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

Doe silly Cupid snuffe, and trimme
Thy false, thy feeble light,
And make her selfe-consuming flames more bright;
Mee thinke, shee burnes too dimme:
Is this that sprightly fire,
Whose more then sacred Beames inspire
The ravisht hearts of men, and so inflame desire?

2

See, Boy, how thy unthrifty blaze
Consumes; how fast shee waines;
She spends her selfe, and her, whose wealth maintaines
Her weake, her idle Rayes;
Cannot thy lustfull blast,
Which gave it luster, make it last?
What heart can long be pleas'd, where pleasure spends so fast?

3

Goe, Wanton, place thy pale-fac'd light
Where never breaking day
Intends to visit mortals, or display
Thy sullen shades of night:
Thy Torch will burne more cleare
In nights un-Titand Hemispheare;
Heav'ns scornfull flames and thine can never co-appeare;

4

In vaine thy busie hands addresse
Their labour, to display
Thy easie blaze, within the veirge of days:
The greater drownes the lesse:
If heav'ns bright glory shine,
Thy glimring sparks must needs resigne;
Puffe out heav'ns glory then, or heav'n will worke out thine.

5

Goe, Cupids rammish Pander, goe,
Whose dull, whose low desire
Can find sufficient warmth from Natures fire,
Spend borrow'd breath, and blow,

Blow winde, made strong with spite;
When thou hast pufft the greater light,
Thy lesser sparke may shine, and warme the new made night;

6

Deluded mortals, tell mee, when
Your daring breath has blowne
Heav'ns Tapour out, and you have spent your owne,
What fire shall warme yee then?
Ah Fooles, perpetuall night
Shall haunt your soules with Stigian fright,
Where they shall broile in flames, but flames shall bring no light.

S. AUGUST.

The sufficiency of my merit is to know that my merit is not sufficient.

S. GREG. Mor. 25.

By how much the lesse, man sees himselfe, by so much the lesse hee displeases himselfe; And by how much the more hee sees the light of Grace, by so much the more hee disdaines the light of nature.

S. GREG. Mor.

The light of the understanding humilitie kindles and pride covers.

EPIGRAM 1.

[Thou blowst heav'ns fire, the whilst thou goest about]

Thou blowst heav'ns fire, the whilst thou goest about,
Rebellious foole, in vaine, to blow it out:
Thy Folly addes confusion to thy death;
Heav'ns fire confounds, when fann'd with Follies breath.

II. ECCLESIASTES IV. VIII.

There is no end of all his labour, neither is his eye satisfied with riches.

O, How our wid'ned Armes over-stretch
Their owne dimensions! How our hands can retch
Beyond their distances! How our yeelding brest
Can shrinke, to be more full, and full possest
Of this inferiour Orbe! How earth refinde
Can cling to sordid earth! How kinde to kinde!
Wee gape, we graspe, we gripe; adde store to store;
Enough requires too much; too much craves more;
Wee charge our Soules so farre beyond our stint,

That wee recoyle or burst; The busie Mint
Of our laborious thoughts is ever going,
And coyning new desires; desires, not knowing
Where next to pitch; but, like the boundless Ocean
Gaine, and gaine ground, and grow more strong by motion.
The pale-fac'd Lady of the black-eyed night
First tips her horned browes with easie light,
Whose curious traine of spangled Nymphs attire
Her next nights Glory with encreasing Fire;
Each ev'ning addes more luster, and adornes
The growing beautie of her grasping hornes;
Shee suckes and drawes her brothers golden store
Untill her glutted Orbe can sucke no more,
Ev'n so the Vulture of insatiate mindes,
Still wants, and wanting seekes; and seeking, findes
New fuell to encrease her rav'nous fire,
The grave is sooner cloyd then mans desire:
Wee crosse the Seas, and midst her waves we burne,
Transporting lifes, perchance that here returne:
Wee sacke, wee ransacke to the utmost sands
Of native kingdomes, and of forraine lands;
Wee travill Sea, and Soyle; wee pry; wee proule,
Wee progresse, and wee progge from pole to pole;
Wee spend our mid-day sweat, our mid-night oyle;
Wee tyre the night in thought; the day, in toyle;
Wee make Art servill, and the Trade gentile,
(Yet both corrupted with ingenious guile)
To compasse earth; and with her empty store,
To fill our Armes, and graspe one handfull more;
Thus seeking Rest, our labours never cease,
But as our yeares, our hot desires encrease;
Thus wee poore little worlds (with blood and sweat)
In vaine attempt to comprehend the great;
Thus, in our gaine, become wee gainfull losers,
And what's enclos'd, encloses the enclosers.
Now, reader, close thy Booke, and then advise:
Be wisely worldly; be not not wordlly wise;
Let not thy nobler thoughts be alwaies raking
The worlds base dunghill; Vermins took, by taking:
Take heede thou trust not the deceitfull Lappe
Of wanton Delilah; The world's a Trappe.

HUGO de anima.

Tell me where bee those now that so lately loved, and hugg'd the world? Nothing remaines of them but dust and wormes; Observe what those men were; what thoes men are: they were like thee; they did eate, drinke, laugh, and led merry dayes, and in a moment slipt into Hell; Here their flesh is food for wormes: There, their soules are fuell for fire, till they shall be rejoynd in an

unhappy fellowship, and cast into eternall torments; where they that were once companions in sinne shall be hereafter partners in punishment.

EPIGRAM 2.

[Gripe, Cupid, and gripe still untill that wind]

Gripe, Cupid, and gripe still untill that wind,
That's pent before, find secret vent behind:
And when th'ast done, hark here, I tell thee what,
Before I'le trust thy Armefull I'le trust that.

III. JOB XVIII. VIII.

He is cast into a net by his owne feet, and walketh upon a snare.

1

What? Nets and Quiver too? what need there all
These slie devices to betray poore men?
Die they not fast enough, when thousands fall
Before thy Dart? what need these Engins then?
Attend they not, and answer to thy Call
Like nightly Coveyes, where thou list? and when?
What needs a Stratagem where strength can sway?
Or what need strength compell, where none gainesay?
Or what need stratagem or strength, where hearts obey?

2

Husband thy sleights: It is but vaine to wast
Hony on those that will be catcht with Gall;
Thou canst not, ah, thou canst not bid so fast
As men obey; Thou art more slow to call,
Than they to come: Thou canst not make such hast
To strike; as they, being struck, make hast to fall;
Go save thy Nets for that rebellious heart
That scornes thy pow'r, and has obtain'd the Art
T'avoid thy flying shaft, to quench thy fi'ry Dart

3

Lost mortall, how is thy destruction sure,
Between two Bawds! and both without remorse;
The one's a Line, the tother is a Lure;
This, to entice thy soule; that, to enforce;
Way-laid by both, how canst thou stand secure?
That drawes; this woos thee to th'eternall curse;
O charming Tyrant, how hast thou befool'd
And slav'd poore man, that would not, if he could
Avoid thy Line, thy Lure; nay, could not, if he would!

4

Alas, thy sweet perfidious voice betrayes
His wanton cares with thy Syrenian baits;
Thou wrapst his eyes in mists, then boldly layes
Thy lethall Ginns before their Christall Gates;
Thou lock'st up ev'ry Sense with thy false kayes,
All willing Prisners to thy close deceits;
His eare most nimble where it deafe should be,
His Eye most blind where most it ought to see,
And when his heart's most bound, then thinks it self most free.

5

Thou grand Imposter, how hast thou obtain'd
The wardship of the world! Are all men turn'd
Ideots, and Lunaticks? Are all retain'd
Beneath thy servile bands? Is none return'd
To his forgotten self? Has none regain'd
His senses? Are their senses all adjourn'd?
What none dismist thy Court? will no plump Fee
Bribe thy false fists, to make a glad Decree,
T'unfoole whom thou hast fool'd, and set thy prisners free?

S. BERN. in Ser.

In this world is much trecherie, little truth: here, all things are traps: here, every thing is beset with snares; here soules are endanger'd, bodies afflicted; Here all things are vanity, and vexation of spirit.

EPIGRAM 3.

[Nay, Cupid, pitch thy Trammill where thou please]

Nay, Cupid, pitch thy Trammill where thou please,
Thou canst not faile to take such fish as these;
Thy thriving sport will nev'r be spent; no need
To feare, when ev'ry Cork's a world; Thou'lt speed.

IV. HOSEA CXIII. III.

They shalbe as the chaffe that is driven with a whirlewind out of the floore, and as the smoke out of the chimney.

Flint-brested Stoicks, you whose marble eyes
Contemne a wrinckle, and whose soules despise
To follow Natures too affected Fashion,
Or travell in the Regent walk of Passion;

Whose rigid hearts disdaine to shrinke at Feares,
Or play at fast and loose with Smiles and Teares;
Come burst your spleenes with laughter; to behold
A new-found vanity; which, dayes of old
Nev'r knew; A vanity, that has beset
The world, and made more slaves than Mahomet;
That has condemn'd us to the servile yoke
Of slavery, and made us slaves to smoke:
But stay! why taxe I thus our moderne times,
For new-blowne Follies, and for new-borne Crimes?
Are we sole guilty, and the first Age free?
No, they were smoak'd, and slav'd as well as we:
What's sweet-lipt Honours blast, but smoke? What's treasure;
But very smoke? And what more smoke than pleasure?
Alas! they'r all but shadowes, Fumes, and blasts;
That vanishes; this fades: the other waits:
The restlesse Merchant; he, that loves to steepe
His braines in wealth, and layes his soule to sleepe
In bags of Bullion, sees th'immortall Crowne,
And faine would mount, but Ingots keep him downe:
He brags to day, perchance, and begs tomorrow;
He lent but now; wants Credit, now, to borrow:
Blow wind? the Treasure's gone; the Merchant's broke;
A slave to silver's but a slave to smoke:
Behold the Glory-vying Child of Fame,
That from deep wounds sucks forth an honour'd name,
That thinks no purchase worth the stile of good,
But what is sold for sweat, and seal'd with blood,
That's for a Poynt, a blast of empty breath,
Undaunted, gazes in the face of death;
Whose deare-bought Bubble, fild with vaine renowne,
Breaks with a Phillip, or a Gen'rals frowne;
His stroke-got Honour staggers with a stroke;
A Slave to Honour is a Slave to Smoke:
And that fond soule which wasts his idle dayes
In loose delights, and sports about the Blaze
Of Cupids Candle; he that daily spies
'Twin Babies in his Mistresse Geminies,
Where to his sad devotion does impart
The sweet burnt offring of a bleeding heart;
See, how his wings are sing'd in Cyprian fire,
Whose flames consume with youth; in Age, expire:
The world's a Bubble; all the pleasures in it,
Like morning vapours vanish in a minit:
The vapours vanish, and the Bubble's broke;
A slave to Pleasure is a slave to smoke.
Now, Stoick, cease thy laughter, and repast
Thy pickled cheeks with Teares, and weep as fast.

S. HIEROM.

That rich man is great, who thinkes not himselfe great because he is rich: the proud man (who is the poore man) brags outwardly, but begs inwardly: He is blowne up, but not full.

PETR. RAV.

Vexation and anguish accompany riches and honour: The pompe of the world and the favour of the people are but smoake, and a blast suddenly vanishing: which, if they commonly please, commonly bring repentance, and for a minut of joy they bring an age of sorrow.

EPIGRAM 4.

[Cupid; thy diet's strange; It dulls; It rowzes]

Cupid; thy diet's strange; It dulls; It rowzes;
It cooles; it heats; it binds, and then it looses:
Dull-sprightly-cold-hot Foole, if ev'r it winds thee
Into loosenesse once, take heed; It binds thee.

V. PROVERBS XXIII. V.

Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? for riches make themselves wings, they flie away as an Eagle.

1

False world, thou ly'st: Thou canst not lend
The least delight:
Thy favours cannot gaine a Friend,
They are so sleight:
Thy morning pleasure makes an end
To please at night:
Poore are the wants that thou supply'st,
And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st
With heav'n; Fond earth thou boasts; False world thou ly'st.

2

Thy babbling Tongue tels golden Tales
Of endlesse Treasure;
Thy bounty offers easie sales
Of lasting Pleasure;
Thou asks thy Consciencce what she ayles,
And swear to ease her;
There's none can want where thou supply'st;
There's none can give where thou deny'st:
Alas, fond world thou boasts; false world thou ly'st.

3

What well advised eare regards

What earth can say?
Thy worlds are Gold, but thy rewards
Are painted Clay;
Thy cunning can but pack the Cards:
Thou canst not play:
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st;
Thou art not what thou seem'st: False world thou ly'st.

4

Thy tinsill boosome seems a Mint
Of new-coynd treasure;
A Paradise, that has no stint,
No change, no measure;
A painted Cask, but nothing in't
Nor wealth nor pleasure:
Vaine earth! that falsly thus comply'st
With man; Vaine man! that thus rely'st
On earth: Vaine man thou dot'st: Vaine earth thou ly'st.

5

What meane dull soules, in this high measure
To haberdash
In earths base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is drosse and trash?
The height of whose enchaunting pleasure
Is but a Flash?
Are these the Goods that thou supply'st
Us mortals with? Are these the high'st
Can these bring cordiall peace? False world thou ly'st.

PET. BLES.

This world is deceitfull; Her end is doubtfull; Her conclusion is horrible; Her Judge is terrible; And her punishment is intolerable.

S. AUGUST. lib. Confess.

The vaine glory of this world is a deceitfull sweetnesse, a fruitlesse labour, a perpetuall care, a dangerous honour; Her beginning is without providence, and her end not without repentance.

EPIGRAM 5.

[World; th'art a Traitor; Thou hast stampt thy base]

World; th'art a Traitor; Thou hast stampt thy base
And Chymick metall with great Caesars face;
And with thy bastard Bullion thou hast barterd
For wares of price; How justly drawne, and quarterd!

VI. JOB XV. XXXI.

Let not him that is deceived trust in vanity, for vanity shalbe his recompence.

1

Believe her not: Her Glasse diffuses
False Portraitures: Thou canst espie
No true reflection: She abuses
Her mis-inform'd beholders eye;
Her Chrystal's falsely steel'd: It scatters
Deceitfull beames; Believe her not: She flatters.

2

This flaring Mirrour represents
No right Proportion, hiew, nor Feature:
Her very looks are Complements;
They make thee fairer, goodlier, greater;
The skilfull Glosse of her reflection
But paints the Context of thy course Complexion.

3

Were thy dimension but a stride,
Nay, wert thou statur'd but a span,
Such as the long-bill'd Troopes defi'd,
A very Fragment of a Man;
Shee'l make thee Mimas, which ye will
The Jove-slaine Tyrant, or th'Ionick Hill:

4

Had surfeits, or th'ungratious Starre
Conspir'd to make one Common place
Of all deformities, that are
Within the Volume of thy face,
Shee'd lend thee favour, should out-move
The Troy-bane Hellen, or the Queene of Love.

5

Were thy consum'd estate as poore
As Lazars, or afflicted Jobs,
Shee'l change thy wants to seeming store,
And turne thy Raggs to purple Robes:
Shee'l make thy hide-bound flanck appeare
As plump as theirs that feast it all the yeare.

6

Looke off; let not thy Opticks be
Abus'd; thou see'st not what thou shouldst;
Thy selfe's the Object thou should'st see,
But 'tis thy shadow thou behold'st:
And shadowes thrive the more in stature,
The nearer we approach the light of nature.

7

Where heav'ns bright beames look more direct,
The shadow shrinks as they grow stronger;
But when they glaunce their faire aspect,
The bold-fac'd shade growes larger, longer;
And when their lamp begins to fall,
Th'increasing shadowes lengthen most of all.

8

The soule that seeks the noone of Grace,
Shrinks in; but swels, if Grace retreat;
As heav'n lifts up, or veiles his Face,
Our self-esteemes grow lesse, or great;
The least is greatest; And who shall
Appear the greatest, are the least of all.

HUGO lib.3 de anima.

It vaine he lifts the eye of his heart to behold his God, who is not first rightly advised to behold himselfe: First thou must see the visible things of thyself, before thou canst be prepared to know the invisible things of God, for if thou canst not apprehend the things within thee, thou canst not comprehend the things above thee: The best looking glasse wherein to see thy God, is perfectly to see thyselfe.

EPIGRAM 6.

[Be not deceiv'd, great Foole; There is no losse]

Be not deceiv'd, great Foole; There is no losse
In being small. Great bulks but swell with drosse:
Man is heav'ns Master-peece; If it appeare
More great, the valu's lesse; If lesse, more deare.

VII. DEUTERONOMY XXXX. XIX.

I have set before thee life and death, blessing and cursing, therefore choose life, that thou and thy seed may live.

1

The world's a Floore, whose swelling heapes retaine
The mingled wages of the Ploughmans toyle;
The world's a Heape, whose yet unwinnowed graine
Is lodg'd with chaffe and buried in her soyle;
All things are mixt; the usefull with the vaine;
The good with bad; the noble with the vile;
The world's an Ark, wherein things pure and grosse
Present their lossefull gaine, and gainfull losse,
Where ev'ry dram of Gold containes a pound of drosse.

2

This furnisht Ark presents the greedy view
With all that earth can give, or heav'n can add;
Here, lasting joyes; here, pleasures hourely new,
And hourely fading, may be wisht and had:
All points of Honour; counterfeit and true
Salute thy soule, and wealth both good and bad:
Here maist thou open wide the two-leav'd doore
Of all thy wishes, to receive that store
Which being emptied most; does overflow the more.

3

Come then, my soule, approach this royall Burse,
And see what wares our great Exchange retaines;
Come, come; here's that shall make a firme divorse
Betwixt thy Wants and thee, if want complaines;
No need to sit in councell with thy purse,
Here's nothing, good, shall cost more price than paines;
But O my soule, take heed; If thou relie
Upon thy faithlesse Opticks, thou wilt buy
Too blind a bargaine: know; Fooles onely trade by th'Eye.

4

The worldly wisdome of the foolish man
Is like a Sive, that does, alone, retaine
The grosser substance of the worthlesse Bran;
But thou, my soule, let thy brave thoughts disdaine
So course a purchace; O, be thou a Fan
To purge the Chaffe, and keep the winnow'd Graine;
Make cleane thy thoughts, and dresse thy mixt desires;
Thou art heav'ns Tasker; and thy GOD requires
The purest of thy Floore, as well as of thy fires.

5

Let Grace conduct thee to the paths of peace,
And wisdome blesse thy soule's unblemisht wayes,
No matter, then, how short or long's the Lease,
Whose date determins thy selfe-numbred dayes;
No need to care for wealths or Fames increase,

Nor Mars his Palme, nor high Apollos Bayes:
LORD, If thy gracious bounty please to fill
The floore of my desires, and teach me skill
To dresse and chuse the Corn, take those the Chaffe that will.

S. AUGUST. lib. 1 de doct. Christi

Temporall things more ravish in the expectation, than in fruition: but things eternall more in the fruition than expectation.

Ibid.

The life of man is the middle betweene Angels and beasts: If man takes pleasure in carnall things, he is compared to beasts; But if he delights in spirituall things, he is suited with Angels.

EPIGRAM 7.

[Art thou a Child? Thou wilt not then be fed]

Art thou a Child? Thou wilt not then be fed,
But like a Child, and with the Childrens bread:
But thou art fed with the chaffe, or corne undrest:
My soule thou favour'st too much of the Beast.

VIII. PHILIPPIANS III. XIX.

They minde earthly things, but our conversation is in heaven.

Venus. Divine Cupid.
Venus:
What meanes this peevish Brat? Whish, Lullaby;
What ailes my Babe? What ayles my Babe to cry?
Will nothing still it? Will it neither be
Pleas'd with the Nurses brest nor Mothers knee?
What ayles my Bird? What moves my froward Boy
To make such whimpring faces? Peace, my Joy:
Will nothing doe? Come, come, this pettish Brat,
Thus cry and bawle, and cannot tell for what?
Come busse and friends, my lambe; whish, lullaby;
What ayles my Babe? What ayles my Babe to cry?
Peace, peace my deare; alas, thy early yeares
Had never faults to merit halfe these teares:
Come smile upon me: Let thy mother spie
Thy Fathers Image in her Babies eye:
Husband these guiltlesse drops against the rage
Of harder fortunes, and the gripes of Age;
Thine eye's not ripe for teares: whish, lullaby;
What ayles my Babe, mine sweet-fac'd Babe to cry?
Look, look, what's here! A dainty Golden thing:

See how the dauncing Bells turn round and ring
To please my Bantling! Here's a knack will breed
A hundred kisses: Here's a knack indeed!
So, now my bird is white, and looks as faire
As Pelops shoulder, or my milk white payre:
Here's right the Fathers smile, when Mars beguil'd
Sick Venus of her heart, just thus he smil'd.

Divine Cupid:
Well may they smile alike: Thy base-bred Boy
And his base Syre had both one Cause; A Boy:
How well their subjects and their smiles agree?
Thy Cupid finds a Toy, and Mars found thee:
False Queene of Beauty, Queene of false delights,
Thy knee presents an Embleme, that invites
Man to himselfe, whose selfe-transported heart
(Ov'rwhelm'd with native sorrowes, and the smart
Of purchas'd griefes) lies whining night and day,
Not knowing why, till heavy-heeld delay
The dull-brow'd Pander of despaire, layes by
His leaden Buskins, and presents his eye
With antick Trifles, which th'indulgent earth
Makes proper Objects of man's childish mirth:
These be the coyne that passe; the sweets that please;
There's nothing good, there's nothing great but these:
These be the Pipes that base-borne minds daunce after,
And turne immod'rate teares to lavish laughter;
Whilst heav'nly Raptures passe without regard;
Their Strings are harsh, and their high straines unheard:
The ploughmans Whistle, or the triviall Flute
Find more respect than great Apollo's Lute:
Wee'l look to heav'n, and trust to higher Joyes;
Let Swine love Husks, and children whine for Toyes.

S. BERN.

That is the true and chiefe joy, which is not conceived from the creature, but received from its Creator; which (being once possest therof) none can take from thee, whereto all pleasure being compared, is torment; all joy is griefe: sweet things are bitter, all glory is basenesse, and all delectable things are despicable.

S. BERN.

Joy in a changeable subject must necessarily change as the subject changes.

EPIGRAM 8.

[Peace, childish Cupid, peace: Thy finger'd eye]

Peace, childish Cupid, peace: Thy finger'd eye
But cries for what, in time, will make thee cry:
But are peevish wranglings thus appeas'd?
Well mayst thou cry, that art so poorely pleas'd

IX. ISAIAH X. III.

What will ye do in the day of your visitation? to whom will ye flie for help, and where will ye leave your glory?

1

Is this that jolly God, whose Cyprian Bow
Has shot so many flaming darts,
And made so many wounded Beauties goe
Sadly perplext with whimpring hearts?
Is this that Sov'raigne Deity that brings
The slavish world in awe, and stings
The blundring sould of swains, and stoops the hearts of kings.

2

What Circean Charme? what Hecatean spight
Has thus abus'd the God of love?
Great Jove was vanquisht by his greater might;
(And who is stronger-arm'd than Jove?)
Or has our lustfull God perfom'd a Rape,
And (fearing Argus eyes) would scape
The view of jealous earth, in this prodigious shape?

3

Where be those Rosie Cheeks, that lately scorn'd
The malice of injurious Fates?
Ah, where's that pearle Percullis, that adorn'd
Those dainty two-leav'd Ruby gates?
Where be those killing eyes, that so controld
The world? And locks, that did infold
Like knots of flaming wyre, like Curles of burnisht Gold?

4

No, no: 'Twas neither Hecatean spite
Nor Charme below, nor pow'r above;
'Twas neither Circes spell, nor Stygian sprite,
That thus transform'd our God of Love;
'Twas owle-ey'd Lust (more potent far than they)
Whose eyes and actions hate the day;
Whom all the world observe; whom all the world obay.

5

See how the latter Trumpets dreadfull blast
Affrights stout Mars his trembling Son!
See, how he startles! how he stands agast,
And scrambles from his melting Throne!
Hark, how the direfull hand of vengeance teares
The sweltring Clouds, whilst heav'n appeares
A Circle fil'd with flame, and centerd with his feares.

6

This is that day, whose oft report hath worne
Neglected Tongues of Prophets bare;
The faithlesse subject of the worldlings scorne,
The summe of men and Angels pray'r:
This, this the day whose All-descerning light
Ransacks the secret dens of night,
And severs Good from Bad, true Joyes from false Delight.

7

You grov'ling Worldlings, you whose wisdome trades,
Where light nev'r shot his Golden Ray;
That hide your Actions in Cymerian shades,
How will your eyes indure this day?
Hils wilbe deafe, and mountaines will not heare;
There be no Caves, no Corners there,
To shade your souls from fire, to shield your hearts from feare.

HUGO.

O the extreame loathsomnesse of fleshly lust, which not onely effeminates the mind, but enerves the body; which not onely distaines the soule, but disguises the person! It is usher'd with fury and wantonnesse. It is accompanied with filthinesse and uncleannesse, and it is followed with griefe and repentance.

EPIGRAM 9.

[What? sweet-fac'd Cupid, has thy bastard-treasure]

What? sweet-fac'd Cupid, has thy bastard-treasure,
Thy boasted Honours, and thy bold-fac'd pleasure
Perplext thee now? I told thee long ago,
To what they'd bring thee, foole, To wit, to woe.

X. NAHUM II. X.

Shee is emptie, and void, and waste.

1

Shee's empty: Hark, she sounds: There's nothing there,
But noise to fill thy eare;
Thy vaine enquiry can, at length, but find
A blast of mumr'ing wind:
It is a Cask, that seems as full, as faire;
But meerely tunn'd with Ayre:
Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds:
The soule that vainly founds
Her Joyes upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds:

2

Shee's empty: Hark; she sounds: There's nothing in't:
The spark-ingendring Flint
Shall sooner melt, and hardest Raunce shall, first,
Dissolve and quench thy thirst,
Ere this false world shall still thy stormy brest
With smooth-fac'd Calmes of Rest:
Thou mayst, as well, expect Meridian light
From shades of black-mouth'd night,
As in this empty world to find a full delight.

3

Shee's empty: Hark; she sounds; 'Tis void and vast;
What if some flattring blast
Of flatuous Honour should perchance, be there;
And whisper in thine eare,
It is but wind; and blowes but where it list,
And vanishes like a Mist:
Poore Honour earth can give! What gen'rous mind
Would be so base, to bind
Her heav'n-bred soule a slave, to serve a Blast of wind?

4

Shee's empty: Hark; She sounds: 'Tis but a Ball
For Fooles to play withall;
The painted filme but of a stronger Bubble,
That's lin'd with silken trouble;
It is a world, whose Work, and Recreation
Is vanity, and vexation;
A Hagg, repair'd with vice-complexion, paint:
A Questhouse of complaint;
It is Saint; a Fiend: worse Fiend, when most a Saint.

5

Shee's empty: Hark: she sounds: 'Tis vaine and void
What's here to be enjoy'd,
But Griefe, and sicknesse, and large bills of sorrow,
Drawne now, and crost to morrow?
Or what are Men, but puffs of dying breath,
Reviv'd with living death?
Fond lad; O build thy hopes on surer grounds
Than what dull flesh propounds;
Trust not this hollw world, shee's empty: Hark; she sounds.

S. CHRYS. in Ep. ad Heb.

Contemne riches, and thou shalt be rich; Contemne glory, and thou shalt be glorious; Contemne injuries, and thou shalt be a conqueror; Contmne rest, and thou shalt gaine rest; Contemne earth, and thou shalt find Heaven.

HUGO lib. de Vanit. mundi.

The world is a vanity which affords neither beauty to the amorous, nor reward to the laborious, nor encouragement to the industrious.

EPIGRAM 10.

[This House is to be let; for life or yeares]

This House is to be let; for life or yeares;
Her Rent is sorrow, and her In-come, Teares:
Cupid, 't'as long stood void: Her bills make knowne,
She must be dearely Let; or let alone.

XI. MATTHEW VII. XIV.

Narrow is the way that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.

Prepost'rous foole, thou troul'st amisse:
Thou err'st; That's not the way, 'Tis this;
Thy hopes instructed by thine Eye,
Make thee appeare more neare than I;
My floore is not so flat, so fine,
And has more obvious Rubs than thine;
'Tis true; my way is hard, and strait,
And leads me through a thorny Gate;
Whose ranckling pricks are sharp, and fell;
The common way to heav'n's by Hell:
'Tis true; Thy path is short and faire,
And free of Rubbs. Ah, foole, beware,
The safest Road's not alwayes ev'n;
The way to Hell's a seeming Heav'n;
Think'st thou, the Crowne of Glory's had
With idle ease, fond Cyprian Lad?
Think'st thou, that mirth, and vaine delights,
High feed, and shadow-shortning nights,
Soft knees, full bones, and Beds of Downe
Are proper Prologues to a Crowne?
Or canst thou hope to come, and view,
Like prosperous Caesar, and subdue?
The bond-slave Usurer will trudge
In spite of Gouts, will turne a drudge,
And serve his soule-condemning purse,
T'increase it with the widowes Curse;
And shall the Crowne of glory stand
Not worth the waving of a hand?
The fleshly wanton, to obtaine
His minit-lust, will count it gaine
To lose his freedome, his Estate
Upon so deare, so sweet a rate;
Shall pleasures thus be priz'd, and must
Heav'ns Palme be cheaper than a lust?
The true-bred Spark, to hoyse his name
Upon the waxen wings of Fame,
Will fight, undaunted, in a Flood
That's rais'd with brackish drops, and blood:
And shall the promis'd Crowne of life
Be thought a Toy, not worth a Strife?
And easie Good brings easie Gaines,
But things of price are bought with paines:

The pleasing way is not the right:
He that would conquer heav'n, must fight.

S. HIEROM. in Ep.

No labour is hard, no time is long, wherein the glory of Eternity is the mark we levell at.

S. GREG. lib.8. Mor.

The valour of a just man is to conquer the flesh, to contradict his owne will, to quench the delights of this present life, to indure and love the miseries of this world for the reward of a better, to contmne the flatteries of prosperiy, and inwardly to overcome the feares of adversity.

EPIGRAM 11.

[O Cupid, if thy smoother way were right]

O Cupid, if thy smoother way were right,
I should mistrust this Crowne were counterfeit:
The way's not easie where the Prize is great:
I hope no virtues, where I smell no sweat.

XII. GALATIANS VI. XIV.

God forbid that I should glory, save in the Crosse.

1

Can nothing settle my uncertaine brest
And fix my rambling Love?
Can my Affections find out nothing best?
But still, and still remove?
Has earth no mercy? Will no Ark of Rest
Receive my restlesse Dove?
Is there no Good, than which there's nothing higher,
To blesse my full desire
With Joyes that never change; with Joyes that nev'r expire?

2

I wanted wealth; and, at my deare request,
Earth lent a quick supply;
I wanted Mirth, to charme my sullen brest;
And who more brisk than I?
I wanted Fame, to glorifie the rest;
My Fame flew Eagle high:
My Joy not fully ripe, but all decaid;

Wealth vanisht like a shade;
My mirth began to flag, my Fame began to fade.

3

The world's an Ocean, hurried to and fro,
With ev'ry blast of passion:
Her lustfull streames, when either ebb or flow,
Are tides of mans vexation:
They alter daily, and they daily grow
The worse by alteration;
The Earth's a Cask full tun'd, yet wanting measure;
Her precious wine, is pleasure;
Her Yest is Honours puffe; Her Lees are worldly treasure.

4

My trust is in the Crosse: Let Beauty flag
Her loose, her wanton saile;
Let count'nance-gilding Honour cease to brag
In courtly termes, and vale;
Let ditch-bred wealth, henceforth, forget to wag
Her base, though golden taile;
False beauties conquest is but reall losse,
And wealth but golden drosse;
Best Honour's but a blast: my trust is in the Crosse.

5

My trust is in the Crosse: There lies my rest;
My fast, my sole delight;
Let cold-mouth'd Boreas, or the hot-mouth'd East
Blow till they burst with spight;
Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best,
And joyne their twisted might:
Let showres of Thunderbolts dart down, and wound me,
And troupes of Fiends surround me,
All this may well confront; all this shall nev'r confound me.

S. AUGUST.

Christs Crosse is the Chriscrosse of all our happinesse; It delivers us from blindnesse of errour, and enriches our darknesse with light; It restores the troubled soule to rest; It brings strangers to Gods Acquaintance; It makes remote forreiners neare neighbours; It cuts off discord; concludes a league of everlasting peace, and is the bounteous Author of all Good.

S. BERN. in Ser. de resur.

We find glory in the Crosse; To us that are saved it is the power of God, and the fulnesse of all vertues.

EPIGRAM 12.

[I follow'd Rest, Rest fled, and soone forsooke me]

I follow'd Rest, Rest fled, and soone forsooke me;
I ran from Griefe, Griefe ran, and over-tooke me.
What shall I doe? Lest I be too much tost
On worldly Crosses, LORD, let me be crost.

XIII. PROVERBS XXVI. XI.

As a Dog returneth to his vomit, so a foole returneth to his follie.

O I am wounded! And my wounds do smart
Beyond my patience, or great Chirons Art;
I yeeld, I yeeld; The day, the Palme is thine;
Thy Bow's more true; thy shafts more fierce than mine;
Hold, hold, O hold thy conqu'ring hand. What need
To send more darts; The first has done the deed:
Oft have we struggled, when our equall Armes
Shot equall shafts; inflicted equall harmes;
But this exceeds, and with her flaming head,
Twyfork'd with death, has struck my Conscience dead;
But must I die? Ah me! If that were all,
Then, then I'd stroke my bleeding wounds and call
This dart a Cordiall; and with joy, endure
These harsh Ingredients, where my Griefe's my Cure.
But something whispers in my dying eare,
There is an After-day; which day I feare:
The slender debt to Nature's quickly payd,
Discharg'd, perchance, with greater ease than made;
But if that pale-fac'd Sergeant make Arrest,
Ten thousand Actions would (whereof the least
Is more than all this lower world can bayle)
Be entred, and condemne me to the Jayle
Of Stygian darknesse, bound in red-hot Chaines,
And grip'd with Tortures worse than Tytian paines:
Farewell my vaine, farewell my loose delights;
Farewell my rambling dayes; my rev'ling nights;
'Twas you betraid me first, and when ye found
My soule at vantage, gave my soule the wound:
Farewell my Bullion Gods, whose sov'raigne lookes
So often catch'd me with their golden hookes,
Go, seek another slave; ye must all go;
I cannot serve my God, and Bullion too:
Farewell false Honour; you, whose ayry wings
Did mount my soule above the Thrones of kings;
Then flattr'd me; tooke pet; and, in disdaine,

Nipt my greene Buds; then kickt me down againe:
Farewell my Bow: Farewell my Cyprian Quiver;
Farwell, deare world; farewell, deare world, for ever.
O, but this most delicious world, how sweet
Her pleasures relish! Ah! How jump they meet
The grasping soule! And, with their sprightly fire,
Revive, and raise, and rowze the rapt desire!
For ever? O, to part so long? What never
Meet more? Another yeare; and then, for ever:
Too quick resolves do resolution wrong;
What part so soone, to be divorc'd so long?
Things to be done are long to be debated;
Heav'n is not day'd: Repentance is not dated.

S. AUGUST. lib. de util. agen. paen.

Go up my soule into the Tribunall of thy Conscience; There set thy guilty selfe before thy selfe: Hide not thy selfe behind thy selfe, least God bring thee forth before thy selfe.

S. AUGUST. in Soliloq.

In vaine is that washing, where the next sin defiles: He hath ill repented whose sinnes are repeated: That stomack is the worse for vomiting, that licks up his vomit.

ANSELM.

God hath promised pardon to him that repenteth, but he hath not promised repentance to him that sinneth.

EPIGRAM 13.

[Braine-wounded Cupid, had this hasty dart]

Braine-wounded Cupid, had this hasty dart
As it hath prickt thy Fancy, pierc'd thy heart,
'T had been thy Friend: O how has it deceiv'd thee?
For had this dart but kill'd, this dart had sav'd thee.

XIV. PROVERBS XXIV. XVI.

A just man falleth seven times and riseth up againe; but the wicked shall fall into mischiefe.

1

'Tis but a Foyle at best; And that's the most
Your skill can boast:
My slippry footing fail'd me; and you tript,
Just as I slipt:
My wanton weaknesse did her selfe betray
With too much play:
I was too bold: He never yet stood sure,
That stands secure:
Who ever trusted to his native strength,
But fell at length?
The Title's craz'd, the Tenour is not good,
That claimes by th'evidence of flesh and Blood.

2

Boast not thy skill; The Righteous man fals oft,
Yet fals but soft:
There may be dirt to mire him; but, no stones,
To crush his bones:
What, if he staggers? Nay, put case he be
Foyl'd on his knee;
That very knee will bend to heav'n, and woo
For mercy too.
The true-bred Gamster ups a fresh; and then,
Falls to't agen;
Whereas the leaden-hearted Coward lies,
And yeelds his conquer'd life; or cravend dies.

3

Boast not thy Conquest; thou, that ev'ry houre,
Fals ten times lower;
Nay, hast not pow'r to rise, if not, in case,
To fall more base:
Thou wallow'st where I slip; and thou dost tumble,
Where I did but stumble:
Thou glory'st in thy slav'ries dirty Badges,
And fal'st for wages:
Sowre griefe, and sad repentance scowres and cleares
My staines with teares;
Thy falling keeps thy falling still in ure;
But when I slip, I stand the more secure.

4

LORD what a nothing is this little Span,
We call a Man!
What fenny trash maintaines the smooth'ring fires
Of his desires!
How sleight and short are his Resolves at longest!
How weake, at strongest!
O if a Sinner, held by thy fast hand
Can hardly stand,
Good GOD! in what a desp'rate case are they
That have no stay!
Mans state implies a necessary Curse;
When not himselfe, hee's mad; when most himself, hee's worse.

S. AMBROS. in Serm. ad vincula.

Peter stood more firmely after he had lamented his fall, than before he fell: Insomuch that he found more grace than he lost grace.

S. CHRYS. in Ep. ad Heliod. monach.

It is no such heinous matter to fall, afflicted; as, being downe, to lie dejected: It is no danger for a souldier to receive a wound in battell; but after the wound received, through despaire of recovery, to refuse a Remedy; For we often see wounded Champions weare the Palme at last, and after flight, crown'd with victory.

EPIGRAM 14

[Triumph not, Cupid, His mischance does show]

Triumph not, Cupid, His mischance does show
Thy Trade; does once, what thou dost alwayes do:
Brag not too soone: Has thy prevailing hand
Foyl'd him? Ah, Foole, Th'ast taught him how to stand.

XV. JEREMIAH XXXII. XL.

I will put my feare in their hearts, that they shall not depart from me.

So; now the soule's sublim'd: Her sowre desires
Are re-calcin'd in heav'ns well tempred Fires:
The heart restor'd and purg'd from drossie Nature,
Now finds the freedome of a new-borne Creature:
It lives another life, it breathes new Breath;
It neither feeless nor feares the sting of death:
Like as the idle vagrant (having none)
That boldly dopts each house he views, his owne:
Makes ev'ry purse his Checquer; and, at pleasure,

Walks forth, and taxes all the world, like Caesar,
At length, by virtue of a just Command,
His sides are lent to a severer hand;
Whereon, his Passe, not fully understood,
Is texted in a Manuscript of Blood;
Thus past from towne to towne, untill he come
A sore Repentant to his native home:
Ev'n so the rambling heart, that idly roves
From Crime to Sin; and, uncontrol'd, removes
From lust to lust, when wanton flesh invites
From old-worne pleasures to new choice delights,
At length corrected by the filiall Rod
Of his offended (but his gracious GOD)
And lasht from Sinnes to sighs; and, by degrees,
From sighs to vowes; From vowes, to bended knees,
From bended knees, to a true pensive brest
From thence, to torments, not by tongues exprest,
Returnes, and (from his sinfull selfe exil'd)
Finds a glad Father; He, a welcome Child:
O, then, it lives; O then, it lives involv'd
In secret Raptures; pants to be dissolv'd:
The royall Of-spring of a second Birth
Sets ope to heav'n, and shuts the doores to earth
If love-sick Jove-commanded Clouds should hap
To raine such show'rs as quickned Danaes lap:
Or dogs (far kinder than their purple Master)
Should lick his sores, he laughs nor weeps the faster.
If Earth (Heav'ns Rivall) dart her idle Ray;
To heav'n, 'tis Wax, and to the world, 'tis Clay:
If earth present delights, it scornes to draw,
But, like the Jet unrub'd, disdaines that straw:
No hope deceives it, and no doubt divides it;
No Griefe disturbes it; and no Errour guides it;
No Guilt condemnes it; and no Folly shames it;
No sloth besotts it; and no lust inthrals it;
No Scorne afflicts it; and no Passion gawles it:
It is a Carknet of immortall life;
An Arke of peace; The Lifts of sacred Strife;
A purer Peece of endlesse Transitory;
A Shrine of Grace; A little Throne of Glory;
A heav'n-borne Of-spring of a new-borne birth;
An earthly Heav'n; An ounce of heav'nly Earth.

S. AUGUST. de spir. & anima.

O happy heart, where piety affects; where, humility subject; where, repentance corrects; where, obedience directs; where, perseverance perfects; where, power protects; where, devotion projects; where, charity connects.

S. GREG.

Which way soever the heart turnes it self (if carefully) it shall commonly observe, that in those very things we lose God, in those very things we shall find God; It shall find the heat of his power in consideration of those things, in the love of which things he was most cold; and by what things it fell, perverted, by those things it is raised, converted.

EPIGRAM 15.

[My heart, but wherefore do I call thee so?]

My heart, but wherefore do I call thee so?
I have renounc'd my Interest long ago;
When thou wert false, and fleshly, I was thine;
Mine wert thou never, till thou wert not mine.