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.
