University of Virginia Library

A DISCOURSE between the SOUL and WORLD.

Wo.
How now sad Soul; from whence proceeds those clouds
Which still eclipse thy fancy thus, & shrouds
Thy splendent glory? what contentious Fate
Hath bred disturbance in thy quiet State?
Tell me, come tell me, that my studious care
May be imploy'd to serve thee: Why, or where
Art thou opprest? Come, never fear to tell
Thy grief to me, thou know'st I love thee well.

Sou.
Oh I am sick, canst thou be my Physitian?

Wo.
I can, sick Soul: Come tell me thy condition.

Sou.
Draw neerer then, for ah my spirits fail;
I'm sick because I know not what I ail.

Wo.
If thou art sick, and canst not find thy grief,
How canst thou be a suitor to relief?

Sou.
Were it a single sorrow that opprest
My wearied mind, 'twere easily exprest;
But when pluralities shall circumvent
A troubled mind, how can that mind have vent?

Wo.
Come, leave these vain exordiums, let my ear
Be heir to thy discourse, I long to hear;
Conceal not that, which if reveal'd may bring
A remedy: Come, tell me what's the thing
That thus corrodes thy brest; 'tis I alone
Must give thy heart refreshment, or else none.

Sou.
Alas fond World! how justly may I stile
Thy help a hinderance, thy treasures vile!
What answer shall I now retort, that may
Expresly satisfie? I cannot say
What I desire; for when I strive to speak,
My passion grows too strong, my tongue too weak;
My numerous pains infatuate my wit.

Wo.
Pish, this is but a melancholly fit:
Clear up thy clouded thoughts, such fits as these
Are incident to all; learn to appease
Thy instigating passion, and advise
With me; I'le make thee well, I'le make thee wise:
My bounteous treasure shall increase thy store
With great abundance: Come, let's have no more
Of these thy petulant discourses, be
Prescrib'd by none (dear Soul) except by me;
I'le cure thy pain.

Soul.
Fond World forbear
To urge my resolution, or insnare
My yeelding spirits; let thy language be
Reserv'd for them that will be fool'd by thee:
Thy elevating joys, which did before
Inrich my vacant senses, make them poor:
And now I find the greatest plague that can
Concomitate poor miserable man,
Is to be happy.

World.
That's a paradox,
Is happiness a crime?

Sou.
Mistake me not rash fool, for my pretence
Is good, if not corrupted by the sence
You take it in? For tell me what canst thou
Insinuating wretch vouchsafe t'allow,
That will perpetuate? hast thou the power
T'assure a happiness for one half hour?
If so, I will obsequiously confine
My self to thy directions, and be thine.

Wo.
I tell thee Soul, thy fancy thus disturb'd
Will ruinate thy senses, if not curb'd.
Convince thy self, and be not thus averse
To Reason; after folly comes a curse.

Sou.
But what is this to my demands? I see,
Thou lov'st to hear thy self declare, not me.
Answer to my objections, then I'le rest,
A quiet Soul, in a resolved brest.

Wo.
Oh, that I were so blest to know the state
Of thy condition.

Soul.
Wilt thou still deviate,
And ramble from thy text?

Worl:
Believe't dear soul
There is no friend more strongly can condole
Thy weakness, then my self; I sympathize,
And truly grieve for thy infirmities:
Witness these falling tears; Oh, may't be known,
Sick Soul, I weep thy sorrows, not mine own:
Sorrow forbids my gentle lips to smile;
For ah I am:

Soul:
A woful crocodile:
I, I, a woful Exile.

Worl:
For thy sake
I'le suffer thousand griefs, and undertake
Ten thousand more, that I at last may prove
How much I've merited thy truest love.

Sou.
What voyce is this that penetrates my ear?
What do I hear, or do I seem to hear?
Or is't a dream?

Wo.
No, no, (blest Soul) 'tis true,
'Tis I that suffer these extreams for you.

Sou.
Reserve thy tears: Alas! I did but try
Thy love, and now I find th'art constancy
It self: but tell me World, wilt thou content
My greedy mind with wealth? when that is spent
Will't give me more? and when that more is gone,
Wilt thou be sure to heap one bag upon
Another? Wilt thou make me to out-vie
The sons of men in prodigality?
Dost hear me World?

World.

Sou.
Base World, th'art truly base; now I perceive
Thy lab'ring policy is to deceive.
What, didst thou think my heart begun to dote,
When I, to make a concord, chang'd my note?
Oh no, vile varlet: no, I did but try
Thy craft, by learning what thou wouldst reply
To my demands: Divinest language could
Move no reply, when baser language would:
But now thou nothing, made of nothing, know,
Th'ast lost a friend by me, and found a foe.
Here I declare my self, and do protest
Before just Heav'n, that whilest I live possest
Of vital breath, I will imploy my heart
T'oppose thy flatt'ring folly; for thou art
A perjur'd Traytor to the Souls divine,
And sacred Majesty, and wilt incline
Thy ears to nothing but to antick tricks,
And call'st divine thoughts, melancholly fits.
And so farewel, false traytor; now 'tis known,
The more we are thine, the less we are our own.

Wo.
And is this all?

Sou:
'Tis all.

Wor:
Then Soul, adue.

Sou.
Oh may I ne're prove false, till thou prov'st true.