts can neither Kill,
Nor strike, untill
My power gives them wings, and pleasure arme thy will!

St. AUGUST.

Thou knowest not what Time he will come: wait alwaies, that because thou knowest not the time of his comming, thou maiest be prepared against the time he comes. And for this, perchance, thou knowest not the Time, because thou maiest be prepared against all times.

EPIGRAM 6.

[Expect, but feare not Death: Death cannot kill]

Expect, but feare not Death: Death cannot kill,
Till Time, (that first must seale her Patent) will:
Wouldst thou live long? Keepe Time in high esteeme;
Whom, gone, if thou canst not recall, redeeme.

HIEROGLIPH VII.

His light shall be dark, and his candle shall be put out. JOB 18. 6.

1

What ayles our Tapour? Is her luster fled,
Or foyl'd? What dire disaster bred
This Change? that thus she vailes her golden head?

2

It was but very now she shin'd as faire
As Venus starre: Her glory might compare
With Cynthia, burnisht with her brothers haire.

3

There was no Cave-begotten damp that mought
Abuse her beames; no wind, that went about
To breake her peace; no Puffe, to put her out.

4

Lift up thy wondring thoughts, and thou shalt spye
A Cause, will cleare thy doubts, but cloud thine eye:
Subjects must vaile, when as their Sov'raign's by.

5

Canst thou behold bright Phoebus, and thy sight
No whit impayr'd? The object is too bright;
The weaker yeelds unto the stronger Light.

6

Great God, I am thy Tapour; Thou, my Sunne;
From thee, the Spring of Light, my Light begun,
Yet if thy Light but shine, my light is done.

7

If thou withdraw thy Light, my light will shine,
If thine appeare, how poore a light is mine!
My light is darkness, if compar'd to thine.

8

Thy Sun-beames are too strong for my weake eye;
If thou but shine, how nothing, Lord, am I!
Ah, who can see thy visage, and not die!

9

If intervening earth should make a night,
My wanton flame would then shine forth too bright;
My earth would ev'n presume t'eclipse thy Light.

10

And if thy Light be shadow'd, and mine fade,
If thine be dark, and my dark light decayd,
I should be cloathed with a double shade.

11

What shall I, doe? O what shall I desire?
What help can my distracted thoughts require,
That thus am wasting twixt a double Fire?

12

In what a streight, in what a streight am I?
Twixt two extreames how my rackt fortunes lie?
See I thy face, or see it not, I die.

13

O let the streame of my Redeemers blood,
That breaths fro' my sick soule, be made a Cloud,
T'interpose these Lights, and be my shroud.

14

Lord, what am I? or what's the light I have?
May it but light my Ashes to their Grave,
And so from thence, to Thee? 'tis all I crave.

15

O make my Light, that all the world may see
Thy Glory by't: If not, It seemes to me
Honour enough, to be put out by Thee.

O Light inaccessible, in respect of which my light is utter darknesse; so reflect upon my weakness, that all the world may behold thy strength: O majesty incomprehensible, in respect of which my glory is meere shame, so shine upon my misery that all the world may behold thy glory.

EPIGRAM 7.

[Wilt thou complaine, because thou are bereiv'n]

Wilt thou complaine, because thou are bereiv'n
Of all thy light? Wilt thou vie Lights with Heav'n?
Can thy bright eye not brooke the daily light?
Take heed: I feare, thou art a Child of night.

HIEROGLIPH VIII.

Let your light so shine, that men seeing your good workes may glorifie your Father which is in Heaven. MATTHEW 5. 16.

1

Was it for this, the breath of Heav'n was blowne
Into the nostrils of this Heav'nly Creature?
Was it for this, that sacred Three in One
Conspir'd to make this Quintessence of Nature?
Did heav'nly Providence intend
So rare a Fabrick for so poore and end?

2

Was Man, the highest Master-peece of Nature,
The curious Abstract of the whole Creation,
Whose soule was copied from his great Creator,
Made to give Light, and set for Observation,
Ordain'd for this? To spend his Light
In a darke-Lanthorne? Cloystred up in night?

3

Tell me, recluse Monastick, can it be
A disadvantage to thy beames to shine?
A thousand Tapours may gaine light from Thee:
Is thy Light less, or worse for lighting mine?
If, wanting Light, I stumble, shall
Thy darkness not be guilty of my fall?

4

Why dost thou lurk so close? Is it for feare
Some busie eye should pry into thy flame,
And spie a Thiefe, or else some blemish there?
Or being spy'd, shrink'st thou thy head for shame?
Come, come, fond Tapour shine but cleare,
Thou needst not shrink for shame, nor shroud for feare.

5

Remember, O remember, thou wert set,
For men to see the Great Creator by;
Thy flame is not thy owne: It is a Det
Thou ow'st thy Maker; And wilt thou deny
To pay the Int'rest of thy Light?
And skulk in Corners; and play least in sight?

6

Art thou affraid to trust thy easie flame
To the injurious wast of Fortunes puffe?
Ah, Coward, rouze; and quit thy selfe, for shame;
Who dies in service, hath liv'd long enough:
Who shines, and makes no eye partaker,
Usurps himselfe, and closely robbs his Maker

7

Take not thy selfe a Pris'ner, that art free:
Why dost thou turne thy Palace to a Jaile?
Thou art an Eagle; And befits it thee
To live immured, like a cloysterd Snaile?
Let Toies seeke Corners: Things of cost
Gaine worth by view: Hid Jewels are but lost.

8

My God, my light is dark enough at lightest,
Encrease her flame, and give her strength to shine:
Tis fraile at best: Tis dimme enough at brightest,
But 'tis her glory to be foyld by Thine.
Let others lurke; My light shall be
Propos'd to all men; and by them, to Thee.

St. BERN.

If thou be one of the foolish Virgins, the Congregation is necessary for thee; If thou be one of the wise Virgins, thou art necessary for the Congregation.

HUGO.

Monasticks make Cloysters to inclose the outward man, O would to God they would doe the like to restraine the inward Man.

EPIGRAM 8.

[Affraid of eyes? What, still play least in sight?]

Affraid of eyes? What, still play least in sight?
Tis much to be presum'd all is not right:
Too close endeavours, bring forth dark events:
Come forth, Monastick; Here's no Parliaments.

HIEROGLIPH IX.

He cometh forth like a Flower and is cut downe. JOB 14. 2.

1

Behold
How short a span
Was long enough, of old,
To measure out the life of Man!
In those wel temper'd days his time was then
Survey'd, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.

2

Alas
And what is that?
They come and slide and pass
Before my Pen can tell thee, what.
The Posts of Time are swift, which having run
Their sev'n short stages o're, their short liv'd task is done.

3

Our daies
Begun, wee lend
To sleepe, to antick plaies
And Toyes, untill the first stage end:
12. waining Moons, twise 5. times told, we give
To unrecover'd loss: Wee rather breathe, than live.

4

Wee spend
A ten years breath,
Before wee apprehend
What is to live, or feare a death:
Our childish dreams are fil'd with painted joys,
Which please our sense a while; and waking, prove but Toies.

5

How vaine
How wretched is
Poore man, that doth remain
A slave to such a State as this!
His daies are short, at longest; few, at most;
They are but bad, at best; yet lavisht out, or lost.

6

They bee
The secret Springs,
That make our minits flee
On wheeles more swift then Eagles wings:
Our life's a Clocke, and ev'ry gaspe of breath
Breathes forth a warning grief, til Time shal strike a death.

7

How soone
Our new-born Light
Attaines to full-ag'd noone!
And this, how soon to gray-hayr'd night!
Wee spring, we bud, we blossome, and we blast
E're we can count our daies; Our daies they flee so fast.

8

They end
When scarce begun;
And ere wee apprehend
That we begin to live, our life is don:
Man, Count thy daies; And if they flee too fast
For thy dull thoughts to count, count ev'rie day thy last.

Our Infancy is counted in eating and sleeping; in all which time what differ we from the beasts, but by a possibility of reason, and a necessity of sinne?

O misery of mankind, in whom no sooner the Image of God appeares in the act of Reason, but the Devill blurres it in the corruption of his will!

EPIGRAM 9.

[Thus was the first seav'nth part of they few daies]

Thus was the first seav'nth part of they few daies
Consum'd in sleep, in food, in Toyish plaies:
Knowst thou what teares thine eies imparted then?
Review thy losse, and weep them o're agen.

HIEROGLIPH X.

His bones are full of the sinnes of his youth. JOB 20. 11.

1

The swift-foot Post of Time hath now begun
His second Stage;
The dawning of our Age
Is lost and spent without a Sun:
The light of Reason did not yet appeare
Within th'Horizon of this Hemispheare.

2

The infant Will had yet none other guide,
But twilight Sense;
And what is gayn'd from thence
But doubtfull Steps, that tread aside?
Reason now draws her Curtains; Her clos'd eyes
Begin to open, and she calls to rise.

3

Youths now disclosing Buds peeps out, and showes
Her Aprill head;
And from her grass greene bed,
Her virgin Primerose early blowes;
Whil'st waking Philomel prepares to sing
Her warbling Sonets to the wanton Spring.

4

His Stage is pleasant, and her way seemes short,
All strow'd with flowers;
The daies appeare but howers,
Being spent in time-beguiling sport.
Here griefes do neither press, nor doubts perplex;
Here's neither feare, to curb; nor care, to vex.

5

His downie Cheek growes proud, and now disdaines
The Tutors hand;
He glories to command
The proud neckt Steed with prouder Reynes:
The strong breath'd Horne must now salute his eare,
With the glad downefall of the falling Deare.

6

His quicknos'd Armie, with their deepmouth'd sounds,
Must now prepare
To chase the tim'rous Hare
About his, yet unmorgag'd, Grounds;
The ev'll he hates, is Counsell, and delay,
And feares no mischief, but a rainie day.

7

The thought he takes, is how to take no thought
For bale, nor blisse;
And late Repentance is
The last deare Pen'worth that he bought:
He is a daintie Morning, and he may,
If lust o'recast him not, b'as faire a Day.

8

Proud Blossom, use thy Time; Times headstrong Horse
Will post away;
Trust not the foll'wing day,
For ev'ry day brings forth a worse:
Take Time at best: Beleeve't, thy daies will fall
From good, to bad; From bad, to worst of all.

St. AMB.

Humility is a rare thing in a young man, therefore to be admired: When youth is vigorous, when strength is firme, when blood is hot, when Cares are strangers, when mirth is free, then Pride swells, and humility is despised.

EPIGRAM 10.

[Thy yeares are newly gray; His, newly Greene]

Thy yeares are newly gray; His, newly Greene;
His youth may live to see what thine hath seene;
Hee is thy Parallel: His present Stage
And tine, are the two Tropicks of Mans Age.

HIEROGLIPH XI.

Rejoyce O young man, and let thy heart cheare thee, but know, &c. ECCLESIASTES 11. 9.

1

How flux! how alterable is the date
Of transitory things!
How hurry'd on the clipping wings
Of Time, and driv'n upon the wheeles of Fate!
How one Condition brings
The leading Prologue to an other State!
No transitory things can last:
Change waits on Time; and Time is wing'd with hast;
Time present's but the Ruins of Time past.

2

Behold how Change hath incht away thy Span,
And how thy light does burne
Nearer and nearer to thy Urne:
For this deare wast what satisfaction can
Injurious time returne
Thy shortned daies, but this; the Stile of Man?
And what's a Man? A cask of Care,
New tunn'd, and working; Hee's a middle Staire
Twixt birth and death; A blast of ful ag'd Ayre.

3

His brest is Tinder, apt to entertaine
The sparks of Cupids fire,
Whose new-blowne flames must now enquire
A wanton Juilippe out, which may restraine
The Rage of his desire,
Whose painfull pleasure is but pleasing paine.
His life's a sicknes, that does rise
From a hot Liver, whilst his passion lies
Expecting Cordials from his Mistress eyes.

4

His Stage is strowd with Thornes, and deckt with Flowers;
His yeare sometimes appeares
A Minit; and his Minits, yeares;
His doubtfull Weather's sun-shine, mixt with showers;
His traffique, Hopes and Feares:
His life's a Medly, made of sweets and sowers;
His paines reward is Smiles, and Pouts;
His diet is faire language mixt with Flouts;
He is a Nothing all compos'd of Doubts.

5

Doe; wast thy Inch, proud Span of living earth;
Consume thy golden daies
In slavish freedome; Let thy waies
Take best avantage of thy frolick mirth;
Thy Stock of Time decaies;
And lavish plenty still foreruns a Dearth:
The bird that's flowne may turne at last;
And painefull labour may repaire a wast;
But paines nor price can call thy minits past.

SEN.

Expect great joy when thou shalt lay downe the mind of a Child, and deserve the stile of a wise man; for at those yeares childhood is past, but oftentimes childishnesse remaines, and what is worse, thou hast the Authority of a Man, but the vices of a Childe.

EPIGRAM 11.

[Why standest thou discontented? Is not he]

Why standest thou discontented? Is not he
As equall distant from the Toppe as thee?
What then may cause thy discontented frowne?
Hee's mounting up the Hill; Thou plodding downe!

HIEROGLIPH XII.

As thy daies, so shall thy strength be. DEUTERONOMY 33. 25.

The Post
Of swift foot Time
Hath now, at length, begun
The Kalends of our middle Stage:
The number'd Steps that we have gone, do show
The number of those Steps wee are to goe:
The Buds and blossoms of our Age
Are blowne, decay'd, and gone,
And all our prime
Is lost;
And what we boast too much, we have least cause to boast.

Ah mee!
There is no Rest,
Our Time is alwaies fleeing:
What Rein can curb our headstrong hours!
They post away: They passe wee know not how:
Our Now is gone, before wee can say, Now:
Time past and futur's none of ours;
That, hath as yet no Being;
And This hath ceast
To bee:
What is, is onely ours: How short a Time have Wee!

And now
Apolloes eare
Expects harmonious straines,
New minted from the Thracian Lyre;
For now the Virtue of the twiforkt Hill
Inspires the ravisht fancy, and doth fill
The veines with Pegasean fire:
And now, those sterill braines
That cannot show,
Nor beare
Some fruits, shall never weare Appollos sacred Bow.

Excesse
And surfets uses
To wait upon these daies:
Full feed, and flowing cups of wine
Conjure the fancy, forcing up a Spright,
By the base Magick of deboysd delight;
Ah pittie twiseborne Bacchus Vine
Should starve Apollo's Bayes,
And drown those Muses
That blesse
And calm the peaceful soule, when stormes of care oppres.

Strong light,
Boast not those beames
That can but onely rise,
And blaze awhile, and then away:
There is no Solstice in thy day;
Thy midnight glory lies
Betwixt th'extrems
Of night,
A Glory foyld with shame, and foold with false delight

Hast thou climbd up to the full age of thy few daies? Look backwards, and thou shalt see the frailty of thy youth; the folly of thy Childhood, and the waste of thy Infancy: Looke forwards; thou shalt see, the cares of the world, the troubles of thy mind, the diseases of thy body.

EPIGRAM 12.

[Thou that art prauncing on the lustie Noone]

Thou that art prauncing on the lustie Noone
Of thy full Age, boast not thy selfe too soone:
Convert that breath to wayle thy fickle state;
Take heed; thoul't brag too soone, or boast too late.

HIEROGLIPH XIII.

Hee must encrease, but I must decrease. JOHN 3. 30.

Time voyds the Table: Dinner's done;
And now our daies declining Sun
Hath hurried his diurnall Loade
To th'Borders of the Westerne roade;
Fierce Phlegon, with his fellow Steeds,
Now puffes and pants, and blowes and bleeds,
And froths, and fumes, remembering still
Their lashes up th'Olympick Hill:
Which, having conquerd, now disdaine
The whip, and champs the frothy reyn,
And, with a full Career, they bend
Their paces to their Journies end:
Our blazing Tapour now hath lost
Her better halfe: Nature hath crost
Her forenoone book, and cleard that score,
But scarce gives trust for so much more:
And now the gen'rous Sappe forsakes
Her seir-grown twig: A breath ev'n shakes
The down-ripe fruit; fruit soon divorc'd
From her deare Branch, untouchd, unforc'd.
Now sanguine Venus doth begin
To draw her wanton colours in;
And flees neglected in disgrace,
Whil'st Mars supplies her lukewarm place:
Blood turnes to Choler: What this Age
Loses in strength it finds in Rage:
That rich Ennamell, which of old,
Damaskt the downy Cheeke, and told
A harmeless guile, unaskt, is now
Worne off from the audacious brow;

Luxurious Dalliance, midnight Revells,
Loose Ryot, and those veniall evils
Which inconsiderate youth of late
Could pleade, now wants an Advocate,
And what appeard in former times
Whispring as faults, now roare as crimes.
And now all yee, whose lippes were wont
To drench their Currall in the Font
Of forkt Parnassus, you that be
The Sons of Phoebus, and can flee
On wings of Fancy, to display
The Flagge of high invention, stay:
Repose your Quills; Your veines grow sower,
Tempt not your Salt beyond her power:
If your pall'd Fancies but decline,
Censure will strike at every line
And wound your names; The popular eare
Weighs what you are, not what you were.
Thus hackney like, we tire our Age,
Spurgall'd with Change, from Stage to Stage.

Seest thou the daily light of the greater world? When attaind to the highest pitch of Meridian glory, it staieth not, but by the same degrees, it ascendeth, it descends. And is the light of the lesser world more permanent? Continuance is the Child of Eternity, not of Time.

EPIGRAM 13.

[Young man, rejoyce; And let thy rising daies]

Young man, rejoyce; And let thy rising daies
Cheare thy glad heart; Thinkst thou these uphill waies
Leade to death's dungeon? No: but know withall,
Arising is but Prologue to a Fall.

HIEROGLIPH XIV.

Yet a lttle while is the light with you. JOHN 12. 35.

1

The day growes old; The low pitcht Lamp hath made
No lesse than treble shade:
And the descending damp does now prepare
T'uncurle bright Titans haire;
Whose Westerne Wardrobe, now begins t'unfold
Her purples, fring'd with gold,
To cloathe his evening glory; when th'alarmes

Of Rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis armes.

2

Nature now calls to Supper, to refresh
The spirits of all flesh;
The toyling ploughman drives his thirsty Teames,
To tast the slipp'ry Streames:
The droyling Swineheard knocks away, and feasts
His hungry-whining guests:
The boxbill Ouzle, and the dappled Thrush
Like hungry Rivals meet, at their beloved bush.

3

And now the cold Autumnall dewes are seene
To copwebbe every Greene;
And by the low-shorne Rowins doth appeare
The fast-declining yeare.
The Sapless Branches d'off their summer Suits
And waine their winter fruits:
And stormy blasts have forc'd the quaking Trees
To wrap their trembling limbs in Suits of mossie Freeze.

4

Our wasted Tapour, now hath brought her light
To the nest dore to night;
Her sprightless flame, grown great with snuffe, does turn
Sad as her neighb'ring Urne:
Her slender Inch, that yet unspent remaines;
Lights but to further paines
And in a silent language bids her guest
Prepare his wearie limbs to take eternall Rest.

5

Now carkfull Age hath pitcht her painefull plough
Upon the furrow'd brow;
And snowie blasts of discontented Care
Hath blancht the falling haire:
Suspitious envie mixt with jealous Spight
Disturb's his wearie night:
He threatens youth with age: And, now, alas,
He ownes not what he is, but vaunts the Man he was.

6

Gray haires, peruse thy daies; And let thy past
Reade lectures to thy last:
Those hastie wings that hurri'd them away
Will give these daies no Day:
The constant wheeles of Nature scorne to tyre
Untill her worke expire:
That blast that nipt thy youth, will ruine Thee;

That hand that shooke the branch will quicklie strike the Tree.

St. CHRYS.

Gray hayres are honourable, when the behaviour suits with gray hayres: But when an ancient man hath childish manners, he becomes more ridiculous than a childe.

SEN.

Thou art in vaine attained to old yeares, that repeatest thy youthfulnesse.

EPIGRAM 14.

[Seest thou this good old man? He represents]

Seest thou this good old man? He represents
Thy Future; Thou, his Preterperfect Tense;
Thou go'st to labour, He prepares to Rest:
Thou break'st thy Fast; He suppes: Now which is best?

HIEROGLIPH XV.

The dayes of oure yeares are threescore yeares and ten. PSALMS 90. 10.

1

So have I seene th'illustrious Prince of Light
Rising in glorie from his Crocean bed,
And trampling downe the horrid shades of night,
Advancing more and more his conq'ring head.
Pause first; decline; at length, begin to shroud
His fainting browes within a cole black cloud.

2

So have I seene a well built Castle stand
Upon the Tiptoes of a lofty Hill,
Whose active pow'r commands both Sea and Land,
And curbs the pride of the Beleag'rers will;
At length her ag'd Foundation failes her trust;
And layes her tottering ruines in the Dust.

3

So have I seene the blazing Tapour shoot
Her golden head into the feeble Ayre;
Whose shadow-gilding Ray, spred around about,
Makes the foule face of black-browd darknesse faire;
Till at length her wasting glory fades,
And leaves the night to her invet'rate shades.

4

Ev'n so this little world of living Clay,
The pride of Nature, glorified by Art,
Whom earth adores, and all her hosts obay,
Ally'd to Heav'n by his Diviner part,
Triumphs a while, then droops, and then decaies,
And worne by Age, Death cancells all his daies.

5

That glorious Sun, that whilom shone so bright,
Is now ev'n ravisht from our darkned eyes;
That sturdy Castle, man'd with so much might,
Lyes now a Monument of her owne disguize:
That blazing Tapour, that disdain'd the puffe
Of troubled Ayre, scarce ownes the name of Snuffe.

6

Poore bedrid Man! where is thy glory now,
Thy Youth so vaunted? Where that Majesty
Which sat enthron'd upon thy manly brow?
Where, where that braving Arme? that daring eye?
Those buxom tunes? Those Bacchanalian Tones?
Those swelling veynes? those marrow-flowing bones?

7

Thy drooping Glory's blurrd, and prostrate lyes
Grov'ling in dust; And frightfull Horror, now,
Sharpens the glaunces of thy gashfull eyes,
Whilst feare perplexes thy distracted brow:
Thy panting brest vents all her breath by groanes,
And Death enervs thy marrow-wasted bones.

8

Thus Man, that's borne of woman can remaine
But a short time; His dayes are full of sorrow;
His life's a penance, and his death's a paine,
Springs like a flow'r to day, and fades to morrow?
His breath's a bubble, and his daies a Span.
Tis glorious misery to be borne a Man.

CYPR.

When eyes are dimme, eares deafe, visage pale, teeth decaid, skin withered; breath tainted, pipes furred, knees trembling, hands fumbling; feet fayling, the sudden downefall of thy fleshly house is neare at hand.

St. AUGUST.

All vices wax old by Age: Covetousness alone, growes young.

EPIGRAM 15. To the Infant.

What he doth spend in groanes, thou spendst in teares:
Judgment and strength's alike in both your yeares;
Hee's helpless; so art thou; What difference than?
Hee's an old Infant; Thou, a young old Man

THE END