Fons Lachrymarum or a fountain of tears: From whence doth flow Englands Complaint, Jeremiahs Lamentations paraphras'd with Divine Meditations and an elegy Upon that Son of Valor Sir Charles Lucas. Written by John Quarles |
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Meditat. 64.
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 | Fons Lachrymarum |  |
Meditat. 64.
Man, the unhappy off-spring of that man
Of Sin, at whose beginning we began
To fall from our first principles, and stray
From good to bad, digressing from the way
Of our assur'd Salvation, and exchange
A world of pleasure for a world of pains;
And by that Heav'n-forbidden taste reverst
The stroke of mercy, made us all accurst,
And hourly subject to his wrath, whose power
Created us, and made us little lower
Then Heav'n-bred Angels; till the sad inventions
Of Satans malice quickned the intentions
Of greedy Eve, whose hand soon recommended
That fruit, which by the Serpent was extended,
To her beguiled husband; whose neglect
Of Heav'ns Commands purchas'd a dull aspect
From his revengeful brow, which shin'd more bright
Then glorious Cynthia in her greatest light.
But ah, the cloud of Adams sin had made
A great eclipse: Poor Adam is betray'd
By his own folly, and condemn'd to crawl
Upon his belly, and gulp up the gall
Of his transgressions; Having thus offended,
He's thrown from Paradise, and vili-pended
By Heav'n: But all this while the Serpent sits
Ravish'd with laughter, tut'ring still his wits
To further mischief; having found success
In his first enterprize, doubts nothing less
Then what he hopes for, having thus o'rethrown
The first man Adam, thinks that all's his own;
But that our God, whose all-commanding power
Can mortifie, and quicken in one hour,
Was fill'd with pity, pitied man, whose state
He saw was miserably desperate;
Begun to view him with a gracious eye,
And invocates his sacred Trinity;
And thus proceeds—
Of Sin, at whose beginning we began
To fall from our first principles, and stray
From good to bad, digressing from the way
Of our assur'd Salvation, and exchange
A world of pleasure for a world of pains;
And by that Heav'n-forbidden taste reverst
The stroke of mercy, made us all accurst,
85
Created us, and made us little lower
Then Heav'n-bred Angels; till the sad inventions
Of Satans malice quickned the intentions
Of greedy Eve, whose hand soon recommended
That fruit, which by the Serpent was extended,
To her beguiled husband; whose neglect
Of Heav'ns Commands purchas'd a dull aspect
From his revengeful brow, which shin'd more bright
Then glorious Cynthia in her greatest light.
But ah, the cloud of Adams sin had made
A great eclipse: Poor Adam is betray'd
By his own folly, and condemn'd to crawl
Upon his belly, and gulp up the gall
Of his transgressions; Having thus offended,
He's thrown from Paradise, and vili-pended
By Heav'n: But all this while the Serpent sits
Ravish'd with laughter, tut'ring still his wits
To further mischief; having found success
In his first enterprize, doubts nothing less
Then what he hopes for, having thus o'rethrown
The first man Adam, thinks that all's his own;
But that our God, whose all-commanding power
Can mortifie, and quicken in one hour,
Was fill'd with pity, pitied man, whose state
He saw was miserably desperate;
Begun to view him with a gracious eye,
And invocates his sacred Trinity;
And thus proceeds—
86
Have I made man? have I
Made wretched man, man made to glorifie
My name, and given to his thriftless hand
Preheminency both by Sea and Land?
And shall I not be honor'd? Am I not
A mindful God? And shall I be forgot
By slothful man? have I not gave him light
In spite of darkness, and shall he requite
My favors thus? Nay more, have I not fram'd
And stamp'd him with my Image, and proclaim'd
A lasting greatness to him? And shall they
Be thus obdurate now, that were but clay
Before I gave them breath? and shall that breath
Contemn, defie, and scorn me to the death?
Is this the honor which I did expect
From them? Is this the duty? this th'effect
Of all my labors? Speak my dearest Son,
What shall we do with man that hath undone
His wretched self? My fury burns to be
Reveng'd on man for his iniquitie.
Break forth my restless fury and devour
That loathed thing call'd man, give him no power
To call me Father, whil'st abused I
Will stop my ears, and scorn to hear him cry:
Begone, enact my pleasure.
Made wretched man, man made to glorifie
My name, and given to his thriftless hand
Preheminency both by Sea and Land?
And shall I not be honor'd? Am I not
A mindful God? And shall I be forgot
By slothful man? have I not gave him light
In spite of darkness, and shall he requite
My favors thus? Nay more, have I not fram'd
And stamp'd him with my Image, and proclaim'd
A lasting greatness to him? And shall they
Be thus obdurate now, that were but clay
Before I gave them breath? and shall that breath
Contemn, defie, and scorn me to the death?
Is this the honor which I did expect
From them? Is this the duty? this th'effect
Of all my labors? Speak my dearest Son,
What shall we do with man that hath undone
His wretched self? My fury burns to be
Reveng'd on man for his iniquitie.
Break forth my restless fury and devour
That loathed thing call'd man, give him no power
To call me Father, whil'st abused I
Will stop my ears, and scorn to hear him cry:
Begone, enact my pleasure.
The Son reply'd: Oh stop! Oh stay my dear,
My dearest Father! Let thy sacred ear
Stand open but one minute, that poor man
May strive to plead, and utter what he can
For his own self. Alas, my Son, I know
The more he strives to speak, the more he'l show
His guilt: And ah! what answer can he make
To angry I, that am resolv'd to take
Speedy revenge? the more he strives to clear
Himself, the more he'l make his guilt appear.
Begone my fury, run till thou art spent:
Away, away, and give my passion vent,
Vent it on man. My angry Father stay
A little longer, hear what I will say
In mans behalf: Oh, is not man thy creature?
His sins are not so great, but thou art greater
In mercy: Oh be merciful, and let
(If nothing will) my blood discharge the debt:
I'le freely give it, may this Blood of mine
Extinguish quite those angry flames of thine.
Oh be appeas'd, and give me leave to strive
Against the power of Satan, and deprive
Him of his man-deluding power: I'le charm
His rav'ning malice, and withhold his arm
From hurting man: Nay, and I'le undergo
As many sorrows, as the world can show,
For man thy image: Say the word, and I
Will go, nay run, for joy, that I must dye
For mans redemption. Dearest Son, then go,
Redeem relapsed man, that he may ow
An endless debt. But say, my Son, should he,
For whom thou dyest, revile, dishonor thee,
And trample in thy precious blood, and make
That blood prove poyson to him, that should take
The venome of his sins away? I'le strive,
The Holy Ghost reply'd, to make man thrive,
And grow in grace; I'le teach him to express
No fained, but a real thankfulness.
My dearest Father! Let thy sacred ear
Stand open but one minute, that poor man
May strive to plead, and utter what he can
87
The more he strives to speak, the more he'l show
His guilt: And ah! what answer can he make
To angry I, that am resolv'd to take
Speedy revenge? the more he strives to clear
Himself, the more he'l make his guilt appear.
Begone my fury, run till thou art spent:
Away, away, and give my passion vent,
Vent it on man. My angry Father stay
A little longer, hear what I will say
In mans behalf: Oh, is not man thy creature?
His sins are not so great, but thou art greater
In mercy: Oh be merciful, and let
(If nothing will) my blood discharge the debt:
I'le freely give it, may this Blood of mine
Extinguish quite those angry flames of thine.
Oh be appeas'd, and give me leave to strive
Against the power of Satan, and deprive
Him of his man-deluding power: I'le charm
His rav'ning malice, and withhold his arm
From hurting man: Nay, and I'le undergo
As many sorrows, as the world can show,
For man thy image: Say the word, and I
Will go, nay run, for joy, that I must dye
For mans redemption. Dearest Son, then go,
Redeem relapsed man, that he may ow
An endless debt. But say, my Son, should he,
For whom thou dyest, revile, dishonor thee,
And trample in thy precious blood, and make
That blood prove poyson to him, that should take
88
The Holy Ghost reply'd, to make man thrive,
And grow in grace; I'le teach him to express
No fained, but a real thankfulness.
O Soul-transporting Joy! O truest Love
Without a period! O innoxious Dove!
Could'st thou, thou Lamb of God, be thus content
To step from Heav'n, and take that punishment
Upon thy patient self, which appertain'd
To Heav'n-provoking man, man that was stain'd
And blur'd with Sin, whose spots could never be
Wash'd out (blest Lamb) by any but by thee?
Had'st thou not interpos'd, our souls had bin
Imbowel'd in the Ocean of our Sin:
And hadst thou not sustain'd us, we had fell,
And swelter'd in the restless flames of Hell.
Hadst thou not look'd upon our sad condition,
And pitied us, to see what expedition
We made to our own ruines, we had lost
The hopes of our Salvation, which cost
An unknown price: 'Twas not a swelling flood
Of heap'd up gold redeem'd us, but thy blood;
Thy precious blood, which flow'd like hasty tides,
In great abundance, from thy wounded sides.
Start from the bed of sin (my Soul) and run
To view the splendor of this glorious Sun:
See how he wrastles with the gloomy clouds
Of our transgressions; See how he unshrouds
Himself: Oh see what pains he undergoes,
To prove himself our friend, that were his foes.
Methinks I hear a throng of people cry,
Let Barabbas be freed let's crucifie
This Jewish King: let's lead him to his death,
'Tis pity he should draw a minutes breath.
Methinks I see how his weak hands are bound
With twisted cords: Methinks I see him crown'd
With sharpned thorns: Methinks I see them, how
They worship him with a dissembled Bow.
Methinks I see the gazing people run,
To see the glorious setting of this Sun.
Methinks I see his gentle feet divide
Their measur'd paces, to be crucify'd.
Methinks I see how his delightful face
Seems to receive an honor by disgrace.
Methinks I see how his Heav'n-fixed eyes
Do overlook his raging enemies.
Methinks I see his sphere-inviting brest
Willingly ready to receive the rest
Of their intended malice; How his palmes
(Like one that gives, and not receives an almes)
Are spread abroad, which truly verifies
With what a cheerful willingness he dyes.
Methinks I see how his connexed feet
Salute the Cross, as if they joy'd to meet
With so, so fast a friend: Methinks I see
With what a Heav'n-infus'd reluctancie
He entertains their blows, as if he found
A lively comfort in each deadly wound.
Methinks I see his bubbling veins, how they
Swell up a little, and then shrink away,
And hide themselves, as if they had exprest
(For the departure of so warm a guest)
A secret grief; Till conquering death exil'd
Life from the body of that Lamb, that Child,
That Son of God, in whom true joys recide;
Who lives by dying, and by living dy'd.
Without a period! O innoxious Dove!
Could'st thou, thou Lamb of God, be thus content
To step from Heav'n, and take that punishment
Upon thy patient self, which appertain'd
To Heav'n-provoking man, man that was stain'd
And blur'd with Sin, whose spots could never be
Wash'd out (blest Lamb) by any but by thee?
Had'st thou not interpos'd, our souls had bin
Imbowel'd in the Ocean of our Sin:
And hadst thou not sustain'd us, we had fell,
And swelter'd in the restless flames of Hell.
Hadst thou not look'd upon our sad condition,
And pitied us, to see what expedition
We made to our own ruines, we had lost
The hopes of our Salvation, which cost
An unknown price: 'Twas not a swelling flood
Of heap'd up gold redeem'd us, but thy blood;
Thy precious blood, which flow'd like hasty tides,
In great abundance, from thy wounded sides.
Start from the bed of sin (my Soul) and run
To view the splendor of this glorious Sun:
See how he wrastles with the gloomy clouds
Of our transgressions; See how he unshrouds
Himself: Oh see what pains he undergoes,
To prove himself our friend, that were his foes.
89
Let Barabbas be freed let's crucifie
This Jewish King: let's lead him to his death,
'Tis pity he should draw a minutes breath.
Methinks I see how his weak hands are bound
With twisted cords: Methinks I see him crown'd
With sharpned thorns: Methinks I see them, how
They worship him with a dissembled Bow.
Methinks I see the gazing people run,
To see the glorious setting of this Sun.
Methinks I see his gentle feet divide
Their measur'd paces, to be crucify'd.
Methinks I see how his delightful face
Seems to receive an honor by disgrace.
Methinks I see how his Heav'n-fixed eyes
Do overlook his raging enemies.
Methinks I see his sphere-inviting brest
Willingly ready to receive the rest
Of their intended malice; How his palmes
(Like one that gives, and not receives an almes)
Are spread abroad, which truly verifies
With what a cheerful willingness he dyes.
Methinks I see how his connexed feet
Salute the Cross, as if they joy'd to meet
With so, so fast a friend: Methinks I see
With what a Heav'n-infus'd reluctancie
He entertains their blows, as if he found
A lively comfort in each deadly wound.
Methinks I see his bubbling veins, how they
Swell up a little, and then shrink away,
90
(For the departure of so warm a guest)
A secret grief; Till conquering death exil'd
Life from the body of that Lamb, that Child,
That Son of God, in whom true joys recide;
Who lives by dying, and by living dy'd.
| Fons Lachrymarum | |