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 |
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The Birth of Christ. |
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 | KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world |  |
86
The Birth of Christ.
To be prepitious to him, while he sings,
The mean'st of Poets oraves the best of Kings.
The mean'st of Poets oraves the best of Kings.
Great God of lights, be pleased to infuse
Celestial light, into mine infant Muse.
Be thou to me an unseal'd fountaine, whence
I may suck joyfull streames; transport my sense,
Above this Mole-hill earth, doe thou distill
Into the concave of my trembling Quill,
Those lucid drops of divine Oratory,
From thy full Lembick, to set out the story
Of thy Son's condiscention. I shall stray,
If thou assist not, O be thou my way.
Lord I am weak at best, direct my youth,
That I may nothing write, but what is truth.
O teach thou me though tender, and unripe,
To play upon this slender Oaten pipe:
Soe tune it Lord that I may breath upon it
And sound thy praises, in a lasting Sonnet.
I care not for (so thou but guid my Quill)
Swet Helecon, nor yet Parnasus hill.
Make me an instrument to sing thy praise
I crave a crowne of glory, not of Bayes.
It was the time when in the morning ruddy
The thrice three sisters flock'd into my study,
And having play'd upon their Ivr'y Lyre
Such Rapsodies as Phebus did inspire.
One of the nine (the other held their tongue)
Caliope stood up and thus she sung.
(The rest gave audience, by my desk I sit,
And what she spake in Characters I writ.)
Celestial light, into mine infant Muse.
Be thou to me an unseal'd fountaine, whence
I may suck joyfull streames; transport my sense,
Above this Mole-hill earth, doe thou distill
Into the concave of my trembling Quill,
Those lucid drops of divine Oratory,
From thy full Lembick, to set out the story
Of thy Son's condiscention. I shall stray,
If thou assist not, O be thou my way.
Lord I am weak at best, direct my youth,
That I may nothing write, but what is truth.
O teach thou me though tender, and unripe,
To play upon this slender Oaten pipe:
Soe tune it Lord that I may breath upon it
And sound thy praises, in a lasting Sonnet.
I care not for (so thou but guid my Quill)
Swet Helecon, nor yet Parnasus hill.
Make me an instrument to sing thy praise
I crave a crowne of glory, not of Bayes.
87
The thrice three sisters flock'd into my study,
And having play'd upon their Ivr'y Lyre
Such Rapsodies as Phebus did inspire.
One of the nine (the other held their tongue)
Caliope stood up and thus she sung.
(The rest gave audience, by my desk I sit,
And what she spake in Characters I writ.)
All you whose teare-bedewed eyes espy
The ill shap'd visage of your sins, draw nigh,
Mark! and consider what the Lord hath done,
To save lost sinners he hath sent his Son.
And you whose eyes could never yet let fall
A teare in earnest for your sins; come all,
Come, and in heart-proceeding tears behave you,
And doe not doubt, a Christ is borne to save you.
“How can your frozen gutters chuse but run,
“That feel the warmth of such a glorious Sun.
The ill shap'd visage of your sins, draw nigh,
Mark! and consider what the Lord hath done,
To save lost sinners he hath sent his Son.
And you whose eyes could never yet let fall
A teare in earnest for your sins; come all,
Come, and in heart-proceeding tears behave you,
And doe not doubt, a Christ is borne to save you.
“How can your frozen gutters chuse but run,
“That feel the warmth of such a glorious Sun.
Now Rosy-fac'd Aurora does unfold
Her purple Curtains, all befring'd with gold.
And from the pillow of his saffron bed,
Don-Phebus rouzeth his refulgent head.
He newly leaving th'Oriental streames
Of Thetis, brandisheth her trembling beams,
Lo now bright Phospher doth abroad display
His early fulgor. ush'ring in the day
Of welcome joy: Now is the golden morn,
Wherein the Saviour of the world is born.
Borne, and of whom? a virgin, what is stranger?
Where, in a Stable? and in what, a manger?
O wond'rous meekness I he that might be born
In a rich pallace, thought it not a scorn
To rest upon a Cratch, and lay him down
On locks of straw, and not on beds of down
This child of glory (with his locks of Amber)
Grac'd a poore stable, not a princely chamber.
His Mother in her travail had of Lawn
No sheets; no vallents, nor no curtains drawn.
Nor could she there (as she deserv'd) behold
Brave Tapstry-hangings, all enrich'd with gold?
No Scarlet blankets did enwrap her child,
Unspotted, holy, harmless, undefil'd;
O object of delight! how amiable
Are thy rare vertues! and how vile the stable
In which they are inclos'd! there art thou lain,
Thou whom the heav'n of heav'ns cannot contain.
O groundless depths of thy humilitie!
What? room for swearers, and no room for thee
For to be entertain'd? ah I had'st thou bin
As bad as they, thou might'st have had an Inn.
Foxes have holes, and ev'ry bird their nest,
But Christ had not whereon his head might rest.
Bles't Son if God, oh! how hast thou debas'd
Thy glorious self, ah! why would'st thou be plac'd
In such a homely bow'r; was't not that we
Might by thy pattern learn humility?
Art thou advanc'd unto the highest pitch
Of fortune? be not proud, Christ was not rich.
Art thou involv'd in gulfs of Povertie?
Remember Christ was poore as well as thee.
He's poore without, but all enrich'd within,
Like other men in all things, saving sin.
Our mediator, and our advocate,
Is born but meanly, not in regal state.
And all for sinners, oh! th'abounding love
Of a sweet Saviour! he that was above
Angels in glory; and might still inherit
Investest honor, bears an humble spirit,
And to b' as low, as low can be, hath chose;
The inundation of his love o're flowes,
Our thoughts conceptions thou dost expand
Pure love; ah! what deserve we at thy hand
But fire and brimstone? ah! what moves thee thus
Dear Lord! what goodness dost thou find in us?
Lord! what is man, that thou should'st mindfull be
To save from torment, such a wretch as he.
Towards froward sinners he his favour turnes;
Oh! how our God in his affection burnes,
O love unparalel'd! uncomprehended!
Great God! ah! whither is thy love extended!
Cheare up poor sin-sick soul; art thou opprest,
And heavy laden, Christ will give thee rest?
Rouz thee from sinfull sleep, ere break of day,
Mark what the Angel did to th'Shepards say?
He saies to thee fear not; lo now I bring
Tidings of joy; for unto you a King
A Saviour is born, is borne to day,
Where princely David did the scepter sway:
The wise-men see, conducted by a star
A Sun-shine, brighter then the Sun by farr.
O may we all unanimously run
To view the rising of so clear a Sun.
Lord let us not with Herod and the Jews,
Hearing thy birth be troubled at the news.
But joy in that thou comest to restore
And save us sinners, who were lost before.
This, this is he concerning whome 'twas said
The womans seed shall break the Serpents head.
This, this is he, whose raies cast such a fire,
As should enflame our amorous desire.
Who can behold so sweet a babe as this is,
And not embrace him whith a thousand kisses!
Before his sight, the purest Lamp seems dim,
And light is darkness, if compar'd to him.
If he but shew the Sun-shine of his eye
We doe revive, if he withdraw we dye.
We by the splendour of his rayes, have bin
Freed from the darksome dungeon of sin.
Lord how inscrutable! oh how profound
Are thy wayes! oh! how deeply are we bound
To praise, and please thee, and to be enclin'd
To love thee with our souls, our strength, & mind!
Shine Sun of glory, let thy beams divine
Revive our spirits, Shine, Sun of glory shine.
Her purple Curtains, all befring'd with gold.
And from the pillow of his saffron bed,
Don-Phebus rouzeth his refulgent head.
He newly leaving th'Oriental streames
Of Thetis, brandisheth her trembling beams,
Lo now bright Phospher doth abroad display
His early fulgor. ush'ring in the day
88
Wherein the Saviour of the world is born.
Borne, and of whom? a virgin, what is stranger?
Where, in a Stable? and in what, a manger?
O wond'rous meekness I he that might be born
In a rich pallace, thought it not a scorn
To rest upon a Cratch, and lay him down
On locks of straw, and not on beds of down
This child of glory (with his locks of Amber)
Grac'd a poore stable, not a princely chamber.
His Mother in her travail had of Lawn
No sheets; no vallents, nor no curtains drawn.
Nor could she there (as she deserv'd) behold
Brave Tapstry-hangings, all enrich'd with gold?
No Scarlet blankets did enwrap her child,
Unspotted, holy, harmless, undefil'd;
O object of delight! how amiable
Are thy rare vertues! and how vile the stable
In which they are inclos'd! there art thou lain,
Thou whom the heav'n of heav'ns cannot contain.
O groundless depths of thy humilitie!
What? room for swearers, and no room for thee
For to be entertain'd? ah I had'st thou bin
As bad as they, thou might'st have had an Inn.
Foxes have holes, and ev'ry bird their nest,
But Christ had not whereon his head might rest.
89
Thy glorious self, ah! why would'st thou be plac'd
In such a homely bow'r; was't not that we
Might by thy pattern learn humility?
Art thou advanc'd unto the highest pitch
Of fortune? be not proud, Christ was not rich.
Art thou involv'd in gulfs of Povertie?
Remember Christ was poore as well as thee.
He's poore without, but all enrich'd within,
Like other men in all things, saving sin.
Our mediator, and our advocate,
Is born but meanly, not in regal state.
And all for sinners, oh! th'abounding love
Of a sweet Saviour! he that was above
Angels in glory; and might still inherit
Investest honor, bears an humble spirit,
And to b' as low, as low can be, hath chose;
The inundation of his love o're flowes,
Our thoughts conceptions thou dost expand
Pure love; ah! what deserve we at thy hand
But fire and brimstone? ah! what moves thee thus
Dear Lord! what goodness dost thou find in us?
Lord! what is man, that thou should'st mindfull be
To save from torment, such a wretch as he.
Towards froward sinners he his favour turnes;
Oh! how our God in his affection burnes,
90
Great God! ah! whither is thy love extended!
Cheare up poor sin-sick soul; art thou opprest,
And heavy laden, Christ will give thee rest?
Rouz thee from sinfull sleep, ere break of day,
Mark what the Angel did to th'Shepards say?
He saies to thee fear not; lo now I bring
Tidings of joy; for unto you a King
A Saviour is born, is borne to day,
Where princely David did the scepter sway:
The wise-men see, conducted by a star
A Sun-shine, brighter then the Sun by farr.
O may we all unanimously run
To view the rising of so clear a Sun.
Lord let us not with Herod and the Jews,
Hearing thy birth be troubled at the news.
But joy in that thou comest to restore
And save us sinners, who were lost before.
This, this is he concerning whome 'twas said
The womans seed shall break the Serpents head.
This, this is he, whose raies cast such a fire,
As should enflame our amorous desire.
Who can behold so sweet a babe as this is,
And not embrace him whith a thousand kisses!
Before his sight, the purest Lamp seems dim,
And light is darkness, if compar'd to him.
91
We doe revive, if he withdraw we dye.
We by the splendour of his rayes, have bin
Freed from the darksome dungeon of sin.
Lord how inscrutable! oh how profound
Are thy wayes! oh! how deeply are we bound
To praise, and please thee, and to be enclin'd
To love thee with our souls, our strength, & mind!
Shine Sun of glory, let thy beams divine
Revive our spirits, Shine, Sun of glory shine.
Life of our souls, more glorious to behold
Then fruitfull Ophir's best refined gold;
Do thou me in thy lovely armes embrace,
And help me varnish thy atracting grace,
With sacred Rhetorick; if on my tongue
The Lutes, and Vials of the Angels, hung,
Those Sonnets I could sound in endless dayes,
Would not be correspondent to thy praise.
O let thy lips, in a diviner story
Declare thy graces, and divulge thy glory
As Angels did, glory be to thee still,
Peace on the earth, and unto men, good will.
Be glad my soul whilst all the world records,
With one cosent: Salvation is the Lord's.
Th'eternal God, hath sent his onely Son
To dye for us; we by his loss are won.
To Ela's note let us our voyces raise,
And touch our Organs on their lowder keyes,
To us, is born, to us, is sent from heaven,
The Lord of life; to us, a Son is given.
To us, that are far lesser then the least
Of mercier this great mercy is exprest.
Then fruitfull Ophir's best refined gold;
Do thou me in thy lovely armes embrace,
And help me varnish thy atracting grace,
With sacred Rhetorick; if on my tongue
The Lutes, and Vials of the Angels, hung,
Those Sonnets I could sound in endless dayes,
Would not be correspondent to thy praise.
O let thy lips, in a diviner story
Declare thy graces, and divulge thy glory
As Angels did, glory be to thee still,
Peace on the earth, and unto men, good will.
Be glad my soul whilst all the world records,
With one cosent: Salvation is the Lord's.
Th'eternal God, hath sent his onely Son
To dye for us; we by his loss are won.
92
And touch our Organs on their lowder keyes,
To us, is born, to us, is sent from heaven,
The Lord of life; to us, a Son is given.
To us, that are far lesser then the least
Of mercier this great mercy is exprest.
With that Calliope spreads out her wings,
And quick (as did the rest) away she springs;
Then for the present, raptures left my head,
Invention vanish'd, and my fancy fled.
And quick (as did the rest) away she springs;
Then for the present, raptures left my head,
Invention vanish'd, and my fancy fled.
| KOSMOBREVIA[Greek], or the infancy of the world | |