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WORLD.

VERTUE.

Canst thou now make, or hast thou euer made, Thy seruants happy in those things that fade? Heare this my challenge, one example bring Of such perfection; let him be the king Of all the world, fearing no outward check, And guiding others by his voice or beck: Yet shall this man at eu'ry moment find More gall than hony in his restlesse mind. Now, monster, since my words baue struck thee dumb,

Behold this garland, whence such vertues come, Such glories shine, such piercing beames are throwne,

As make thee blind, and turne thee to a stone. And thou, whose wand'ring feet were running downe

Th' infernall steepenesse, looke vpon this crowne:
Within these folds lie hidden no deceits,
No golden lures, on which perdition waites:
But when thine eyes the prickly thornes haue past,
See in the circle boundlesse ioyes at last.

PILGRIM.

These things are now most cleare, thee I imbrace Immortall wreath, let worldlings count thee base, Choyce is thy matter, glorious is thy shape, Fit crowne for them who tempting dangers scape.

AN ACT OF CONTRITION.

WHEN first my reason, dawning like the day,
Disperst the clouds of childish sense away:
God's image fram'd in that superior tow'r,
Diuinely drew mine vnderstanding pow'r
To thinke vpon his greatnesse, and to feare
His darts of thunder, which the mountaines teare,
And when with feeble light my soule began
T' acknowledge him a higher thing than man,
My next discourse, erected by his grace,
Conceiues him free from bounds of time or place,
And sees the furthest that of him is knowne,
All spring from him, and he depends of none.
The steps which in his various workes are seal'd,
The doctrines in his sacred church reueal'd,
Were all receiu'd as truths into my mind,
Yet durst I breake his lawes, O strangely blind!
My festring wounds are past the launcing cure,
Which terrour giues to thoughts at first impure ›
No helpe remaines these vlcers to remoue,
Vnlesse I scorch them with the flames of loue.
Lord, from thy wrath my soule appeales, and flyes
To gracious beames of those indulgent eyes,
Which brought me first from nothing, and sustaine
My life, lest it to nothing turne againe,

Which in thy Sonne's blood washt my parents' sinne,

And taught me waies eternall blisse to winne.
The starres which guide my barke with heau'nly
My boords in shipwrack after many falls: [calls,
In these I trust, and, wing'd with pleasing hope,
Attempt new flight to come to thee, my scope,
Whome I esteeme a thousand times more deare
Than worldly things, which faire and sweet appeare.
Rebellious flesh, which thee so oft offends,
Presents her teares: alas! a poore amends,
But thou accept'st them. Hence they precious
As liuing waters which from Eden flow.
With these I wish my vitall blood may runne,
Ere new eclipses dimme this glorious Sunne :
And yeeld my selfe afflicting paines to take
For thee, my spouse, and onely for thy sake.
Hell could not fright me with immortall fire,
Were it not arm'd with thy forsaking ire:
Nor should I looke for comfort and delight
In Heau'n, if Heau'n were shadow'd from thy sight.

IN DESOLATION.

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✪ THOU, who sweetly bend'st my stubborne will,
Who send'st thy stripes to teach, and not to kill:
Thy chearefull face from me no longer hide,
Withdraw these clouds, the scourges of my pride;
I sinke to Hell, if I be lower throwne:
I see what man is, being left alone.

My substance, which from nothing did begin,
Is worse then nothing by the waight of sin :
I see my selfe in such a wretched state,
As neither thoughts conceiue, or words relate.
How great a distance parts vs! for in thee
Is endlesse good, and boundlesse ill in mee.
All creatures proue me abiect, but how low,
Thou onely know'st, and teachest me to know.
To paint this basenesse, nature is too base;
This darknesse yeelds not but to beames of grace.
Where shall I then this piercing splendour find?
Or found, how shall it guide me, being blind?
Grace is a taste of blisse, a glorious gift,
Which can the soule to heau'nly comforts lift.
It will not shine to me, whose mind is drown'd
In sorrowes, and with worldly troubles bound.
It will not daigne within that house to dwell,
Where drinesse raignes, and proud distractions
swell.

Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome dayes
Of my first feruour, when few winds did raise
The waues, and ere they could full strength obtaine,
Some whisp'ring gale straight charmed thein downe
again :

When all seem'd calm, and yet the Virgin's child,
On my deuotions in his manger smild;
While then I simply walkt, nor heed could take
Of complacence, that slye deceitfull snake;
When yet I had not dang'rously refus'd
So many calls to vertue, nor abus'd
The spring of life, which I so oft enioy'd,
Nor made so many good intentions voyd,
Deseruing thus that grace should quite depart,
And dreadfull hardnesse should possesse my heart:
Yet in that state this onely good I found,
That fewer spots did then my conscience wound,
Though who can censure, whether in those times,
The want of feeling seem'd the want of crimes?

Within the compasse of the gen'rall frame:
Or if some sparkes of this celestiall flame
Had not ingrau'd this sentence in their brest :
"In him that made them is their onely rest."

AN ACT OF HOPE.

SWEET Hope is soueraigne comfort of our life:
Our ioy in sorrow, and our peace in strife:
The dame of beggers, and the queene of kings:
Can these delight in height of prosp'rous things,
Without expecting still to keepe them sure?
Can those the weight of heauy wants endure,
Vnlesse perswasion i stant paine allay,
Reseruing spirit for a better day?

Our God, who planted in his creatures' brest
This stop, on which the wheeles of passion rest,
Hath ravs'd, by beames of his abundant grace,
This strong affection to a higher place.
It is the second vertue which attends
That soule, whose motion to his sight ascends.
Rest here, my mind, thou shalt no longer stay
To gaze vpon these houses made of clay:
Thou shalt not stoope to honours, or to lands,
Nor golden balles, where sliding fortune stands :
If no false colours draw thy steps anuisse,
Thou hast a palace of eternall blisse,
A paradise from care, and feare exempt,
An obiect worthy of the best attempt.
Who would not for so rich a country fight?
Who would not runne, that sees a goale so bright?
O thou who art our Author and our End,
On whose large mercy chaines of hope depend;
Lift me to thee by thy propitious hand:
For lower I can find no place to stand.

OF TEARES.

BEHOLD what riuers feeble nature spends,
And melts vs into seas at losse of friends!
Their mortali state this fountaine neuer dries,
But fills the world with worlds of weeping eies.
Man is a creature borne, and nurst in teares,
He through his life the markes of sorrow beares;
And dying, thinkes he can no off'ring haue
More fit than teares distilling on his graue.
We must these floods to larger bounds extend;
Such streames require a high and noble end.
As waters in a chrystall orbe contain'd
Aboue the starry firmament are chain'd
To coole the fury of those raging flames,
Which eu'ry lower sphcare by motion frames:
So this continuall spring within thy head
Must quench the fires in other members bred.
If to our Lord our parents had been true,
Our teares had been like drops of pleasing dew:
But sinne hath made them full of bitter paines,
Vntimely children of afflicted baines:

Yet they are chang'd, when we our sinnes lament,
To richer pearles than from the East are sent.

OF SINNE.

WHAT pensill shall I take, or where begin, To paint the vgly face of odious Sinne?

Man sinning oft, though pardon'd oft, exceeds
The falling angels in malicious deeds:
When we in words would tell the sinner's shame,
To call him Diuell is too faire a name.
Should we for euer in the chaos dwell,
Or in the lothsome depth of gaping Hell:
We there no foule and darksome formes shall find
Sufficient to describe a guilty mind.

Search thro' the world, we shall not know a thing,
Which may to reason's eye more hortour bring,
Than disobedience to the Highest cause,
And obstinate auersion from his lawes.
The sinner will destroy God, if he can.

O what hath God deseru'd of thee, poore man,
That thou should'st boldly striue to pull him downe
From his high throne, and take away his crowne?
What blindnesse moues thee to vnequall fight?
See how thy fellow creatures scorne thy might,
Yet thou prouok'st thy Lord, as much too great,
As thou too weake for his imperiall scate!
Behold a silly wretch distracted quite,
Extending towards God his feeble spite,
And by his poys'nous breath his hopes are faire
To blast the skies, as it corrupts the aire.
Vpon the other side thou mayst perceiue
A mild Commander, to whose army cleaue
The sparkling starres, and each of them desires
To fall and drowne this rebell in their fires.
The cloudes are ready this proud foe to tame,
Full fraught with thunderbolts, and lightnings'
flame.

The Earth, his mother, greedy of his doome,
Expects to open her vnhappy wombe,
That this degen'rate sonne may liue no more,
So chang'd from that pure man, whom first she

bore.

The sanage beasts, whose names his father gaue,
To quell this pride, their Maker's licence craue.
The fiends, his masters, in this warlike way
Make sute to seaze him as their lawfull prey.
No friends are left: then whither shall he flie?
To that offended King, who sits on high,
Who hath deferr'd the battell, and restrain'd
His souldiers, like the winds in fetters chain'd:
For let the sinner leaue his hideous maske,
God will as soone forgiue, as he shall aske.

Is

OF THE MISERABLE STATE OF MAN.

Vaine honour is a play of diuers parts,

Where fained words and gestures please our hearts;
The flatter'd audience are the actor's friends;
But lose that title when the fable ends.
The faire desire that others should behold.
Their clay well featur'd, their well temper'd mould,
Ambitious mortals make their chiefe pretence,
To be the obiects of delighted sense :
Yet oft the shape and hue of basest things
More admiration moues, more pleasure brings.
Why should we glory to be counted strong?
This is the praise of beasts, the pow'r of wrong:
And if the strength of many were inclos'd
Within one brest, yet when it is oppos'd
Against that force which art or nature frame,
It melts like waxe before the scorching flame.
We cannot in these outward things be blest;
For we are sure to lose them; and the best
Of these contentments no such comfort beares,
As may waigh equall with the doubts and feares
Which fixe our minds on that vncertaine day,
When these shall faile, most certaine to decay.
From length of life no happinesse can come,
But what the guilty feele, who, after doome,
Are to the lothsome prison sent againe,
And there must stay to die with longer paine.
No earthly gift lasts after death, but fame;
This gouernes men more carefull of their name
Than of their soules, which their vngodly taste
Dissolues to nothing, and shall proue at last
Farre worse than nothing: prayses come too late,
When man is not, or is in wretched state.
But these are ends which draw the meanest hearts:
Let vs search deepe and trie our better parts:
O knowledge! if a Heau'n on Earth could be,
I would expect to reape that blisse in thee:
But thou art blind, and they that haue thy light,
More clearely know, they liue in darksome night.
See, man, thy stripes at schoole, thy paines abroad,
Thy watching, and thy palenesse, well bestow'd:
These feeble helpes can scholars neuer bring
To perfect knowledge of the plainest thing:
And some to such a height of learning grow,
They die perswaded, that they nothing know.
In vaine swift houres spent in deepe study slide,
Vnlesse the purchast doctrine curbe our pride.
The soule, perswaded that no fading loue
Can equall her imbraces, seekes aboue:
And now aspiring to a higher place,
Is glad that all her comforts here are base.

OF SICKNESSE.

THE end of sicknesse, health, or death, declare
The cause as happy, as the sequells are.
Vaine mortals! while they striue their sense to
please,

Endure a life worse than the worst disease:
When sports and ryots of the restlesse night,
Breede dayes as thicke possest with fenny light:
How oft haue these (compell'd by wholsome
paine)

Return'd to sucke sweet Nature's brest againe, And then could in a narrow compasse find Strength for the body, clearenesse in the mind? And if Death come, it is not he whose dart, Whose scalpe, and bones, afflict the trembling heart:

OF TRUE LIBERTY.

He that from dust of worldly tumults flies,

E

May boldly open his vndazled eyes,

To reade wise Nature's booke, and with delight
Surueyes the plants by day, and starres by night.
We neede not trauaile, seeking wayes to blisse:
He that desires contentment, cannot misse:
No garden walles this precious flower imbrace:
It common growes in eu'ry desart place.
Large scope of pleasure drownes vs like a flood,
To rest in little, is our greatest good.
Learne ye that clime the top of Fortune's wheele,
That dang'rous state which ye disdaine to feele:
Your highnesse puts your happinesse to flight,
Your inward comforts fade with outward light,
Vnlesse it be a blessing not to know
This certaine truth, lest ye should pine for woe,
To see inferiours so diuinely blest
With freedome, and your selues with fetters prest.
Ye sit like pris'ners barr'd with doores and chaines,
And yet no care perpetuall care restraines.
Ye strive to mixe your sad conceits with ioyes,
By curious pictures and by glitt'ring toyes,
While others are not hind'red from their ends,
Delighting to conuerse with bookes or friends,
And liuing thus retir'd, obtaine the pow'r
To reigne as kings, of euery sliding houre:
They walke by Cynthiae's light, and lift their eyes
To view the ord'red armies in the skies.

The Heau'ns they measure with imagin'd lines,
And when the northerne hemisphere declines,
New constellations in the south they find,
Whose rising may refresh the studious mind.
In these delights, though freedome shew more high,
Few can to things aboue their thoughts apply.
But who is he that cannot cast his looke
On earth, and read the beauty of that booke?
A bed of smiling flow'rs, a trickling spring,
A swelling riuer, more contentment bring
Than can be shadow'd by the best of art:
Thus still the poore man hath the better part.

AGAINST

INORDINATE LOUE OF CREATURES. Au! who would loue a creature? who would place His heart, his treasure, in a thing so base? Which time consuming, like a moth destroyes, And stealing Death will rob him of his ioyes. Why lift we not our minds aboue this dust? Haue we not yet perceiu'd that God is just, And hath ordain'd the obiects of our loue To be our scourges, when we wanton proue? Go, carelesse man, in vaine delights proceed, Thy fansies and thine outward senses feede,

And since he takes the throne of Loue exil'd,
In all our letters he shall Loue be stil'd:
But if true Loue vouchsafe againe his sight,
No word of mine shall preiudice his right:
So kings by caution with their rebels treate,
As with free states, when they are growne too
great.

If common drunkards onely can expresse

How can I write of Loue, who neuer felt
His dreadfull arrow, nor did euer melt
My heart away before a female flame,
Like waxen statues, which the witches frame?
I must confesse, if I knew one that had
Bene poyson'd with this deadly draught, and mad,
And afterward in Bedlem well reclaym'd
To perfect sence, and in his wits not maym'd:
I would the feruour of my Muse restraine,
And let this subiect for his taske remaine :
But aged wand'rers sooner will declare
Their Eleusinian rites, than louers dare
Renounce the Deuil's pompe, and Christians die :
So much preuailes a painted idol's eye.
Then since of them, like lewes, we can conuert
Scarce one in many yeeres, their iust desert,
By selfe confession, neuer can appeare ;
But on presumptions wee proceed, and there
The judge's innocence most credit winnes:
True men trie theeues, and saints describe foule
sinnes.
This monster Loue by day, and Lust by night,
Is full of burning fire, but voyde of light,
Left here on Earth to keepe poore mortals out
Of errour, who of hell-fire else would doubt.
Such is that wandring nightly flame, which leades
Th' vnwary passenger, vntill he treades
His last step on the steepe and craggy walles
Of some high mountaine, whence he headlong
falles :

A vapour first extracted from the stewes,
(Which with new fewell still the lampe renewes)
And with a pandar's sulph'rous breath inflam'd,
Became a meteor, for destruction fram'd,
Like some prodigious comet which foretells
Disasters to the realme on which it dwells.
And now hath this false light preuail'd so farre,
That most obserue, it is a fixed starre,
Yea as their load-starre, by whose beames impure
They guide their ships, in courses not secure,
Bewitcht and daz'led with the glaring sight
Of this proud fiend, attir'd in angels' light,
Who still delights his darksome smoke to turne
To rayes, which seeme t' enlighten, not to burne :
He leades them to the tree, and they beleeue
The fruit is sweete, so he deluded Eue.
But when they once haue tasted of the feasts,
They quench that sparke, which scuers men from
beasts,

And feele effects of our first parents' fall,
Depriu'd of reason, and to sence made thrall.
Thus is the miserable louer bound
With fancies, and in fond affection drown'd.
In him no faculty of man is seene,
But when he sighs a sonnet to his queene:
This makes him more than man, a poet fit
For such false poets, as make passion wit.
Who lookes within an emptie caske, may see,
Where once a soule was, and againe may be,
Which by this difference from a corse is knowne i
One is in pow'r to haue life, both haue none: