KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world With an Appendix of Gods resting day, Edon Garden; Mans Happiness before, Misery after, his Fall. Whereunto is added, The Praise of Nothing; Divine Ejaculations; The four Ages of the world; The Birth of Christ; Also a Century of Historical Applications; With a Taste of Poetical fictions. Written some years since by N. B.[i.e. Nicholas Billingsley] ... And now published at the request of his Friends |
 |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
|
| 9. |
| 10. |
The Praise of Nothing. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
 | KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world |  |
71
The Praise of Nothing.
The prince of Poets, wrot of Frogs, and Mice:
Uirgil of Gnats: and Henisius of Lice:
Witty Erasmus, Folly's praise did write
And Drayton, did upon Madge-Owle endite.
On Hazle-Nuts smooth Ovid versifies:
And some do treat of Maggots, and of flies.
One hath such stateliness t' a bald-pate given,
That there is scarce an haire 'twixt it and heav'n.
This lauds brave Bag-Puddings: whilst he composes
The admirable honour of Red-Noses,
And such poore petty things, and shall no story
Be penn'd in honour of great Nothings glory
Shal shee, from whence all things a being have,
Lye dead, and buried, in oblivions grave?
My muse shall praise her, though she can't compile
Fine silken words, nor in ornated stile
Blazon great Nothing, for shee seemes to be
A Theam, more fit for Homer, then for me.
I mar'l to her, men did not Temples frame,
Like that at Ephesus, to Dianas name.
Had I a world of eloquence I know
Twere scarce enough all nothings worth to show
I stand astun'd, (not knowing what does ail me)
Mine eyes doe dazle, and my thoughts e'ne faile me.
For to conceive her seenless parts, and Name,
My words are wanting to express the same.
I'le summon her t'appeare in her owne praise;
(Though tongueless) yet imagine that she saies
Upon a stage, amidst a gazing throng
Of glad Spectators, this triumphall song.
Kinde auditors, be pleased to encline
Your willing ears, to this poore speech of mine.
Uirgil of Gnats: and Henisius of Lice:
Witty Erasmus, Folly's praise did write
And Drayton, did upon Madge-Owle endite.
On Hazle-Nuts smooth Ovid versifies:
And some do treat of Maggots, and of flies.
One hath such stateliness t' a bald-pate given,
That there is scarce an haire 'twixt it and heav'n.
This lauds brave Bag-Puddings: whilst he composes
The admirable honour of Red-Noses,
And such poore petty things, and shall no story
Be penn'd in honour of great Nothings glory
Shal shee, from whence all things a being have,
Lye dead, and buried, in oblivions grave?
My muse shall praise her, though she can't compile
Fine silken words, nor in ornated stile
Blazon great Nothing, for shee seemes to be
A Theam, more fit for Homer, then for me.
I mar'l to her, men did not Temples frame,
Like that at Ephesus, to Dianas name.
Had I a world of eloquence I know
Twere scarce enough all nothings worth to show
72
Mine eyes doe dazle, and my thoughts e'ne faile me.
For to conceive her seenless parts, and Name,
My words are wanting to express the same.
I'le summon her t'appeare in her owne praise;
(Though tongueless) yet imagine that she saies
Upon a stage, amidst a gazing throng
Of glad Spectators, this triumphall song.
Kinde auditors, be pleased to encline
Your willing ears, to this poore speech of mine.
Although that All-things in my place doe stan[illeg.]
Mine age (as right) may claime the upper hand.
Is't fit the Daughter, should her duty smother,
And yeild no rev'rence t'her decripit Mother?
Does it become her well? ought shee to owe
No more respect? is this a seemly shew?
Where is her storgie ' what, doth she not minde
The empty wombe that bare her? oh unkinde!
Nay had it been a freind, that should deceive me
An ordinary freind, it ne're had greev'd me:
But that my childe, mine owne deare childe, should seem
To own me not is more then most extream.
Had I a mother, I should judge all honor,
And love, too little to bestow upon her.
She's grown so burlie, and I am so small,
That I can hardly be discern'd at all.
The black spot on a beane, a Flea, a Fly,
An Ant, a Nitt is not so small as I.
All little things are pretty, and the taller
Are more deform'd, then me ther's nothing smaller.
Small as I am, yet of my shapeless feature
God fram'd the world; and what (but God) is greater.
No father had I, neither did I come
From out the Closet of a mothers wombe.
I was, and was not, substance have I none,
No flesh, no blood, no sinewes, nerves, nor bone.
Nor can I justly stiled be trub-hody,
For I have neither hinder parts nor body.
I'me cloath'd in emptiness, transparent cloathing
As thin as Aire; I doe repast on Nothing,
Chamelion like; and as a vestal Nun
So chast am I, all company I shun.
I lead a solitary life, for where
The least thing is, be sure I am not there.
Could you but try me, you would lighter finde.
Then Ce phus tost with ev'ry gust of winde.
I liv'd (though dead) from all eternity,
What was there (can you tell) but God and I?
Out of meere love hath not th'Eternal fram'd
All things of me that are, unnam'd, are nam'd?
Goe ask the starrie gal'ries if they be
Deriv'd of any but of God and me,
By us those Squtchions, thick as Argus eyes
Hang out and twinckle in the Marble Skies.
Even as bright Phebe's borrow'd raies do shine
By Titan, Titan does by Gods, and mine.
Ask but the earth, if she did ever crown
Her front, and put on an embroidred gown,
'Bout her grose waste, if ever she did ware
Such fruits, like pendant-Iewells in her eares?
If the blew heav'ns like braclets did her deck,
Or starrs, like beads, encompassed her neck
Before I was: ask her and if her Globe
Was circumvested, with a Sea-green Robe.
Ask her all this, and if that she denies
Apparent truth; in flat and plaine, shee lies.
Tell her from me, from me arise her Bowers:
I fill'd her lapp, with oderiferous flowers.
The warr-us'd Cornel, and the Mast-full Beach,
The fun'ral Cypress, and the velvet Peach,
The downy Poplar, the piramidal Pear
The tow'ring Cedar and tall Pine did rear
Their heads from me: from me, a golden tindge
Ceres receiv'd: a Jasper colour'd frindge
Embellished the Meddows, Pastures, Land,
All diapar'd with spangled Dazies stand.
All Birds, Beasts, Fishes, rarest gems rich mines,
From out my fruitful loynes, derive their lines.
I'me Alpha, and Omega; from me springs
Both the begining, and the end, of things.
When the rebellious world, for sin was drown'd
Then only Noah's Arke and I was found.
When flashing fire, and stifeling Brimstone, rain'd
On Sodom, and Gomorah, I remaind.
Rome's Capitol, and Troy's Palladium,
Carthag, and Athens, are to nothing come.
Where's Thebs brag, of her hundred gates but lately?
The Tow'rs of Babilon? where be the stately
Long Obelisks? the Piramid's? where's now
Mausolus Tombe? can any tell me how
The Temple builded to Diana's shrine
Doth stand? did they not all to me resigne.
Say where is Pharo's Tow'r? can you behold
Jove's simelachre, rich for burnish'd gold?
Gold-pav'd Jerus'lem is, alas! bereft
Of all her pompe, and she hath nothing left?
Nothing is left, that is for some thing good;
Grass growes where brave Dædalian buildings stood
Nay heavens shall melt, the universall frame
Return to nothing, from the whence it came;
Is Hercules alive; can he be glorious
Suddu'd by me? Think you that the victorious
Undaunted Cæsar, and great Pompey too,
Two thunder-bolts of War, exploits can do?
Now they are dead? could the great Alexander
Who weep'd, in that he could not be commander
Of many worlds? could his brave acts and glory
Keep him from being Nothing? could the hoary
Age of grand Nestor save him from the Urne,
When dust he was, and must to dust returne.
Blind Homer, solid Virgil, none sets eye on
Wise Cato's gone, the Dolphin caryd Arion;
Stout Hector, am'rous Paris, Troy-bane Hellen,
Subtile Ulisses, are to Nothing fell in.
Where is Amphion, at whose Musicks sound
The Theban walls were raised from the ground?
The eared Oakes, shall never any more
Dance after Orpheus pipes as heretofore.
Caonean Doves, in the Dodonian grove,
Shall ever cease more Oracles to move.
Who wil beleeve that William once againe
Can conquer Saxons? he and all his men
Alas! where are they? are they not return'd
From whence they came, and into nothing spurn'd?
Where's bloody Mary, and Elizabeth,
Of blessed memory, but kil'd by death.
Where's now pacif'cal Iames, misguided Charles?
How many worthies, Nobles, Barons, Earles,
Lords, Knights & Gentle-men were there, that have
Took full possession of the gaping grave.
What are the rich but dust, as well as they
That beg? Death is a debt which all must pay.
Can Essex lead an Army, when to Leed
His body is confin'd; Vantrump is dead,
And the Armodo sunk, and its designe
Was cross'd in eighty eight, and thirty nyne.
All things of nothing made, to nothing tend,
And what hath a beginning must have end.
In time of dearth, there's nothing to be found
But sapless stalks, upon the fruitless ground,
Nothing but singults, mixt with hearty tears
Can scale the fortress, of th'Almighties eares.
Nothing so mercifull as God, he moans
Repentant sinners, when he hear's their gaoans.
Nothing but grace, conducteth unto glory,
Then which there's nothing more untransitory.
Mine age (as right) may claime the upper hand.
Is't fit the Daughter, should her duty smother,
And yeild no rev'rence t'her decripit Mother?
Does it become her well? ought shee to owe
No more respect? is this a seemly shew?
Where is her storgie ' what, doth she not minde
The empty wombe that bare her? oh unkinde!
Nay had it been a freind, that should deceive me
An ordinary freind, it ne're had greev'd me:
But that my childe, mine owne deare childe, should seem
To own me not is more then most extream.
Had I a mother, I should judge all honor,
And love, too little to bestow upon her.
She's grown so burlie, and I am so small,
That I can hardly be discern'd at all.
73
An Ant, a Nitt is not so small as I.
All little things are pretty, and the taller
Are more deform'd, then me ther's nothing smaller.
Small as I am, yet of my shapeless feature
God fram'd the world; and what (but God) is greater.
No father had I, neither did I come
From out the Closet of a mothers wombe.
I was, and was not, substance have I none,
No flesh, no blood, no sinewes, nerves, nor bone.
Nor can I justly stiled be trub-hody,
For I have neither hinder parts nor body.
I'me cloath'd in emptiness, transparent cloathing
As thin as Aire; I doe repast on Nothing,
Chamelion like; and as a vestal Nun
So chast am I, all company I shun.
I lead a solitary life, for where
The least thing is, be sure I am not there.
Could you but try me, you would lighter finde.
Then Ce phus tost with ev'ry gust of winde.
I liv'd (though dead) from all eternity,
What was there (can you tell) but God and I?
Out of meere love hath not th'Eternal fram'd
All things of me that are, unnam'd, are nam'd?
Goe ask the starrie gal'ries if they be
Deriv'd of any but of God and me,
74
Hang out and twinckle in the Marble Skies.
Even as bright Phebe's borrow'd raies do shine
By Titan, Titan does by Gods, and mine.
Ask but the earth, if she did ever crown
Her front, and put on an embroidred gown,
'Bout her grose waste, if ever she did ware
Such fruits, like pendant-Iewells in her eares?
If the blew heav'ns like braclets did her deck,
Or starrs, like beads, encompassed her neck
Before I was: ask her and if her Globe
Was circumvested, with a Sea-green Robe.
Ask her all this, and if that she denies
Apparent truth; in flat and plaine, shee lies.
Tell her from me, from me arise her Bowers:
I fill'd her lapp, with oderiferous flowers.
The warr-us'd Cornel, and the Mast-full Beach,
The fun'ral Cypress, and the velvet Peach,
The downy Poplar, the piramidal Pear
The tow'ring Cedar and tall Pine did rear
Their heads from me: from me, a golden tindge
Ceres receiv'd: a Jasper colour'd frindge
Embellished the Meddows, Pastures, Land,
All diapar'd with spangled Dazies stand.
All Birds, Beasts, Fishes, rarest gems rich mines,
From out my fruitful loynes, derive their lines.
75
Both the begining, and the end, of things.
When the rebellious world, for sin was drown'd
Then only Noah's Arke and I was found.
When flashing fire, and stifeling Brimstone, rain'd
On Sodom, and Gomorah, I remaind.
Rome's Capitol, and Troy's Palladium,
Carthag, and Athens, are to nothing come.
Where's Thebs brag, of her hundred gates but lately?
The Tow'rs of Babilon? where be the stately
Long Obelisks? the Piramid's? where's now
Mausolus Tombe? can any tell me how
The Temple builded to Diana's shrine
Doth stand? did they not all to me resigne.
Say where is Pharo's Tow'r? can you behold
Jove's simelachre, rich for burnish'd gold?
Gold-pav'd Jerus'lem is, alas! bereft
Of all her pompe, and she hath nothing left?
Nothing is left, that is for some thing good;
Grass growes where brave Dædalian buildings stood
Nay heavens shall melt, the universall frame
Return to nothing, from the whence it came;
Is Hercules alive; can he be glorious
Suddu'd by me? Think you that the victorious
Undaunted Cæsar, and great Pompey too,
Two thunder-bolts of War, exploits can do?
76
Who weep'd, in that he could not be commander
Of many worlds? could his brave acts and glory
Keep him from being Nothing? could the hoary
Age of grand Nestor save him from the Urne,
When dust he was, and must to dust returne.
Blind Homer, solid Virgil, none sets eye on
Wise Cato's gone, the Dolphin caryd Arion;
Stout Hector, am'rous Paris, Troy-bane Hellen,
Subtile Ulisses, are to Nothing fell in.
Where is Amphion, at whose Musicks sound
The Theban walls were raised from the ground?
The eared Oakes, shall never any more
Dance after Orpheus pipes as heretofore.
Caonean Doves, in the Dodonian grove,
Shall ever cease more Oracles to move.
Who wil beleeve that William once againe
Can conquer Saxons? he and all his men
Alas! where are they? are they not return'd
From whence they came, and into nothing spurn'd?
Where's bloody Mary, and Elizabeth,
Of blessed memory, but kil'd by death.
Where's now pacif'cal Iames, misguided Charles?
How many worthies, Nobles, Barons, Earles,
Lords, Knights & Gentle-men were there, that have
Took full possession of the gaping grave.
77
That beg? Death is a debt which all must pay.
Can Essex lead an Army, when to Leed
His body is confin'd; Vantrump is dead,
And the Armodo sunk, and its designe
Was cross'd in eighty eight, and thirty nyne.
All things of nothing made, to nothing tend,
And what hath a beginning must have end.
In time of dearth, there's nothing to be found
But sapless stalks, upon the fruitless ground,
Nothing but singults, mixt with hearty tears
Can scale the fortress, of th'Almighties eares.
Nothing so mercifull as God, he moans
Repentant sinners, when he hear's their gaoans.
Nothing but grace, conducteth unto glory,
Then which there's nothing more untransitory.
More could I say, but the descending Sun
Takes off my Pen, with Nothing I have done.
Takes off my Pen, with Nothing I have done.
I am de sine tibia versus.
| KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world | |