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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 | Fons Lachrymarum |  |
Experience tells us those that are in pain,
Need neither Act nor Ord'nance to complain:
Griefs have their priviledg, whose passions break
All Laws, and Losers claim a power to speak.
If passion be too rude (Reader) excuse;
Grief knows no manners, sorrow needs no Muse.
But stay my hasty quill, forbear, I know
Thou art too young, too tender yet to go
Without a guide, a guide that may direct
Thy staggering feet; A guide that may protect
Thy Infant years. Do not too much endeavour;
Need neither Act nor Ord'nance to complain:
Griefs have their priviledg, whose passions break
All Laws, and Losers claim a power to speak.
If passion be too rude (Reader) excuse;
Grief knows no manners, sorrow needs no Muse.
But stay my hasty quill, forbear, I know
Thou art too young, too tender yet to go
Without a guide, a guide that may direct
Thy staggering feet; A guide that may protect
Thy Infant years. Do not too much endeavour;
A fall, at first, will make thee lame for ever.
Invoke the Nine, and if they do deny
To give thee ayd, complain to Mercury
Tell him, thou art a babe, and dost desire
To warm thy genius by the Muses fire.
Where are Apollo's off-springs? are they ty'd
In sorrows chains, e're since Mecænas dy'd?
Or are their Helleconian waters spent?
Or do they stay t'expect a Complement?
I wonder what they mean, to be thus slow,
In former times they'd run, they'l now scarce go:
My heedless Muse, dost thou not understand
Th'are all distracted and dispers'd the Land?
Only Melpomene, who now appears
Like Niobie, a monument of tears.
Knowst thou not this (rash Muse) then how canst thou
Implore a help from them that know not how
To help themselves? Nay Pegasus is made
A poor Dragoon; his friends are all betraide:
Though all distracted, and thus routed be,
Yet, helpless Muse, there's Heav'n to succor thee:
Then hear me Heaven, Oh hear me, now I sue,
Th'art my Apollo, be Mecænas too;
And great Conductor of my soul, inspire
My frozen heart with thy celestial fire:
Light thou my Candle, Oh then I shall see,
By thy own Light, how to discover thee;
Inflame my frozen senses with thy Spirit,
That I may learn to live, and live t'inherit
The glory of thy Kingdom, and to rest
Where joys are greater then can be exprest;
And so go on, but stay rash quill, and know
What 'tis to be ingag'd, before you go
Too far; Be careful these bad times, unless
Your rash adventure want a good success:
Be wary what you do; these are no times
To please fond fancies with lascivious Rhymes.
Be circumspect; Let every word you write
Be Truth, and then let every word invite
A tear; each tear, a sigh; that every Eye,
That reads, may melt into an Elegy.
And curs'd be that dull eye, that will not lend
A tear, or two, to see poor England spend
Weeks, months, & years, in sighs, in sobs, in groans,
In tears, in pray'rs, and wil't not move the stones?
Vollies of tears, discharged from her eyes,
Shake Heaven and Earth, and penetrate the skies
With sad complaints; heav'n mourns at her conditiō
And weeps down showrs of tears at her Petition:
Then rouze, ye Britains, from your flattering sleep,
Hear Englands groans, thus she begins to weep;
Invoke the Nine, and if they do deny
To give thee ayd, complain to Mercury
Tell him, thou art a babe, and dost desire
To warm thy genius by the Muses fire.
Where are Apollo's off-springs? are they ty'd
In sorrows chains, e're since Mecænas dy'd?
Or are their Helleconian waters spent?
Or do they stay t'expect a Complement?
I wonder what they mean, to be thus slow,
In former times they'd run, they'l now scarce go:
2
Th'are all distracted and dispers'd the Land?
Only Melpomene, who now appears
Like Niobie, a monument of tears.
Knowst thou not this (rash Muse) then how canst thou
Implore a help from them that know not how
To help themselves? Nay Pegasus is made
A poor Dragoon; his friends are all betraide:
Though all distracted, and thus routed be,
Yet, helpless Muse, there's Heav'n to succor thee:
Then hear me Heaven, Oh hear me, now I sue,
Th'art my Apollo, be Mecænas too;
And great Conductor of my soul, inspire
My frozen heart with thy celestial fire:
Light thou my Candle, Oh then I shall see,
By thy own Light, how to discover thee;
Inflame my frozen senses with thy Spirit,
That I may learn to live, and live t'inherit
The glory of thy Kingdom, and to rest
Where joys are greater then can be exprest;
And so go on, but stay rash quill, and know
What 'tis to be ingag'd, before you go
Too far; Be careful these bad times, unless
Your rash adventure want a good success:
Be wary what you do; these are no times
To please fond fancies with lascivious Rhymes.
Be circumspect; Let every word you write
Be Truth, and then let every word invite
A tear; each tear, a sigh; that every Eye,
That reads, may melt into an Elegy.
3
A tear, or two, to see poor England spend
Weeks, months, & years, in sighs, in sobs, in groans,
In tears, in pray'rs, and wil't not move the stones?
Vollies of tears, discharged from her eyes,
Shake Heaven and Earth, and penetrate the skies
With sad complaints; heav'n mourns at her conditiō
And weeps down showrs of tears at her Petition:
Then rouze, ye Britains, from your flattering sleep,
Hear Englands groans, thus she begins to weep;
No Peace, no ease no pleasure; is all gone,
Pursu'd with envy and rebellion?
Whither, oh whither, are my glories sent;
Banisht my brest by Act of Parliament?
Vertue is fled, and scar'd into a trance
By the ill shape of Bugbear ignorance.
What mists are these that thus eclipse the light
Of splendent truth? From whence proceeds this night
Of darkning Errors? how am I beguil'd
Of all my joys? Nay, how am I defil'd
With leprous humors? Oh how grief transports
My frightned sense! what envy's this resorts
Unto my swelling brest? Is there no mean,
No pleasing Musick to divide my scean?
Were I an Atlas, I could not sustain
This Firmament of grief: who can refrain
From falling, that's so much opprest as I
With such a burthen of Malignity?
Where shall I run, to whom shall I address
My burthened self, or how shall I express
My uncontrouled sorrows, or relate
Th'unhappy discord of my factious State?
Where shall I fly? Is there no Ark above
To hide me from these waves? Is there no Dove
To bring me tydings that the Land is clear,
And that the hills of Peace do re-appear?
But must I perish? shall the waves of pride
Dash me in pieces? still a flowing tyde,
Still flow, and never ebb! Is there no bliss?
Wonder sad soul! Oh what an Ocean's this!
Ambitious winds, why rage ye more and more,
And make the seas thus envy at the shore?
Is there no Peter can pray Heaven to please
To check the winds, and quallifie the seas?
Am I the worst of all? Is my condition
So bad, that there is no Petition
Can have an audience? Ah my conscience saith,
I've Peters fears, but yet want Peters faith:
Pursu'd with envy and rebellion?
Whither, oh whither, are my glories sent;
Banisht my brest by Act of Parliament?
Vertue is fled, and scar'd into a trance
By the ill shape of Bugbear ignorance.
What mists are these that thus eclipse the light
Of splendent truth? From whence proceeds this night
Of darkning Errors? how am I beguil'd
Of all my joys? Nay, how am I defil'd
With leprous humors? Oh how grief transports
My frightned sense! what envy's this resorts
Unto my swelling brest? Is there no mean,
No pleasing Musick to divide my scean?
Were I an Atlas, I could not sustain
This Firmament of grief: who can refrain
From falling, that's so much opprest as I
With such a burthen of Malignity?
Where shall I run, to whom shall I address
My burthened self, or how shall I express
4
Th'unhappy discord of my factious State?
Where shall I fly? Is there no Ark above
To hide me from these waves? Is there no Dove
To bring me tydings that the Land is clear,
And that the hills of Peace do re-appear?
But must I perish? shall the waves of pride
Dash me in pieces? still a flowing tyde,
Still flow, and never ebb! Is there no bliss?
Wonder sad soul! Oh what an Ocean's this!
Ambitious winds, why rage ye more and more,
And make the seas thus envy at the shore?
Is there no Peter can pray Heaven to please
To check the winds, and quallifie the seas?
Am I the worst of all? Is my condition
So bad, that there is no Petition
Can have an audience? Ah my conscience saith,
I've Peters fears, but yet want Peters faith:
Here let us stop a little, and advise
With flesh and blood; Can greater wants arise,
To damage souls, then faith, whose want procures
All these extreams, which my poor heart endures?
Oh, no, there cannot: he that wants the hand
Of soul-supporting faith, forgets to stand:
This is my want, and till I find relief,
I'le lie and tumble in the shades of grief,
And glut the ayr with sighs; my hideous cries
Shall roar like thunder in the troubled skies:
Oh that my eyes were Oceans, that I may
Drown all my sorrows in one stormy day;
Or would pleas'd Heaven, enable me to strain,
To gulp up seas, and weep them out again,
Then should my briny streams gush forth so fast,
That every tear should strive to be the last;
So the swift current of my swelling eyes
Should overflow my heap'd up miseries:
With flesh and blood; Can greater wants arise,
To damage souls, then faith, whose want procures
All these extreams, which my poor heart endures?
Oh, no, there cannot: he that wants the hand
Of soul-supporting faith, forgets to stand:
This is my want, and till I find relief,
I'le lie and tumble in the shades of grief,
And glut the ayr with sighs; my hideous cries
Shall roar like thunder in the troubled skies:
Oh that my eyes were Oceans, that I may
Drown all my sorrows in one stormy day;
5
To gulp up seas, and weep them out again,
Then should my briny streams gush forth so fast,
That every tear should strive to be the last;
So the swift current of my swelling eyes
Should overflow my heap'd up miseries:
I have offended Heaven, and now I see
My sins are walls betwixt my God and me,
Which stop the passage of my fervent prayers,
That there is no prevailing but by tears,
To batter down the wall that thus prevents
My cries, my vows, and hinders my intents
To Heav'n, that Heaven can send me no relief,
Nor take me from this labyrinth of grief:
My sins are walls betwixt my God and me,
Which stop the passage of my fervent prayers,
That there is no prevailing but by tears,
To batter down the wall that thus prevents
My cries, my vows, and hinders my intents
To Heav'n, that Heaven can send me no relief,
Nor take me from this labyrinth of grief:
Gone are my golden, my forgotten days,
When every bird could whistle forth my praise:
When every bird could whistle forth my praise:
Gone are those days, when this consuming earth
Was stuffd with pleasure, & perfum'd with mirth:
Though all be gone, yet will I strive t'endure;
He that hath made the wound, can make the cure:
For now I'm wounded, and my wounds do smart
Beyond my Patience; and my tender heart,
Swell'd up with sorrow, doth predestinate
What wo must happen to my bleeding State;
My head, my head's tormented; and my eyes
Are dim, with gazing after vanities:
My members swell, like Oceans, and from thence
Proceeds so great, so large a confluence
Of noisom humors, and they run so thick
That they surcharge, and make my stomack sick:
I'ave purg'd already, and that will not do,
I fear, I fear, that I must vomit too:
I doubt 'tis too much Action that hath bred
These ill diseases that disturb my head:
Oh I am sick to death, my bowels yern!
I freez, I freez, and whilest I freez, I burn;
I burn, I melt, my soul is parch'd within,
(How hot's the furnace of tormenting sin?)
And Ah! how soon is feebled nature lam'd
With joynt-contracting cold; If not inflam'd
By Heavens enlivening fire! how hot's my blood
To what is bad, and Ah, how cold to good!
Oh grief! how two extreams perplex one heart,
So link'd together, that they cannot part!
Thus am I tost, and doubtfully opprest
Beneath the burthen of a dubious brest:
Nothing but Wars, and tumults do arise;
Thrice happy I, had I known how to prize
My happiness; Alas I ne're did know
The good of peace, til Heav'n was pleasd to show:
War makes me know, what joy it was before
To live in Peace and plenty, now the more.
I wish, I want, and now I know by this,
This want of Peace; what a combining bliss
It was to live united, and to praise
That God of Peace, that blest my peaceful days
With large increase; Oh misery to think
Loaded with too much pleasure how I sink.
I that was wont to boast my heaps of treasure
Now swim in sorrow, and now sink in pleasure:
I that the world did envy, now am brought
To be not worth the env'ing, worse then nought,
Revil'd by all; see how the hand of Fate
Hath pleas'd to make me thus unfortunate;
What shall I do? what physick can procure
A little ease? I cannot long endure.
Where are my grave Divines to give advice
To a relapsing soul? are they grown nice
Of late? Are their conspiring hearts agreed
T'absent themselves in this my time of need?
What do they mean? Oh whither are they fled?
Sure, sure, they're silenc'd all, or else all dead:
Do they not see me falling? do they stand
Amaz'd, not daring to afford a hand
To help me up? me thinks I hear them cry
That they are falling too, as well as I:
Where is Religion that was wont to be
The Governor of Peace, the branched tree
That ever flourish'd? see, now every Clown
Being authoriz'd presumes to cut her down.
Will they still strive with swords, with guns, with clubs
To pickle my Religion up in tubs?
Have they no Reason, hath their greedy zeal
Swallow'd up all their Senses at one meal?
Have they agreed that Piety and Reason
Shall be condemn'd, and voted into Treason?
Or hath their hell-bred thoughts found out a way
To turn our Sion to a Golgotha?
Hath the Tartarian counseller invented
Such thriving plots which cannot be prevented?
Leave of base Acts, Mechanicks, and begin
To deal uprightly and reform within;
Bury your aged crimes, and then go call
Your stragling senses to the Funeral:
Adjourn your thoughts, which now are quite contrary
To Peace, and think a peace is necessary.
Honor your higher Powers, and do not mock,
And vilifie them as your laughing stock.
Was stuffd with pleasure, & perfum'd with mirth:
Though all be gone, yet will I strive t'endure;
He that hath made the wound, can make the cure:
For now I'm wounded, and my wounds do smart
Beyond my Patience; and my tender heart,
Swell'd up with sorrow, doth predestinate
What wo must happen to my bleeding State;
My head, my head's tormented; and my eyes
Are dim, with gazing after vanities:
My members swell, like Oceans, and from thence
Proceeds so great, so large a confluence
Of noisom humors, and they run so thick
That they surcharge, and make my stomack sick:
6
I fear, I fear, that I must vomit too:
I doubt 'tis too much Action that hath bred
These ill diseases that disturb my head:
Oh I am sick to death, my bowels yern!
I freez, I freez, and whilest I freez, I burn;
I burn, I melt, my soul is parch'd within,
(How hot's the furnace of tormenting sin?)
And Ah! how soon is feebled nature lam'd
With joynt-contracting cold; If not inflam'd
By Heavens enlivening fire! how hot's my blood
To what is bad, and Ah, how cold to good!
Oh grief! how two extreams perplex one heart,
So link'd together, that they cannot part!
Thus am I tost, and doubtfully opprest
Beneath the burthen of a dubious brest:
Nothing but Wars, and tumults do arise;
Thrice happy I, had I known how to prize
My happiness; Alas I ne're did know
The good of peace, til Heav'n was pleasd to show:
War makes me know, what joy it was before
To live in Peace and plenty, now the more.
I wish, I want, and now I know by this,
This want of Peace; what a combining bliss
It was to live united, and to praise
That God of Peace, that blest my peaceful days
With large increase; Oh misery to think
Loaded with too much pleasure how I sink.
I that was wont to boast my heaps of treasure
Now swim in sorrow, and now sink in pleasure:
7
To be not worth the env'ing, worse then nought,
Revil'd by all; see how the hand of Fate
Hath pleas'd to make me thus unfortunate;
What shall I do? what physick can procure
A little ease? I cannot long endure.
Where are my grave Divines to give advice
To a relapsing soul? are they grown nice
Of late? Are their conspiring hearts agreed
T'absent themselves in this my time of need?
What do they mean? Oh whither are they fled?
Sure, sure, they're silenc'd all, or else all dead:
Do they not see me falling? do they stand
Amaz'd, not daring to afford a hand
To help me up? me thinks I hear them cry
That they are falling too, as well as I:
Where is Religion that was wont to be
The Governor of Peace, the branched tree
That ever flourish'd? see, now every Clown
Being authoriz'd presumes to cut her down.
Will they still strive with swords, with guns, with clubs
To pickle my Religion up in tubs?
Have they no Reason, hath their greedy zeal
Swallow'd up all their Senses at one meal?
Have they agreed that Piety and Reason
Shall be condemn'd, and voted into Treason?
Or hath their hell-bred thoughts found out a way
To turn our Sion to a Golgotha?
Hath the Tartarian counseller invented
Such thriving plots which cannot be prevented?
8
To deal uprightly and reform within;
Bury your aged crimes, and then go call
Your stragling senses to the Funeral:
Adjourn your thoughts, which now are quite contrary
To Peace, and think a peace is necessary.
Honor your higher Powers, and do not mock,
And vilifie them as your laughing stock.
There are a brain-sick multitude, a rabble
Of all Religions that do dayly squabble
About vain shades, and let the substance pass,
Hating good manners as they hate the Mass:
'Tis such as these which thus my woes advance,
Whose very souls are starv'd with ignorance:
'Tis such as these who daily strive to smother
The truth with flattring zeal, & call him brother,
Nay, holy brother, though his faith be small,
If he can rail, and reverently baul
Against grave Bishops, and their pious King,
Oh this is holy, nay a zealous thing:
And those are holy that can pray by chance
According to the Spirits influence,
And teach their prick-ear'd brethren to deny
The Common Prayer, but know no reason why;
And those whose great humility can be
Content to make a Pulpit in a tree,
Or in some Barn, there by the Spirit pray
Five or six hours, not caring what they say:
Or if a Black-smith, or a Tinker can
Hammer out Treason, he's a zealous man.
Or if a learned Cobler will be sure
To stitch it close, oh he's a Christian pure!
Oh these are holy, yea, and learned Teachers,
These are Divines, and only these are Preachers:
They'l cry all learned Prelats out of season,
They must not preach, for fear they should speak reasō.
Oh these are they, whose ruder tongues can cry.
Advance Mechanicks, down with Majesty:
These, these, are they, whose dūghil thoughts could never
Attain perfection, but they still endeavor
To banish wisdom, that at last they may
Make all the world as ignorant as they.
See how they'ave turn'd my joy to griping sadnes,
Plenty to want, and peace to downright madnes;
Vertue to vice, and chastity to vainness,
Learning to scorn, Religion to prophaness,
Flattry to zeal, and non-sense unto Reason,
Honor to shame, and Loyalty to Treason,
Pity to murther, truth to feigned lyes,
Prayers to curses, plundring to a prize:
Thus, thus, they gripe my soul, and go about
To change my shape, and turn my inside, out.
Unhumane Actions, Ah who can behold
Such Tyrannies, and not his blood grow cold!
Break, break, ye flood-gates of my brim-filld eyes,
And let my tears have passage to surprize
This fort of sorrow, and tumultuous cares,
And drench the mountains in a sea of tears.
Of all Religions that do dayly squabble
About vain shades, and let the substance pass,
Hating good manners as they hate the Mass:
'Tis such as these which thus my woes advance,
Whose very souls are starv'd with ignorance:
'Tis such as these who daily strive to smother
The truth with flattring zeal, & call him brother,
Nay, holy brother, though his faith be small,
If he can rail, and reverently baul
Against grave Bishops, and their pious King,
Oh this is holy, nay a zealous thing:
And those are holy that can pray by chance
According to the Spirits influence,
And teach their prick-ear'd brethren to deny
The Common Prayer, but know no reason why;
And those whose great humility can be
Content to make a Pulpit in a tree,
Or in some Barn, there by the Spirit pray
Five or six hours, not caring what they say:
Or if a Black-smith, or a Tinker can
Hammer out Treason, he's a zealous man.
9
To stitch it close, oh he's a Christian pure!
Oh these are holy, yea, and learned Teachers,
These are Divines, and only these are Preachers:
They'l cry all learned Prelats out of season,
They must not preach, for fear they should speak reasō.
Oh these are they, whose ruder tongues can cry.
Advance Mechanicks, down with Majesty:
These, these, are they, whose dūghil thoughts could never
Attain perfection, but they still endeavor
To banish wisdom, that at last they may
Make all the world as ignorant as they.
See how they'ave turn'd my joy to griping sadnes,
Plenty to want, and peace to downright madnes;
Vertue to vice, and chastity to vainness,
Learning to scorn, Religion to prophaness,
Flattry to zeal, and non-sense unto Reason,
Honor to shame, and Loyalty to Treason,
Pity to murther, truth to feigned lyes,
Prayers to curses, plundring to a prize:
Thus, thus, they gripe my soul, and go about
To change my shape, and turn my inside, out.
Unhumane Actions, Ah who can behold
Such Tyrannies, and not his blood grow cold!
Break, break, ye flood-gates of my brim-filld eyes,
And let my tears have passage to surprize
This fort of sorrow, and tumultuous cares,
And drench the mountains in a sea of tears.
Forbear, ye lowring skies; there is no need
Ye should disburse a showre: I have agreed
With sorrow, and his powers, still to remain
Clouded with grief, and fill the earth with rain;
Oh horrid, dismal, Heav'n-provoking times,
Surpassing Sodoms; nay Gomorrah's crimes
Were ne're so bad; Oh Hel-invented fate,
Worse then the worst that I can nominate.
Are these my people, for whose sakes I lie
Involv'd with torments, wrap't in Tyranny?
Are these my Sons, whose sorrows now I weep?
Are these my children, that are lul'd asleep?
See how secure they rest, and never fear
Approaching woe; mine eyes, can ye forbear.
To vent ten thousand tears? oh never let
Your lids conceal you til y'ave paid the debt
Ye owe to sorrow, for those sins which thirst
For greater plenty, then can be disburst:
Oh sigh, sad soul, until thy heart be sore,
Then sigh, because thou canst not sigh no more.
Oh that my voice, like thunderclaps could tear,
And split the portals of each deafned ear.
That so my cries, might ravish every brain,
And fil'd with horror, make them deaf again.
And this I wish, because my Sons are all
So deaf, they will not hear me when I call:
Did they not flourish in a peaceful state,
Injoying store of all things, till of late,
They grew thus factious? and have I not been,
In former times, the worlds admired Queen?
Have not all Nations formerly been proud
To do me service? have they not allow'd
A due respect unto me every where,
And honored me, if not for love, for fear?
And must I now by your, your, means incur,
As many plagues, as mischief can infer?
Must I now pine away, that have been strong?
Must I now stoop, that have stood up so long?
Must I be now subordinate to those
That never dar'd subscribe themselves my foes?
Must I be now divided, that was never
Divided yet? Must I be lost for ever?
Must I be now consumed and thrown down?
And must they scoff me now, that dar'd not frown
In former times? Must I be now confounded?
Must I be now revil'd, and cal'd a Roundhead?
Must I be now nick-nam'd? Must frighted fame
Sound a Retreat, and scorn to own my name?
Must I be now dispers'd? Must my own hand
Destroy the bounty of my fruitful Land?
Oh grief-transcending thought, shall Englands glory
Be thus abstracted, and thus made a story
To after ages? Would not this perplex
A soul, that never knew, what 'twas to vex?
What grief can equalize my grief? What pain
Can be equivalent? would any gain
Eperience? If they would, may they incline
themselves to this experienc'd grief of mine:
Ah grief of days: what marble eye can read
Of such extreams as mine, and never bleed?
'Twould dull the sharpest brain to meditate
Upon my grief; nay, make them desperate.
Had Nero liv'd in this tempestuous age,
He might have blusht to see his boiling rage,
Out-vied by yours; nay, Chorah and his crew
Never pursu'd their Moses, as ye do,
With such untutor'd violence; 'tis strange,
Oh whither will your headlong fury range?
Advise by times, and know there is a God
That overlooks you: Know, that Moses Rod
May turn a greedy Serpent, and devour,
As well the greater, as the smaller power.
Go, go ye sad contrivers of these times,
Consult with sorrow: Think on all those crimes
Ye have committed; and then think what you
Have done, and after what ye have to do.
Advise with care, for your condition's such,
Y'ave much to do, because y'ave done too much.
Too much; Alas too much in my sad state
Is done already; and I fear too late
For remedy: And secret danger lies
In dull delay: 'tis wisdom to advise
Betimes; for true and timely care prevents
Untimely ruin, hindring the intents
Of studied malice; industry prepares
A balm for that which negligence impairs.
Those that by dreaming sloth, sustain a loss,
Obtain least pitty, and the greatest cross.
Consider what a grief 'twill be to see
The sad destruction of this Monarchie
Wrought by your slothful negligence, when all
My lofty structures, by your hands must fall:
Nay, worse then this, when famine shall devour
What fire, and sword hath left; when every hour
The Bells shall toul, with such a feeble sound,
As if that they themselves, a want had found.
Will it not melt a stone to hear the cries
Of hungry children, and the sad replies
Of their dejected friends? who can forbear
To think on this, and never shed a tear?
How children cry for bread, and fain would rest,
Seeking protections in their mothers brest.
Alas poor Orphans, how are they beguil'd,
When the sad mother's forc'd to eat the child
For want of food, & make their blood their drink!
Oh what a wounding sorrow 'tis to think
How all will be destroyd, both young and old,
How warm blood will be mingled with the cold!
How you will roar and cry for want of bread,
Some on the ground, some dying, and some dead;
Some gnaw their flesh, and some fight who shall eat
Each other; Oh uncomfortable meat.
And then the ravening Wolves seek up and down
To find a prey, in every starved town,
Shall eat deaths reliques; having spent that store,
Shall ransack up and down, and howl for more.
All beasts and fouls, shall then amazed stand,
To see the Sea is turn'd into a Land:
The Land into a Sea, a Red Sea, where
Nothing but bones, insteed of fishes are.
Where nothing's heard, but cries, and shrieks, and groans,
Where nothing's seen, except consuming bones.
Oh had you but the power to apprehend
These sad destructive dangers, how they tend
Daily towards us, with all the power that they
Can make, as if they'd rout us in one day:
Dull sons of men, have ye forgot to rise,
And draw the Curtains of your slumbring eyes?
Methinks this hot Alarum should affright
Your souls for ever from your fond delight!
What do ye mean? ye cannot chuse but hear
Heav'ns thundering Judgments rattling in your ear
What have ye sworn Allegiance to the Prince
Of utter darkness? Will no words convince
Your Stubborn souls? Has a perpetuall vow
Been lately past, betwixt Hells Prince and you?
Why do ye thus delight to overthrow
Your selves, and lose a Kingdom at one blow?
Oh where are my grave Rulers to correct
These their enormous humours, that infect
The world with Errors? To what fatall place
Are all my Senators retired?
Ye should disburse a showre: I have agreed
10
Clouded with grief, and fill the earth with rain;
Oh horrid, dismal, Heav'n-provoking times,
Surpassing Sodoms; nay Gomorrah's crimes
Were ne're so bad; Oh Hel-invented fate,
Worse then the worst that I can nominate.
Are these my people, for whose sakes I lie
Involv'd with torments, wrap't in Tyranny?
Are these my Sons, whose sorrows now I weep?
Are these my children, that are lul'd asleep?
See how secure they rest, and never fear
Approaching woe; mine eyes, can ye forbear.
To vent ten thousand tears? oh never let
Your lids conceal you til y'ave paid the debt
Ye owe to sorrow, for those sins which thirst
For greater plenty, then can be disburst:
Oh sigh, sad soul, until thy heart be sore,
Then sigh, because thou canst not sigh no more.
Oh that my voice, like thunderclaps could tear,
And split the portals of each deafned ear.
That so my cries, might ravish every brain,
And fil'd with horror, make them deaf again.
And this I wish, because my Sons are all
So deaf, they will not hear me when I call:
Did they not flourish in a peaceful state,
Injoying store of all things, till of late,
They grew thus factious? and have I not been,
In former times, the worlds admired Queen?
Have not all Nations formerly been proud
To do me service? have they not allow'd
11
And honored me, if not for love, for fear?
And must I now by your, your, means incur,
As many plagues, as mischief can infer?
Must I now pine away, that have been strong?
Must I now stoop, that have stood up so long?
Must I be now subordinate to those
That never dar'd subscribe themselves my foes?
Must I be now divided, that was never
Divided yet? Must I be lost for ever?
Must I be now consumed and thrown down?
And must they scoff me now, that dar'd not frown
In former times? Must I be now confounded?
Must I be now revil'd, and cal'd a Roundhead?
Must I be now nick-nam'd? Must frighted fame
Sound a Retreat, and scorn to own my name?
Must I be now dispers'd? Must my own hand
Destroy the bounty of my fruitful Land?
Oh grief-transcending thought, shall Englands glory
Be thus abstracted, and thus made a story
To after ages? Would not this perplex
A soul, that never knew, what 'twas to vex?
What grief can equalize my grief? What pain
Can be equivalent? would any gain
Eperience? If they would, may they incline
themselves to this experienc'd grief of mine:
Ah grief of days: what marble eye can read
Of such extreams as mine, and never bleed?
'Twould dull the sharpest brain to meditate
Upon my grief; nay, make them desperate.
12
He might have blusht to see his boiling rage,
Out-vied by yours; nay, Chorah and his crew
Never pursu'd their Moses, as ye do,
With such untutor'd violence; 'tis strange,
Oh whither will your headlong fury range?
Advise by times, and know there is a God
That overlooks you: Know, that Moses Rod
May turn a greedy Serpent, and devour,
As well the greater, as the smaller power.
Go, go ye sad contrivers of these times,
Consult with sorrow: Think on all those crimes
Ye have committed; and then think what you
Have done, and after what ye have to do.
Advise with care, for your condition's such,
Y'ave much to do, because y'ave done too much.
Too much; Alas too much in my sad state
Is done already; and I fear too late
For remedy: And secret danger lies
In dull delay: 'tis wisdom to advise
Betimes; for true and timely care prevents
Untimely ruin, hindring the intents
Of studied malice; industry prepares
A balm for that which negligence impairs.
Those that by dreaming sloth, sustain a loss,
Obtain least pitty, and the greatest cross.
Consider what a grief 'twill be to see
The sad destruction of this Monarchie
Wrought by your slothful negligence, when all
My lofty structures, by your hands must fall:
13
What fire, and sword hath left; when every hour
The Bells shall toul, with such a feeble sound,
As if that they themselves, a want had found.
Will it not melt a stone to hear the cries
Of hungry children, and the sad replies
Of their dejected friends? who can forbear
To think on this, and never shed a tear?
How children cry for bread, and fain would rest,
Seeking protections in their mothers brest.
Alas poor Orphans, how are they beguil'd,
When the sad mother's forc'd to eat the child
For want of food, & make their blood their drink!
Oh what a wounding sorrow 'tis to think
How all will be destroyd, both young and old,
How warm blood will be mingled with the cold!
How you will roar and cry for want of bread,
Some on the ground, some dying, and some dead;
Some gnaw their flesh, and some fight who shall eat
Each other; Oh uncomfortable meat.
And then the ravening Wolves seek up and down
To find a prey, in every starved town,
Shall eat deaths reliques; having spent that store,
Shall ransack up and down, and howl for more.
All beasts and fouls, shall then amazed stand,
To see the Sea is turn'd into a Land:
The Land into a Sea, a Red Sea, where
Nothing but bones, insteed of fishes are.
Where nothing's heard, but cries, and shrieks, and groans,
Where nothing's seen, except consuming bones.
14
These sad destructive dangers, how they tend
Daily towards us, with all the power that they
Can make, as if they'd rout us in one day:
Dull sons of men, have ye forgot to rise,
And draw the Curtains of your slumbring eyes?
Methinks this hot Alarum should affright
Your souls for ever from your fond delight!
What do ye mean? ye cannot chuse but hear
Heav'ns thundering Judgments rattling in your ear
What have ye sworn Allegiance to the Prince
Of utter darkness? Will no words convince
Your Stubborn souls? Has a perpetuall vow
Been lately past, betwixt Hells Prince and you?
Why do ye thus delight to overthrow
Your selves, and lose a Kingdom at one blow?
Oh where are my grave Rulers to correct
These their enormous humours, that infect
The world with Errors? To what fatall place
Are all my Senators retired?
| Fons Lachrymarum | |