GOD IN THE CREATURE.  
BEING A POEM in Three Parts: VIZ. A Song of Praise in Contemplation of the Works of Creation and Providence in General: With a Debate touching Providence in particular, by way of Dialogue.  
VIZ. Cur male bonis, & bene malis, cum sit Providentia. Why goes it ill with the Good, and well with the Evil, seeing there is Providence?  
With several other POEMS and ODES.  
By HENRY GRENFIELD.  
For the invisible things of him, from the Creation of the World are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his Eternal Power and Godhead,  Rom. 1. ver. 20. 
I will sing unto the Lord, as long as I live; I will sing Praise unto my God, while I have my being,  Psal. 134. v. 33. 
LONDON: Printed for George May, Bookseller in EXETER. MDCLXXXVI.   

To the Worshipful the Mayor, the Right Honourable the Recorder, with the Honourable and Worshipful Justices, aldermans, and all the rest of the Worthy Capitol Burgesses of the Reformed and Loyal Corporation of the Borough of TRURO, in the County of CORNWALL.  
SIRS,  
I Cannot but with a cheerful Humility, declare myself under a double Obligation of all possible Respect and Service to your Honourable and most Loyal Fraternity, and particularly of my present Address, though with so minute and homely an Offering, which hath indeed in you a most encouraging Goodness to promise, but in itself only the venerable Excellence of its Subject to solicit a favourable Reception.  
The first Obligation, is a Debt of Love and Honour; the Heathen could see this by the obscure twilight of Nature, esteeming their highest Love and Honour to be their Country's indispensible due, first, to the King or Supreme, by what Name or Title soever dignified or distinguished; next, to them that are sent by, or set in Authority under him; Lastly, to the whole Community of fellow Subjects. And such as were their Affections at large to their Countries in general, such also were their more particular Propensions and Devoirs to the particular Places of their respective Nativities, which is my present behoof.  
In this Ancient Corporation I drew my first Breath; and to this therefore would gladly pay the first fruits of my Honest (howsoever unfortunate) Endeavours. But to this natural Incitement of Love and Honour, we have in you the happy Accession of a most generous and noble Loyalty: Loyalty! the grand Comprehension, in one Word, of all Public and Political Virtue, so far forth as refers to the Subjects; an abridgement, like Love, not only of the Principles of both Tables of Positive Divine Law, but also of the Fundamental and Unwritten Divine Law of Nature, those Common Notions and Transcripts of the Eternal Law, which are none other but the immutable Ideas of Religion, interwoven in the very Make and Original Contexture of our Being's; for what, but the peaceful Hands of Loyalty, beautiful as the Rosy Fingers of the Morning, preserves inviolate the Sacred Marriage of the Fear of the Lord with that of the King; or (as it is equivalently phrased) of the Fear of the Lord with the Honour of the King? 'Tis this prevents, with a Golden Chain of most harmoniously conspiring Graces, the setting asunder of those whom God hath joined together: Nor can she indeed apprehend these two capable of a real Existence in a state of Separation; for our Fear of the Deity, and our Honour of Majesty, as like Jonathan and Saul, they are lovely and pleasant together in their Lives, so can they not be other than undivided in their Deaths; like Hippocrates' Twins, as they live, so must they die, (which Heaven ever forbid) die together, and die in each others Arms: So that Loyalty, wherever she lights, though on a Dunghill, carries a commanding Lustre in her Face; but an advantageous setting off the Jewel in Generous and Noble Metals (such as yourselves); as it mightily commends its Beauty, so ought proportionably to heighten its Value: But wherewithal then can I evidence a commensurate Respect? Commensurate! nay, in any Measure competent to so much, and such excellent Worth? why in the present State of Truro, 'tis now (Thanks be to Heaven) easy to see awful Authority, and a most Rational, Ingenuous Candour, going Hand in Hand, and every where to the grief of Faction, but the Delight of God, and all honest Men, embracing and greeting each other with a Holy Kiss; and certainly such a temperate Body will not expect more from its Denizen Servants, than the circumstances of their Habitation can dispose them to.  
The thick and misty Air of a Marshy, and on every side most depressed Vale, serves not for such Noble and Lofty Flights, as the benign Serenity that blesses the flowery Banks of Isis and Cham, and those ever Springful Bowers of most happy Thames, where the Muses have their perpetual Residence, and Imperial Court. As for Silver and Gold, such as the more splendid and Heroical Pieces of Poesy, I have none; but such as the Cornish Muse affords, once in the Name of all that's Good, I humbly present you with, as the humble Specimens of an unmodish, hearty Gratitude: And this is a second Obligation I would have all Men to know I lie under to your Honourable and most Loyal Fraternity; a Debt of Gratitude, the most comprehensive of all Debts, and deeply found in Nature: I am (Sirs) undubitably secured of no Inferior Place in your Favour, by many pregnant Instances, but more especially by your last most sensible demonstration of Kindness, the Character whereof is indelibly wtitten in my Heart (as with a Diamond). Nor shall the Recognition of the same on all suitable occasions be only ingeminated in my Mouth, but also seconded by agreeable Action, so far forth as the Sphere and Abilities, which the Divine Goodness hath allotted me to act in, and by, shall permit: For so abundant and uncontrollably Gracious have been your Condescensions, that they are to me in reality as Glorious and obliging as the so much celebrated Descent of the Amorous God to his Danae's in a Golden Shower, could ever be to the most credulous Admirers of Poetic Fables: So that (Sirs) 'tis not at all to be reckoned amongst Wonders, that I thus expose and hazard the little Reputation of my Parts, to evidence and evince the greater Power and Prevalence of my Gratitude: But to ease your Patience, I conclude with the humble Oreizons of your Country Muse, 
Pardon a slender Vapour coming near,  
In this Ascent, towards your Noble Sphere:  
Ascent owed to no want of lowly Sense,  
But to your strong attractive Influence.  
Such Sacrifice from earth, Heaven don't disdain,  
Witness their kind returns in gentle Rain.  
And therefore cannot you, in whom are all  
The Constellations we can Heavenly call:  
So all Church Organs sing: Nor is there Room,  
Since you're great James' choice, for doubt to come.  
Take then this Mite amidst your Honouring Crowd,  
Which only of your Crowning Name is proud:  
A Pious Bird her humble Feathers brings,  
To the 
* The Temple of Diana at Ephesus.  Ephesian Glory; Asia's Kings  
Accept her Zeal amongst their noblest things:  
Nor was Goat's Hair, and badger's skin's put back  
From his blessed Seat 
⸫ The Sacred Tabernacle. , who could no Purple lack:  
'Tis not heavens Greatness to increase, but show  
What to its Goodness we poor Mortals owe,  
That all Religion means; therefore such Trees  
As give no food, the chiefest Deities  
Thought fit to ●● choose. Great Jupiter for Oak;  
Apollo, Laurel; Venus, Myrtle spoke;  
Bacchus, the Ivy; hercules, Poplar took.  
Then take you this, not meant to make you more,  
But only show, that we your worth a door▪  
Your Worth, which stands storm-proof, as sacred Oaks,  
And like the Laurel, smiles at lightning strokes  
Of envious eyes, of whose fresh leaves is made,  
As of a Myrtle Grove a pleasant shade,  
All to delight and shroud, that sing your Name,  
On Oaten Pipes, and teach the Woods the same;  
The Woods the same! Woods once obedient were,  
To Orpheus, and danced to's charmful Air.  
Nor did Rocks to Amphion less perform,  
His Music drew them mighty Thebes to form.  
So may your gentle Airs rude Nature storm,  
Storm to a Calm, till you bring on the stage,  
The peaceful Worlds most Loyal Golden Age:   
So Prays, Sirs, Your most Humbly Devoted, HENRY GRENFIELD.   

TO THE READER.  
Candid Reader,  
I Must satisfy myself in Advertising you, on what account my Littleness is so daring, as first, to offer any thing of its own to public view; and secondly, Why a work of this Nature? As for the first, I can solemnly affirm, I do it not without much painful Reluctance, Resulting from the Conscious and most Mature apprehensions of my Insufficiency to produce any thing of a Complexion strong enough to endure an open and piercing Air, which I have good reason to expect: But in this Dispute, the overruling consideration of Gratitude (as I afore hinted) remains Conqueror, and sways my Actions quite counter to my inclinations. As for the second, granting I am obliged by some moral enforcements to appear thus unwillingly public; why yet should I choose to do it in a dress of this kind, which by how much the more it is of Divine Materials, is by so much the more of weighty import, and hazardous attempt? For who is sufficient for those things? 'Tis the good pleasure of Heaven, to which we all owe the profoundest and chearfullest obedience, that hitherto I should remain short of the prime and darling end of my Studies; Namely, of being admitted to serve at the Holy Altar, or of going, not as the Scribes, but as one having authority, before the multitude, into the House of the Lord, in the Voice of Praise and thanksgiving, amongst such as keep Holiday; the Prime and Darling end (I say) of my Studies; for the meanest Doorkeeper in the House of God (as amongst us) Established by Law, in a decency and order, well becoming the Beauty of Holiness, and most expressive of the Heroical Primitive Piety, I ever Esteemed infinitely preferable to the Proudest Prince in the Synnagogues of Corah▪ For this reason, though with my heart I abhor all Sacrilegious Intrusions on the Altar, yet fain would I rival the little Sparrow and Swallow in contending for a place to Set and Sing within an allowable propinquity.  
In pursuance hereof, I cannot but endeavour, seeing Condemned (as the dumb Jack in the Virginals) to a Regretful silence, yet by one motion or other to contribute somewhat to the general Harmony, in which all Creatures, by the Indispensible Laws of their Creation ought to bear a part; that is, in the Resounding the praises of the most Glorious Creator, that great Harmostes, or Master of Harmony, which hath so Musically Composed the Universal Poem of both the Intellectual and Sensible Worlds, in just Number, Weight and Measure, that each part answers other, and all the Whole in most Tuneable Proportions.  
Nor could I accomplish this noble end in a more worthy Argument, than a cheerful Contemplation of the Divine Perfection in the Works of Creation and Providence; than which there is no part of Natural Theology more necessarily behooveful, or more excellently comfortable.  
As to myself, I am fully persuaded, there is no more efficacious preservative of the Life and true Happiness, or a more Vigorous Antidote against the Stings of Misery, than this one consideration of an Alwise, most Gracious All-disposing Providence; a General over the General System of the World, a special over man, and most special over good men; which consideration busies itself not so much in conversing (as Democritus) altogether with Melancholic Creatures, to search out the seat and nature of black choler; as in preventing (if possible) so malignant a humour; or if not, then in sweetening the Waters imbittered by it, with infusions of heavenly Nectar: Which otherwise might prove incomparably more unpotable than the bitterest of the Waters of Meribah. And what is so sensibly evident to me, with immediate respect to myself, I am also morally ascertained of with Relation to others; and more particularly, my Brethren in Religion, Church and Country; that especially, in these distracted and troublesome times, when all order hath been wickedly designed and attempted to be overwhelmed with Confusion: There is no more opportune consideration than this, as well for necessity, as pleasure: Nay, more necessary for the support, as well as of the being, as of the well-being of all natural, and consequently all revealed Religion; that being a main prop and foundation of this.  
It is true, the Holy Jesus, God blessed for ever incarnate, is the sole fountain of our true comfort; especially, of that most sublimated comprehensive comfort, the Peace of God, which passeth all understanding. Yet without a previous persuasion of this overruling Providence, this inexhaustible Fountain (quo ad nos) would inevitably dry up, as to the Act of affording us any solid, either present, or hoped Consolation. But let the good man which exerciseth himself herein to keep a Conscience void of Offence towards God and towards Man, carry about in his Bosom an applying consideration of Divine Providence: And he is most truly the Philosophers 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, a foursquared man; cast him where you will, he will be sure to fall as a die on a secure bottom. Which saving consideration of Divine Providence, that you and I, and all our Fellow Christians, may of the Divine Mercy obtain, and by the Divine Grace improve from one degree to another, till it arrives to a perfect Plerophory, is the hearty prayer of  
Your truly Affectionate HENRY GRENFIELD.   

GOD IN THE CREATURE. PART I.  
JUST were the Eyelids of the Morn unstay'd,  
And pleasant Light with nimble Wings displayed:  
Guilding with silver Strikes each fitted Cloud,  
Whilst early Larks their Matins sung aloud  
A grateful Hymn to welcome the glad sight  
Of heavens Firstborn Blessing, Earth's Delight,  
The smile of Nature, and bright Paraphrase  
On other Blessings, finer of the Cha's:  
When he who never sleeps, lightened mine eyes,  
Bade me to life from deathlike sleep arise:  
Whether some subtle Beam my clouded sense  
Pierced, or Lights secret quickening influence;  
I knew 'twas day, left Sleep and Bed, which have  
Such lively Pictures of sad Death and Grave:  
And having lift to him my Heart and Voice,  
Who makes each Morn's out-going to rejoice;  
I and my Friend pursued our wont delights,  
With new fresh Air to recreate our Spirits;  
Our Walk a River bounded on one side,  
Whose Crystal Streams with lulling Murmurs glide  
By goodly florid Banks: On th' other hand  
An Ancient Venerable Grove did stand;  
A Grove, which Nature strove to beautify  
With much and wonderful Variety:  
Tho well-boughed Trees gave a refreshing Shade,  
Yet Phoebus' gentle Beams of Flowers made,  
Of Herbs and Fruits such stores as might content  
The exigence of Use and Ornament:  
O rural, sweetest pleasures! here a mind  
Abstract from Earth, lost Paradise might find,  
Enjoying Paradise's chiefest Grace,  
Whilst she contemplates God in Nature's Face:  
The Birds among the Branches Anthems chant  
To his great Wisdoms Excellence, which can't  
Forget to teach, how they all Art may shame,  
In building Houses of exactest frame;  
Higher and lower as by Prophecy:  
What would th' approachng Summer's temper be,  
To nurse their dear young in, till they them bring,  
To trust in open Heaven to their Wing.  
Here poor young Ravens by unnatural  
Parents exposed; gaping to Heaven call,  
Which hears their piteous Importunities,  
And answers their dumb Prayers with quick supplies;  
Filling their mouths with Flies, or fertile Dews,  
Or somewhat else: But whatsoever we choose,  
Of Divine Goodness here's a pregnant sense,  
And signal wonder of its Providence:  
This all the neighbouring fields and valleys round,  
In echoing responses still resound:  
All cattle using Morn, Noon, Evening-tide,  
One Common-Prayer to him that doth provide  
Their food in season, rewards liberally  
Their Natural Religion's Liturgy:  
Immense Intelligence! which bruits dost guide,  
By rules above all Philosophic Pride:  
Men call them natural instincts, impressed  
On their wild Fancies, leading to the best  
Preservatives of their dear natures good,  
As if by reasons conduct understood.  
How would the new-hatched Duck by innate Love,  
Without example, to the Puddles move?  
The untaught Cockatrice into the ground  
An entry strive to make where none was found?  
Whilst generous Eagles from a like delight,  
Attempt with unfletcht wings, a nobler flight:  
What other dictates prompt young Hares, or Deer,  
Ne'er yet made game, to flee with swift-foot, fear  
The little Hound, who graze, yet never quake,  
By fierce-lookt Bulls of a tremendous make.  
Nor do the meanest Vegetables want  
Their part in this; good God's on every Plant;  
Each shows a signature unto the eye;  
A fair plain impress of Divinity;  
Which no malicious hand can ere deface,  
But ruining the creatures native Grace:  
No more than that famed 
* Phidias.  Artizan's great name,  
To whom Minerva's Target owed its Frame,  
Would to be razed by time, or envy, yield,  
Without the joint-defacing of the Shield:  
Their cunning make contrived so curiously,  
Of parts a useful multiplicity;  
Their due observance of set-times for growth,  
Some with more speed, and some with greater sloth,  
That strange variety which may be found,  
In one good natured little plot of Ground;  
Their charming beauties, Perfumes natural,  
And active Virtues most Medicinal:  
Their occult sympathetick Qualities,  
With their eternal strange Antipathies:  
All which we here contemplate, sober sense,  
In force to own, to proclaim Providence:  
But, vanity of men! we disbelieve  
What's far remote, with disregard receive  
What's nigh, as if who nearest Temples lie,  
Were re'lly farthest from the Deity.  
Plant Animal, within our walk ne'er moves,  
Nor can we speak of the Palmettoes loves:  
But here you'll see Lilies on every hand,  
Clothed all with Virgin-white in orders stand;  
Which though themselves do neither toil nor spin,  
Yet far outgallant Israel's pompous King;  
Yes, in the most serene and brightest day  
Of his most flourishing and glorious May.  
So that thy Faith, Reason, and Sense shall yield  
A God to clothe the Lilies of the Field.  
Nor is young Eglantine here without sense  
Of his sweet, kind, benign Influence;  
Which through its uncleft vail steals safely home,  
With virile heat into its Virgin-womb;  
When round it first a spiny fence he forms,  
To shroud its tender tirements from the storms;  
Replete with Heavens Dews, it spreads, and swells,  
Grows fair, full-cheeked, yet by its blushes tells,  
And tacitly confesses, that it knows,  
'Tis not to be compared with Sharon's Rose.  
Thus by these senseless beauty's excellence,  
We guess at Beauty's Flowers quintessence.  
No wonder was a Garden first designed  
For man's most noble contemplating mind;  
The Scene of the First Adam's Happiness,  
And of the Second Adam's great 
* Garden of Gethsemanes.  Converse:  
Yet here our Veneration's much at odds,  
With what Egypians paid their noble Gods:  
Their Gardens are their Temples, whence arise  
Thick sets of Leek, and Onion Deities.  
Sordid Religion! true, we can't neglect,  
To visit our fair Grove with much respect;  
A School of natural Theology,  
Each Plant a Preacher of the Deity:  
But to adore the work for Love or Fear,  
Is to affront the Maker, not endear.  
Yet I remind, I said, on t'other hand,  
An Ancient Venerable Grove did stand;  
Yes, Venerable for the Companies  
Of sacred Creatures, dazzling Mortal eyes:  
Whether they were of real Flesh refined,  
Or else in any shapes were all pure mind,  
I can't resolve; but where they trod, that ground,  
Methinks, commands a Reverence profound;  
'Twas here we heard a voice, as we passed by,  
Which quickly moved our swift cur'osity:  
We searched, and looking round, my friend espied,  
Under a Beech whose Boughs were thick and wide,  
Two Nymphs; whose form and Visage did bespeak  
Something in them extraord'nary great,  
But Dress and Gestures; some that sought relief,  
Under a long and sore afflicting grief:  
Alas! said he, two Angels from on high,  
Come to Condole Caitiff Man's misery.  
I through this bushy Covert see the Tears,  
Which their bright Eyes shed in their Evening prayers;  
By last nights cold (good God) they look so meek,  
Congealed to pearl on their sad pallid Cheek:  
Their Names we heard not, yet judge them to be,  
What we found new engraven on the Tree;  
Here lately sat forlorn Theophobe,  
With her dear Sister, scorned Philarete,  
Twins born of Eusebia, write the sage  
In Time's Beginning, and the World's first Age:  
As they have been Companions in their Birth,  
So undivided will they be in Death:  
The End of the First Part.   

OF GOD IN THE CREATURE. PART II.  
BUT as some Rivers in the salt sea drowned,  
Are undebauched, with native sweetness found.  
So these blessed minds untainted piety,  
Amidst a flood of vicious misery:  
From dunghill fumes there's no defilement done  
To these embodied beams of the Sun's Son:  
No, though we see them fall on such base ground,  
Yet pure with strong reflection they rebound:  
They'midst their tears prelude in sweet accents,  
Their morning Song to the Omnipotent's  
Great Glory, Wisdom, Power, and rich Goodness,  
Displayed in wonders through the Universe.  
Tune up (our Spirits) your Holy Harmonies,  
And let your full-fletched praises mount the Skies:  
Bless your Almighty Parent's sacred name,  
To whom you owe this your immortal Frame.  
Eternal King! thy Royal Excellence  
Transcends the world's whole vast circumference;  
It's Sceptre rules the Heavens in its Hand,  
It holds the ponderous Globe of Sea and Land,  
Filling beyond the Empyreum high,  
The boundless deserts of Immensity.  
Glory and Beauty ever thee Enfold,  
As some incorruptible Cloth of Gold.  
The Sun and Moon, great Luminaries, given  
To Beautify the outward Courts of Heaven;  
With all the Stars bespangling blackfaced night,  
Are brightish shades of thy primeval light,  
No more to that, than what dark nights permit,  
In putrid Sticks to play the Hypocrite;  
Or in Glow-worm's; can come in splendour near  
A Summer Solstice highest in its Sphere.  
With this thy Royal Palace flows alone,  
With this thou cloathest thy blessed self and Throne.  
O! strong eyed Eagles dare not it behold,  
'twould blind the Cherubin, were they too bold  
Unveiled to gaze on, though in proper place,  
The brightness of the Beatific Face.  
What tongues of men, or Angels, can express  
Thy Kingdom's unconceived Gloriousness;  
Tho shadowed out, and glim'ringly descried  
By Heaven's most magnificent outside!  
It's Glorious Host, all with great Letters Write  
God in their Frontispiece by their own Light,  
Their Light shows his, which never knew to rise,  
Wax, Wane, Eclipse, and never setting dies;  
Their Order his, each motion of them tend  
To that, which none but he that made can mend,  
Nor Solve the least Phenomena of it  
By their Romantic Whirli-pools of Wit.  
He Rules them all with Law, which by consent  
Unanimous they all Obey, content  
To move on their own Centres, as they were  
First bad, like Fishes in a Sea of Air:  
By no informing Life of Reason, Sense,  
Nor outward assisting Intelligence.  
Old Sages dreams, except that mind profound,  
Which every where, and no where can be found,  
Piercing unseen all things, which we may call  
The only truly Universal Soul.  
This first these mighty Machines' did display,  
Keeps still in well-tuned motion, since that day,  
No clash, no jar; who this Contemplates, hears  
The Pythagorean Music of the Spheres.  
Which speaks (great God of Peace) the Harmony  
Of thy most Wise Celestial Hierarchy;  
And of thy Universal Monarchy.  
Their vigorous Virtues show their Maker's strength,  
Which knows no height, or depth, no breadth or length.  
How cheerful goes the Sun? Like some Bridegroom  
Advancing forth of his attiring Room,  
Adorned with Gold, and Gems on every side,  
Burning to meet the Lovely slothful Bride,  
Whom Bedded, Moon and Stars by his lent light  
Revel, and Dance out the Ensuing night.  
Nor knows their Cheer decay; but each days Sun  
Doth like a Wine-refreshed Giant run;  
His Race no stop, his Labour loves no Rest,  
That all may with his Lifeful Heat be Blest.  
From their Harmonious Courses time begun,  
And seasons with their various Tempers sprung;  
Day into Night, Spring into Autumn dies,  
With these; and after dead, with these arise:  
Besides their common Influence, and light,  
The Stars in Martial Mode his Battles Fight,  
Who calls them all to Muster by their Names,  
And of their force a dread Militia Frames;  
Witness thou Ancient River Famed Kishon,  
Thou Gibeon, and thou Vale of Aijalon.  
They March in Order at his bare Command,  
And at his word 'midst their Careers they stand.  
Beneath these Glorious Globes; next thou spread'st out  
(What a rare Orb of Immixed Fire about,  
Or in the Ample hollow of the Moon,  
Which Astronomick Hawks would spy out soon,  
Were not its Nature so Refin'dly good,  
Not to be seen, felt, heard, or understood?  
No; Thou (great Wisdom) which o'er all dost reign  
Created'st nought in Nature's Frame in vain).  
The Liquid Heaven of Expanded Air,  
A spacious Tent Magnificently Fair;  
Three noble Stories compassing Earth's Globe,  
Stupendious Frame roofed with a Starry Robe.  
The low'rmost Room, where Winged Creatures Fly,  
Hath hanging Waters for its Canopy,  
In which the Architect hath laid the Floor,  
And Beams of his Etherial Chambers o'er:  
Wondrous Geometry! these without fear  
On Waters Lean, Waters on Fleeting Air.  
There March the Clouds, which the great King of King's  
Rules as his Chariots, Wheeled with swift Winds  
On which he Rides Triumphant, when Descends wings,  
To work his Judgements, and his Mercies ends;  
Hence roar (dread Might) thy great Artillery,  
When thou speakest Thunder from the Flaming Sky:  
Tho mostly conduits, thorough which thy hands  
Make glad with Streams of Fatness, Thirsty Lands,  
O! the unseen, Divinest Majesty,  
Vouchsafed in Shining Clouds to Humane Eye!  
Like Doves, and Eagles, with their outspread wing,  
They hover, light, and Glorious Angels bring,  
Courtiers of Heaven, to represent the mind  
Profound, which no quick Lynceus' Eye can find;  
Who by his Ministers thus oft appears,  
Sometimes in Flames, sometimes white subtle Airs.  
As Stars, Fire Air, by motion do his will,  
So heavy Earth obeys by standing still:  
Lo, how it stands on itself firmly bas't  
The World's fixed centre, by deep wisdom placed,  
That poised with its own weight 'midst fluid Air  
Can fall no way (O hand which placed it there!)  
Unless quite cross to Nature it should soon  
Fall upwards; Mountains tumbling to the Moon.  
O thou, whose Throne's above the lofty Skies,  
In Glory unapproacht by mortal Eyes!  
If we descend beneath the silent Cells  
Of all the Dead, thy boundless Self there dwells.  
We find thee in vast Treasures without end,  
Which nought but Avarice can comprehend.  
Art thou not in the Mother Water's deep?  
Near to the Region's confines, where no sleep  
Allays the restless pains of Damned Souls  
In blackest darkness, who with horrid Howls  
Ring doleful Knells to their Eternal Death,  
Which ever Lives, whose pangs are still in birth.  
Or could we with the morning's wings take flight  
To th' utmost Sea, swift as a Dart of Light,  
Thy right Hand in a thought us apprehends,  
Which far beyond all tracts of Sea extends.  
'Twas thy outstretched Arm, which clothed the Globe  
Of Earth with Sea, first as a watered Robe,  
Then a waved belt, wonder of wisdom made  
For maintenance of Universal Trade  
Betwixt all Lands: with Law it Ebbs and Flows,  
Which all Eyes see; how, no grand Sophy knows:  
It's Towering Floods at thy rebuke are laid,  
And fly, at thy loud Thunder's Voice afraid.  
As in just Noah's days, when for men's sins,  
To Clouds, densed Air, Sea, Treasure-house of Springs,  
Thy fury let an uncontrolled way  
To make the Universe one Shoreless Sea:  
Waves 'bove the tops of Hills lift their proud head,  
At thy Command, at thy Command they fled;  
Awed all by thy rebuke's Majestic Grace,  
With haste away to their appointed place;  
And though they now like Mountains rise, again  
Fall down, like Valleys to a spacious Plain:  
Their bounds are fixed by thine Almighty hand,  
Which rein's their rage with nought but cords of Sand,  
That they shall ne'er return to drown the Land.  
Through spongy bottoms they occultly creep  
Into the Mother Water's silent deep,  
Great Treasure-House, still teeming Womb of some  
Clear, pleasant Fountains; whence sweet waters come  
Through strange Meanders percolated from  
The Native saltness of the Ocean's Womb;  
Or who knows in what Stills from Brine Refined,  
Which as the 
* Caput Mortuum, or dead head with Chemists.  liveless head resides behind.  
Those condensed vapours in close Caverns Love  
Much to Augment; so showers from above,  
Which Winter Springs exalt to haughty looks,  
And Rapid Torrents send from little Brooks.  
Some keep the tinctures, gusts, and qualities  
Of Metal Veins, through which they run and rise;  
Well-Springs of Health, O most medicinal  
(Prepared by Chemic Nature) mineral!  
Here others meet with subterraneous Flames,  
Calcining kilns, hot Spirits, which know no names,  
Whose angered heat with the frigidity,  
Connate to Water, fights, gains Victory  
With its exaspered force; when won the day,  
With fumes, and boiling rage they make their way  
To bathe racked Mortal's limbs, whose welcome ease  
Extolls with an eternal Song their praise.  
But what e'er deep-reacht Engineer hath found  
Thy water-pipes (prime Nature) under ground?  
Thou, that canst to the low-placed 
* By low placed Dairy, is meant Consceptaculum Pecqueshanums the common receptacle placed at the Root of the Mecentery, upon the Vertebrae of the Loins, into which the Kile reduced to a Milky substance is conveyed, and from whence a considerable part thereof ascends through wonderful Ladiducts, or a Milky way into the Mother's Breast. See Caroltons' Oicono-animal. Exercit. the 3 d. Bartholin's Anato.  Dairy say,  
Send up sweet Liquors through the Milky-way;  
Flow up white Rivulets, nor stay with rest  
Your course, till you distend the Mother's Breast;  
Or to the Read-Sea boiling in man's heart,  
Send constant streams to the superior part:  
Thou knowst by what protrusion these ascend  
Through winding Veins to Hills from whence they bend  
Their course; with deaf'ning Cataracts, like loud  
Shot-Thunder roaring from a thick-walled Cloud;  
Others with pleasing murmurs, till they fall  
Into the greedy Ocean, which drinks all,  
More than ten thousand Rivers, drinks them up,  
Still fills, yet never overflows its Cup.  
No, thou dost all (great Ruler of the Seas)  
With circulating kindness save and please,  
The Sea lends to be paid, the Fountains send  
Due payment back of that the Sea doth lend:  
What man, and beast deduct, the Clouds again  
With Interest pay, in frequent Floods of Rain;  
These swell the Rivers running 'mong the Hills,  
Whereof the Fields whole Herd of cattle fills  
With grateful drink, their panting summer's lust,  
And the wild Asses quench their Flaming Thirst:  
At their descent the subject valleys ring,  
With interchange of Echoes, Laugh, and Sing;  
Whilst Feathered Choristers make melody  
In consort with the purling Harmony,  
From their branched banks, in Quires, which they then raise  
To warble out their thankful strains of praise:  
When swallows from old hollow Oaks awake,  
And near thy Altars (Lord) their stations take:  
When from the Baltic, Birds bring back the Spring  
With swift-flight joy in their triumphing wing.  
Nothing in Nature God-less can be found,  
But in, through, over all God's going round.  
The lofty Hills, which depressed Valleys fill  
With streams, but on themselves can none distil;  
His wisdom's goodness waters from above,  
With Nectar draughts, which by his bounteous love  
Sent from his clouded Chambers with fair crops  
Of Grass, Herbs, Corn, every their arid tops:  
These thankful soils exhale towards the Skies  
In sums, as morn and evening Sacrifice;  
Which when the power of Clouds vouchsafes to choose,  
As sacred Incense gives them back in dews  
In token of acceptance, with access,  
As of new duty, so new happiness.  
Hence fruitful snows descend on gentle wing,  
As if they would to Earth from Heaven bring  
The Milkey-way: Fair Ermines blush to view  
The lucid whiteness of their spotless hue:  
These with thy Frosts (great God of seasons) make  
A winter-mantle, when thick-furred Bears do shake  
In their close Dens, to arm the Earth from fear  
Of Hostile Inroads from a ridgid air:  
Whilst they shut up her Spirits Vegetive,  
Restore, and keep her Vital Flames alive.  
How cruel kind is Cold? Vain Clowns complain  
Of what they have, and what not, wish again▪  
They sweetly melt with willing Violence,  
When by the fixed Laws of Providence  
The Golden Chariot of the cheerful Sun  
Doth through the fair spring-gate begin to run,  
And briskly drives with a victorious grace,  
Like some great Prince towards his Summer's race.  
The Earth unbosomes to receive his kind  
Heart-piercing Beams, which a like welcome find,  
As in a long-betrothed Virgin's Arms,  
Her wished Lover's most endearing Charms.  
Now all the Spirits, which long dormant lay,  
Towards her Surface nimbly take their way;  
Both to congratulate his blessed Advent,  
And to renew their Amor's sweet content.  
Her Diverse-coloured Easter-Cloaths appear,  
Which in her Breast were Chested half the year;  
And buried Grain, whilst with new Life they grow,  
A Resurrection in Effigy show.  
What youthful limbs appear on aged Stocks,  
And on old storm-proof heads fresh curled Locks?  
Fields, Gardens, Grottoes, Groves in every part  
Exceed by far all Luxuries of Art,  
And much more splendid braveries display,  
Than walks about King's Courts on a May-day.  
O Immense Good! what corner's destitute  
Of thy stupendious works abundant Fruit?  
Before hard Winter drains out Summers' store,  
Thy Royal Bounty timely flows in more  
Plenty of springing Grass for Cattles wealth,  
And every Plant for Man's Grace, Hunger, Health.  
No sad complaints are heard, no mournful tones  
In Streets from pining folk; no hollow groans  
From empty Bowels of clean Granaries  
Prevent the shouts of a new Harvest's cries;  
But he that Crowns the year doth still Adorn  
Each Loaf-mess with the Blessings of New Corn:  
Nor have Men Bread alone (though theyed despise,  
And rather Feast on Nature's spoils, their Eyes)  
Their Hearts chief strength, which best recruits  
Of Fuel to the Fire, that burns within; (can bring  
Lest wanting of due Oil, still fresh supplies,  
The Lamp of Life sinks down, goes out, and dies.  
No, their good God provides them liberally,  
As well for pleasure, as necessity.  
The Fat of Olives makes their Face to shine,  
Supples their Joints; whilst the most fruitful Vine  
Cheers up their Hearts with generous Racie-Wine.  
This Charms the Fiend of the great Benjamite,  
Puts all Black Mists, and empty Clouds to flight,  
And makes the mind a Heaven full of Light;  
Lifts up the Dunghill Beggar from a Stone,  
To make him sit with Princes on a Throne;  
And though dejected to the Gates of Death,  
To Rival Angels in refined Mirth.  
But ah! how Mortals change their Festivals  
Into licentious brutish Bacchinals;  
Transform their noble selves to sordid Swine,  
By sparkling Bowls of high Falernian Wine:  
Rivers of Fire their divine spark oppress,  
And Drown, and Burn the little Universe;  
Ambitious of the greater's ruins names  
At once to perish, both by Flood and Flames.  
Thus greatest goods prove greatest hurts; the first  
For excellence, are in corruption worst:  
Sin into Nature the old Chaos brings,  
And quite untunes the Harmony of things.  
'Twas only after its unhappy Birth,  
That Trees of Life brought forth such Fruits of Death,  
Olives and Vine; which show the prosperous state  
Of the good man with his most happy fate:  
His dearest spouse is like the Bearing Vine,  
Whose tender arms round its supporters twine  
With chaste Embraces, till from mutual Love  
A noble Progeny begins to move  
Of well Gemmed Boughs, and with their clustered head  
To deck the Tiles, at length to overspread  
The Mansions Walls. Blessed man! which hath her sight,  
Comprising such rare Profit and delight.  
His graceful sons appear as in the East,  
Where Men for Pleasure in cool Arbours Feast;  
Those Olive-Branches, which are Planted round  
Their Summer Tables on a Florid ground.  
So all thy Trees (good Lord) declare the same  
Great Honour of-thy Celebrated Name.  
Thy Name, which all were Graven on their barks,  
And if we look within, they all are Arks  
Carrying a wonder-working God: without  
All art of man, replete with sap they sprout,  
They spread, and Flourish, till they grow so high  
To threaten with their tops the starry sky.  
What Cedars Crown (proud Lebanus) thy Land,  
So Planted there, dread Lord, by thy Right Hand,  
That from less than a shrub a numerous race  
Of sweet-wood Turrets should adorn one place?  
Nor are they all for Palaces, and thine  
Own sacred Temple's Majesty Divine;  
But for less than half-farthing Birds to nest  
Themselves, taught by thy Wisdom where is best  
For their dear safety from ill Vermin's hurt;  
So is the Fir the Stork's exalted for't.  
The Wild Goats save themselves by speedy flight  
To craggy Mountains, from the Hunter's sight:  
As timorous Coneys by good Providence  
Find clifted Rocks for Houses of defence.  
Thus, all, whom no projecting reason arms,  
Well Bulwarked Nature guards, and saves from harms,  
Nor are apt times forgot for getting Food,  
The Hunter sleeps, they seek their Livelihood.  
For as the pale Moon by her various Reign  
Of seasons constitutes a constant Train,  
Months, Feasts, so knows the Sun both time and place,  
When, where to rise; when, where to hide his Face;  
From East he rides still o'er the Western Seas  
To give good Morrow to th' Antipodees,  
Deputing Moon and Stars by his lent Light,  
To give the upper Hemisphere good Night.  
The shades fall greater from the tops of Hills,  
And smoke of Cottages the Country fills,  
Whose painful Swains refreshed with honest meat  
That day acquired by their foreheads sweat,  
On strawy Pillows lie more truly blest  
With Jacob's Visions, and sweet-dreaming rest,  
Than mighty Kings, who lay their busy heads  
In Tyrian Curtains on rich Downy Beds.  
And now's the time, when one black fleece of Night  
Sometimes but stripped with strikes of twinkling Light,  
To humane Eyes solicits grateful sleep,  
And draws the Woods inhabitants to creep  
Out from their secret places to appease  
Their hunger's spurs, impatient of delays;  
The Royal Lion's Whelps roar on their way,  
And seek of thee (great God of might) their prey,  
As Infants with strong importunities  
Implore their Mother's tender Ears, and Eyes:  
Their robust Nerves their swift pursuit prevent,  
And fiery temper their sagacious Sent;  
But oh! wise Providence! how that supplies,  
What their own nature's exigence denies!  
Are not observant Jackales still at hand  
To Hunt what their fierce Appetites demand?  
Nor dares the Prey when found, these Princes fly,  
They Thunderstrike it dead with fear to die;  
Whose stomaches satisfied, still some remains  
Reward their Sedulous Purveyor's pains.  
Thus all night long they Triumph in the Field;  
And Civil States to Savage Licence yield:  
But when the Morning's Herald with a cry  
Proclaims, fair Phosphorus approacheth nigh  
To Usher in the Sun, which now draws near  
To gild the Suburbs of the Hemisphere;  
They haste away to hide their fearful heads,  
And lay them down together in their Beds.  
The shades all vanish at Aurora's blush;  
And thankful Birds break off the profound hush  
Of silent darkness, as they then begin  
Their Morning Song to the Celestial King.  
Man with new Vigour goes forth to his work,  
Whilst the disturbers of his quiet lurk  
In sleeping Dens, until the Evening Star  
Proclaims cessation to his toil; so far,  
No farther, is thy foreheads sweat decreed,  
Let welcome rest, and kind sweet-sleep succeed,  
Renew exhausted Spirits: thus day and night  
To man and beast by turns bring fresh delight.  
O Lord! how manifold are thy great acts?  
What wisdom shines in all thy noble facts?  
Thy matchless Riches in vast pomp possess  
The utmost Limits of Earth's Universe:  
So of thy restless Sea, whose spacious hands  
With wide Embraces circled all the Lands;  
There Various Kind's of swimming Creatures Live,  
Both great and small, which mighty wonders give  
Of something more Unfathomed than that deep,  
Where some move swift, some with slow motion creep.  
There dwells that proud Leviathan, which plays  
With Fishes, Ships, Sands, Rocks, with winds, and Seas;  
Sporting all other Empire to Disdain  
But thine, and man's, as Subject to thy Reign,  
Who mad'st both it to Triumph over them,  
And man Viceroy to Lord it over him;  
In wooden Castles winged with suited winds  
Out of thy Treasures, how he flies, and finds  
A passage to all Lands through Seas? No rest,  
Till he returns fraught with the East and West.  
When thou (good God) command'st the Storm to rise  
On swelling Floods he mounts up to the Skies  
Then (with what grisly horror who can tell)  
Descends down quick into the Jaws of Hell,  
He reels, and staggers like one drunk, now tossed  
From post to stem, than back from stem to post;  
No observation of glad Sun, or Stars,  
Nor hears he ought, but winds, and waves in Wars;  
Except contending thunder to outvie  
The Dog-mad rage of their tempestuous cry.  
What shall he do, distressed Soul? Because  
His melting Heart like breaking waters flows?  
He cries to God, who lays the storm to sleep,  
And bids that Mountain Seas do humbly creep.  
The Heaven is Unmant'led, looks serene,  
And joyful headlands come in ken again:  
So from Death's Gulf he in triumphing sort,  
With Flags Displayed spins in the wished Port.  
O that they would, dread God thy wonders teach,  
And through the world thy Immense goodness preach  
To man! to man, whose nature seems to vie  
With Glorious Angels for Nobility,  
His Highborn Soul from Unborn God descent  
(O his delight, and sweetest Ornament!)  
Disdains the pettish frowns of Austere Fate,  
And overlooks in Triumph Mortal State;  
Soar's far above the Funeral pile on high  
With Eagles wings up to Eternity  
To live when Nature, and when Death shall die.  
Nor did her house eclipse the happiness,  
And Grandeur of its honourable Guests:  
Its form spoke at first sight it did enshrine  
Something at least by Parentage divine;  
Above the force of a material vein,  
Unapt but for a gross ignoble strain;  
Whilst other creatures looked towards the ground,  
Man only with an upright face was found:  
Which his great Maker willed to lift intent  
Up to the Stars, the place of his descent,  
By a fifth Muscle; which in none we find,  
But in man's eye, for upward looks designed.  
But how that fair Soul in the Mire now lies,  
Which clogs her Eagle-wings, and soils her eyes  
With noisome steams that like an earth-bred mole,  
Sadly degenerated, though not in whole;  
She badly mounts, much less sustains the sight,  
Without regret of any thing that's bright:  
How is the mighty fallen (Noble Soul!)  
Not by a fortuned, but a chosen fall;  
First from thy being's fundamental Law,  
A Transcript of th' Eternal, without Flaw;  
Then from the Stars down to the lowest rate  
Of brutish life with thy corporeal Mate;  
Changed from a Temple to a noisome Sty  
Of languid sloth, and vile impurity:  
The Divine Image lies entombed within  
A living Carcase, walking Grave of Sin:  
Reason dethrones its self; Sense without fear  
Usurps the Throne; wild Passions domineer;  
The Will yields freely her Imperial right  
To the tyrannic Lusts of Appetite:  
O Chaos of Confusion! whence such Pride?  
Do Masters lackey, whilst their servants ride?  
And Kings make up their subjects humble Train  
Of captive Vassals to confirm their Reign?  
Awake the Earth's great Monarch! will he have  
Aught but the Title of a Royal Slave?  
Let him be King of, and in Man, to none  
Subject, but his great Lords Eternal Throne,  
Of whom he holds his Diadem in Fee;  
By whom King's reign, and Princes do decree:  
Knock off his Chains, let him to purpose know,  
Himself the rightful Lord of all below;  
So shall the people of the Air, Sea, Field,  
Pay humble Homage, and due Tribute yied:  
For hold they not of thee their breath and lives,  
From whom man's Throne its Origine derives?  
Their eyes wait all on thee; thy copious hand  
Fills all their mouths with good by sea and land:  
Thou giv'st them meat in season, they rejoice  
To gather it; when thou concealest thy voice  
They mourn in silence; when thou hidest thy Face,  
Their beauty falls, and all their goodly Grace:  
When thou withdraw'st thy breath, their spirits fly,  
And they resolved into ashes, die.  
And should thy Power one moment but suspend  
Its act, whole Nature makes a sudden end:  
Heaven and distant Earth would soon come near;  
Each Star drop down from its transparent sphere;  
The Moon would cease to yield her various light,  
And Sun himself be darkened into night;  
The Fire for want of heat, would i'll to death;  
The Air breathe out its last in one groans breath;  
Mountains would skip away like frighted Rams;  
And all the little Hills like fearful Lambs;  
Water and Earth would be again commixed,  
As when no order was in Nature fixed;  
The Elements confused in one rude Mass;  
Yes, all would swift into prime Nothing pass:  
Nor were it hard that then thou shouldst renew  
This ruin'd Theatre to public view;  
Whose Word could in a thought bring on the stage,  
The peaceful worlds most happy Golden Age:  
Thy Majesty in all thy works renowned,  
Beyond all time, sends an amazing sound;  
How when he frowns, the earth distracted shakes,  
As with a strong Convulsion groans and quakes,  
And rents with grief at what his fury can  
To unrelenting Rocky-hearted man:  
The smitten Mountains smoke, belch out and burn,  
As if they would all into embers turn:  
But what art thou, fierce Aetna! which dost raise,  
With flaming Rivers, the Cicilian Seas,  
To them, which the consuming fire did rain  
On Sodoms and Gomorrah's sinful Plain?  
And they but puny sparks to that great lake  
Of Flames prepared for the damned's sake:  
There burn, yet never burnt, the godless spirits,  
Of evil men and Angels, which the lights  
Of Nature, Grace, and Glory would despise,  
Beyond redress, with bold contemptuous eyes:  
But we, whilst being lasts, Immortal King,  
Will thy great Names exalted Praises sing:  
We thy Delight, and thou our Joy shalt be,  
In us thy Glory, and our Bliss in thee.  
Glory to God the Father, Son, and Spirit,  
One boundless Fountain of Eternal Light:  
As ever 'twas before all time begun,  
So is, and ever shall, when time is done.  
The End of the Second Part.   

OF GOD IN THE CREATURE. PART III.  
THus sung these Nymphs: but as the clearest day,  
Is not without some passing Clouds; so may,  
And often doth the most Celestial Mind,  
This side the Moon, molesting passions find;  
Passions in bounds, moving to proper ends,  
Commence not Rebels, but are Reasons Friends:  
Friends to Devotion: what diviner proves,  
Than holy raging, holy mourning loves?  
Such mudless Floods filled, and all day oppressed  
The holy God-mans' unpolluted breast:  
Stoics are stocks, or else 'twixt them and Gods,  
'Tis hard to find out any real odds:  
No, They're above by their grave Senate's voice;  
God's calm by Nature, they by generous choice:  
Egregious Pride! vaunt men an Apathy,  
Not found in Angel's Immortality!  
They joy when we do well, than no doubt weep  
To see us buried in Lethargic sleep:  
So these dear Twins from joy to sorrow turn,  
To think how Vice triumphs, and Virtues mourn.  
Some whiles a profound silence occupies  
Their lips and looks; then tears flow from their eyes.  PHILARETE speaks. 
At length Philarete, alas, our age,  
Exiled from Converse to a Hermitage!  
Good God why might not virtue sometimes fear  
An Inter-Regnum of thy Royal Care;  
Seeing her vanquished self so trodden down,  
And her proud Rival circled with a Crown?  THEOPHOBE. 
To say the world in a blind Atom-dance,  
Stumbled into its beauteous form by chance,  
More Frenzy speaks, than that without a hand  
Sweet David's Psalter should be writ in Sand:  
Nor is it less to think, 'tis left to lie,  
Without its Maker's overruling eye:  
Rich Sheba's Queen, without sight or report,  
Of the wise Jew, might see him in his Court:  
Such Beauty shows the Lord's Magnificence;  
Its constancy his watchful Providence.  
When Nature in a Sea floats there and here,  
There needs some constant Pilot at the Steer.  PHILARETE. 
All this is plain; but that a special eye  
Is fixed on men, dumb's all Philosophy:  
'Twould rather speak a Goddess, Fortune blind,  
To raise the base, depress the noble mind.  THEOPHOBE. 
Philosophy must grant, that active love,  
Which on the dark Abyss did gently move,  
To hatch the World, and now with tender wings,  
Kindly protects the Universe of things;  
Leaves not their Lord, Compendium of them all,  
For making whom it did a Council call,  
Of the most wise Three-One; a clear presage  
Of some dear Offspring in its own Image:  
This were to null the Laws of all wise Love,  
And make it like the cruel Ostrich prove;  
Whose Iron Bowels leave her harmless Egg,  
To wait the crush of every chancing Leg;  
And yet indeed Philosophy can't sound  
The depths of Providence, which know no ground.  
Much more exceeding shallow humane brain,  
Than shells fall short of the unfathomed Main:  
Shall men explode a Being without end,  
Because no finite can it comprehend?  
Question the Ocean too, you may as well,  
Because you cannot hold it in a Shell:  
Question a real Sun, you may as soon,  
Because not to be lanthorned at high-noon.  
This knew the ancient Hero's, and the more,  
For adverse fate, did meekly this adore;  
Making their Reason, when they saw it fail,  
In these great deeps to strike to Faith the sail:  
By Fortune's looks 'twas never understood,  
How to discern the vicious from the good:  
For that bright Saint, the man of Gods own Heart,  
Had both of smiles, and of her frowns his part,  PHILARETE. 
Yet they complained their Faith failed to behold,  
Virtue in rags, and Vice in vests of Gold:  
Yes, famous singers of the inspired Choir,  
Not with a common but Seraphic Fire.  THEOPHOBE. 
Their Faith recoiled, yet trembling, till it whole  
Returned like Magnet-needles to the Pole:  
It shook, not fell, as by a strong surprise  
The Fort of Life and Spirit, swoons, not dies.  
Such conflicts (Sister) bring forth happy fruits,  
As well-set Trees by storms get firmer Roots:  
No Fight, no Palm, the Church Triumphant's founded  
Upon the Militant its Purple Ground;  
Nor would blest Vision bring such unthought joy,  
Had not Faith here been mixed with some alloy.  PHILARETE. 
But emulation frequently possessed,  
With envious Flames these holy Father's Breast,  
To see with dropping eyes, the impious ride  
At Anchor in so high Pacifick tie 
⸫ Psa. 73. from verse 2. onward.   
Of happiness, to sail when, where they please,  
With Winds at will, in smooth obedient Seas:  
No Sands, Rocks, Remora's the course impede,  
Where their desires them uncontrolled lead;  
Through right & wrong, devoid of fear and care,  
Displaying their proud Streamers through the air.  
No heavy bands, cried they, of griping pain,  
From hasty Fate their pleasant race restrain?  
But life runs freely in one even thread,  
As in the Weaver's smooth, unknotted Web,  
Drawn by kind constant Fortune out at length,  
To extreme Age, crowned with vivacious strength.  
And when they must unbounded by pangs or fear,  
They fleet and vanish like a puff of air.  
A death like to their life; which free from stings  
Of humming cares, which Virtue swarming brings  
To her perplexed lovers, sweetly flows  
In pleasure, which no Plagues, no sorrow knows.  
The Clouds let fall more than their houses take;  
Nor could their minds just hopes or wishes make,  
Equal to their envied Felicity,  
Which drops uncared, uncalled for from the Sky:  
This swells their hearts with Insolence and Pride,  
Blows up their breasts with airy thoughts so wide,  
That self-adoring Zeal, rules and gives thence  
The Reins to a Tyrannic Violence;  
Their big words terrify the Minor sort,  
Who throng in crowds at their great Names report;  
Prone to adore a Glorious Rising Sun,  
Although it burns as oft as shines upon.  
Nor stay their Tongues on Earth, but threat the Stars,  
From their proud Babel's, with Gigantic Wars.  
No silent Murmurs, but defiance loud,  
Tush, the most High sits careless in a Cloud:  
Doth God see this, and yet (who all sin blames)  
Abstain from Thunder, from vindictive flames!  
These are the men that prosper, these are blest  
With Riches, Honours, unmolested rest;  
Leaving their Sons a great ennobled Name,  
And landed Mansions called by the same:  
In vain do some, as living Temples, clean  
Their broken-hearts, in vain their hands contain  
In Innocence; in vain, for Virtue's sake,  
Reproaches, Taunts, (what not?) with Patience take;  
Whilst prosperous Vice is Virtue; Fiends are made  
The only Saints in modish Masquerade!  
But I desist, lest seem to disapprove  
Their select Lot, whom hoped Glories move.  THEOPHOBE. 
Thus holy Men indeed might greatly slide,  
When they presumed to measure things so wide,  
With their short Feet, and by Vertigo fall,  
Weighing their God in the uncertain Scale  
Of humane Brain, trusting to their own Wit,  
They might, benighted still in darkness sit:  
But when with groping tired, they recurred  
To go with a pure heart, and humble Word  
Into the Sacred Courts; there by address  
To lively Oracles, the happiness  
Of Virtue's Foes was seen, and crowning ends,  
Not to be greatly envied by her Friends;  
The mighty Patience, whilst that long it spares  
The Grandeur of its Glory, thus declares;  
And writes fair Lines for Mortals to transcribe,  
Which greedily (ah grief!) Revenge imbibe:  
Should Heaven thus reward, we might think well,  
The Earth long since must needs be made a Hell;  
It spares, and offers Mercy; who refuse,  
Are left without all shadow of excuse:  
And whom no gentle Flames of Love can turn,  
To melt, the all-consuming Fire will burn:  
Burn up those Rods with which the King of kings  
Doth use to scourge his Subjects for their sins:  
Lifted, like Eagles Cockles, up on high,  
O how they fall! much, much more heavily  
From lofty Turrets down to dismal Cells,  
From fancied Heavens into real Hells;  
Made fat, and decked, as Beasts by Votaries  
Designed, and kept till fit for Sacrifice;  
Their peccant fullness turns to a disease,  
No poison's worse than that which loves to please:  
In pleasant Philtrums, or in Candid Pills;  
First it delights, then toxicates and kills;  
No plenty heals, but much dilates the sore;  
As drinking, Fevers are inflamed the more:  
Give, give, like barren Wombs, the Miser cries,  
New wants abound still with his New supplies:  
What though their Gaieties may long look brisk,  
And whilst the Sun shines, kindly dance and frisk,  
As all Fanatic shows; yet at the last  
The black Day comes, with speed, though not with haste;  
Vengeance falls on at once, nor brooks remands,  
Although with leaden Feet, yet Iron Hands:  
When Divine Furies, thus in storm arise,  
Ill Treasure with its Lords, dispersed flies;  
As Golden Images, which use to creep  
In to illude the sanguine Dreamers sleep,  
Leave nought but melancholic thoughts behind,  
To the awakened, vain, deceived mind:  
But grant a life, (which is too rare to see)  
Were wholly spent in perfect Comedy;  
Yet what's all Time to Ever? it appears  
Less than a Moment to Ten Thousand Years:  
For take each moment, Millions from the Score,  
Still there remain Millions of Millions more:  
Nor could all Requiems united, spell  
The ingrate sounds of one eternal Knell,  
Which pierce and grate not less, but much the more,  
For too sweet Sirens Music heard before.  
Sometimes the darling proves a discontent  
To her own Lover; Crime is Punishment:  
Alas! 'tis seen when men grow mostly sage,  
They curse, not worship, in their cooled Age  
Those Delilahs, to which as Deities,  
Their Youth would Life and Fortune Sacrifice:  
Now anxious Breasts echo in sighs and groans,  
The mindful grating of their tortured bones;  
Nor is the calm-looked sinner less oppressed  
With secret Furies, which will know no rest,  
But intertwine their Scorpion Hairs with his  
Most soft embraces of endeared bliss;  
His Minion Snake, which no wise voice can charm,  
The very bosom stings which keeps it warm:  
So that his Life, as to the inward Scheme,  
Transcribes Prometheus' Vulture for its Theme.  
His looks, like Aetna's, may wear Snow without,  
Yet Bowels burn with Flames which ne'er go out,  
Till swallowed up in greater, they unite,  
With the black Fires of an eternal night,  
Which imbred Scenes of Judgement represent,  
Anticipating long the dire Event.  PHILARETE. 
A sorry bliss, which soon as pressed, must  
Like Sodom's Apples, crumble into dust:  
Sad sweets, which when into the belly fall,  
Like Saint John's Book, are turned into Gall.  
Who would not fly such dear Felicities,  
Which surely end in endless Precipice?  THEOPHOBE. 
But had true Virtue nothing to entice,  
But her fair self; yet that sweet Paradise  
Alone might be sufficient to engage  
In vestal Flames a whole Platonic Age:  
The great King's Daughter, Brightness of his Face,  
His reflex Image, and the first in place:  
Of his dear Offsprings, decked all o'er with Gems,  
Which outshine Stars, eclipse all Diadems  
Which wealthy Ophir ever could supply,  
Or force of seven Flames could purify:  
Blessed man! whose Spouse she is, what heart but his  
Can think the Raptures of their Nuptial Bliss?  
She's brought unto him most divinely dressed,  
By curious hands, in an embroidered Vest:  
Her Virgin Cousins bear her Company;  
A band of Graces: Oh! what melody,  
What august Pomp, when to consummate all,  
They pass up to her Father's Royal Hall?  
But whilst this side, what's his blessed Bosom less,  
Than a calm Heaven full of Happiness?  
At least an Angel standing Centinel,  
With charge to see that all may here go well.  
No turbid Winds blow in this sedate Sky;  
But lest its Air inclines to putrify,  
Then Thunder too, which though with dread consumes,  
Or well dispels the pestilentious Fumes.  PHILARETE. 
But few, alas! court Virtue for great Names;  
Fair Pictures take not, but in tempting Frames:  
Were Man indeed a pure Intelligence,  
His Love might rest in naked Excellence:  
But whilst his Soul is clad with sluggish flesh,  
It must with counter-tending Sense commerce;  
She like the Hawk would soar; this as a weight  
Tied to her feet, impedes her native flight  
To speculate abstracted Purities,  
And beauty in Celestial Ivories;  
From whence she might with scorn look down and smile  
On this poor Molehill, fordid Domicile;  
Where Men as Ants, creeping in dirt appear;  
Passing in toil, and deathlike Sleep, the Year.  
But where tends this? Since Sainting is a trade,  
And Virtue dies, where sense sees no reward?  THEOPHOBE. 
Man truly is well like a Diamond,  
Some parts of Earth, some taken from the Sun;  
By them too dull he sees not; these are bright  
Enough to show rewards in darkest night.  PHILARETE. 
The boundless Goodness said, he would adorn  
Virtue with Riches, and exalt her Horn  
With Honour, whilst all hostile Nations must  
Fall down with shame, submit, and lick her dust.  THEOPHOBE. 
The Immense Good is changeless Verity,  
Can cease to be, soon as begin to lie:  
And were things duly weighed, none could impeach  
What never fails, his Promise of a breach:  
I trow, that such performance might content,  
Which is in manner much more eminent;  
If Goods of Fortune sometimes do give place  
To the more rich enoblements of Grace;  
'Tis man's own folly thwarts the present end,  
To which true virtue's paths directly tend;  
To whom 'tis one both to command, and bless,  
Espousing duty to true Happiness.  PHILARETE. 
'Twas Man indeed brought in the spiny Weeds  
To Rosy Beds; with which himself now Bleeds.  
And yet 'tis hard, they should as much, or more,  
The Virtuous than the Vicious Prick and Gore.  THEOPHOBE. 
'Tis true, did they respect no unseen gain,  
Virtue above all others would be vain.  
But in wise methods lesser Goods must bend  
To serve the greater; all, the Sovereign end.  
I'm not so much a Stoic, as to chase  
All goods, called Fortune's Gifts, from Virtue's Face;  
That were to strip her of Appertinents,  
Which greatly serve for use, and Ornaments.  
But where their absence starves out Moral ills,  
And penal Evil with huge Interest fills  
Of virtue the good man, their want abounds,  
And sterile soils prove the most fertile grounds.  
Depression shows the grace, of which is made  
For Virtue's Laurels a cool kindly shade,  
To thrive, and Flourish in, maugre all hate,  
Not to be Thunderstruck by frowning fate;  
Which smites with barrenness the high-looked hills,  
Whilst humble Valleys graceful plenty fills.  
The world's great Architect about to raise  
A living Temple, Trophy of his praise;  
Lay's deep its prime Foundations; as we know,  
The highest Towers must be based low.  PHILARETE. 
Thou suckest from Poisons, Cordials, dearest (Bee)  
By a Diviner sort of Chemistry.  THEOPHOBE. 
Where would appear Heroic Fortitude,  
Did Virtue meet with no ungrateful feud,  
In which the Enemy Augments its Bliss,  
As't were by an Antiparistasis?  PHILARETE. 
This doth indeed, in bearing more consist,  
Than in a bold attempting of the List  
In Blood, Sweat, Dust, with fierce and hardy Foes,  
A little Fading Bays to win, or lose,  THEOPHOBE. 
And by Encounters still it grows more bright,  
Its Armour by Attrition more Polite:  
Whereas long peace contracts a sordid rust,  
By lying out of Action in the dust.  
Sometimes a light Attrition can't suffice,  
And then the seventh Flame it purifies,  
Till fit for those, whose courage gains the Praise  
Of Great Jehovah's Argyraspides:  
Invincible in that blessed Kingdom's hope;  
Which they prospect through faith's true Telescope.  
This made the Noble Martyrs to defy  
Their fretting Tyrants baffled Cruelty;  
Which as the spite of Basilisks back flies,  
Repelled with Death into their Darting Eyes:  
Whilst with more Ardent Zeal & Love they pass  
In Raptures through the Burning Sea of Glass;  
Preluding in sweet strains, as they march on,  
To sing Blessed Moses' Victorious Song.  PHILARETE. 
The happy end (no doubt) known, makes a way  
Perplexed pleasant; that without delay,  
The Pilgrim goes, in hopes his feet shall stand  
In season on the Milk and Honey Land.  THEOPHOBE. 
Afflicting Means are good; though ills of pains,  
If well improved to generous honest gains.  PHILARETE. 
Yes, Socrates could Reason Worthily  
In Prison, of Supreme Felicity:  
And Possidonius under Rack run out  
In Panegyrics on his grateful Gout:  
Nay, and the Stoics wise man would be full  
Of Bliss, though mewed in Phaleris' Bull.  PHEOPHOBE. 
Such Apathies Christians adore, or mock,  
Becoming well a Deity, or Stock.  
Divine Philosophy in their belief  
Forbids excess, not passion of their grief  
When pressed with evils: for it is the sense  
Of them, which makes for virtue's excellence.  
The Royal Shepherd, much before the day  
Of his Affliction, went himself astray,  
Like a lost Sheep; till his great Shepherd's Love  
Did gently with correction drive, and move  
Him to remind the Virid Pastures, where  
He used to Feed in a benign Air  
By Lympid Streams, where he might turn to lay  
The Raging Ardours of a Dog-Star day.  
Had Joseph not been into Prison cast,  
He never had been in the Palace placed.  
His brethren's spite made theirs adore his Sheaf;  
What they opposed, conduced to make him chief.  PHILARETE 
Thus much seems rough, till we in truth attend,  
(And then 'tis Beauteous) the well-timed end:  
Well-mixed White and Red do chiefly grace,  
But when misplaced, ill-mixt, deform the face:  
And so events, which men can't throughly Rhyme,  
Are Beauteous in their plenittude of time.  THEOPHOBE. 
Beauty doth most consist in Symmetry,  
Some parts viewed singly may unlovely be;  
Yet corresponding with the whole, express  
A goodly Masterpiece of Comeliness:  
As Music Notes, which will harmonious be,  
Consent in whole; yet simply disagree.  
And thus the rugged parts of Providence,  
Could men but view their general consents,  
How would their perfect Beauty, with what ease  
Convert dislikes to highest strains of praise.  
But this can't be (great Order!) till that they  
In the high Countries of Eternal day  
Read all things in thy Beatific Face,  
Which now in part they see, as in a Glass.  
Then shall they see that Wheel within a Wheel;  
And that great Spirit, whose mysterious skill  
With Wisdom, Courage, Care, and Eagles Wings,  
Begins, carr's on, perfects events of things:  
That they may most Harmoniously consent  
For Ver●ue's good, his Joy and Ornament.  
That Plots, sham's, Counters, by a hand unseen,  
As Clocks cross-motions may concentre in,  
And work in order by a secret power  
To bring about the happy destined hour.  PHILARETE. 
Then Virtues pressures shall be less than light,  
When Counterpoised with Glories matchless weight.  THEOPHOBE. 
And whilst a Pilgrim, look what pleasure brings  
A various mixing good and evil things.  
The Glory of a Picture still is made  
By due Commixtures of the Light and Shade:  
So virtue's Father, by a frown a while,  
Adds much indearing sweetness to his smile.  
When too much freedom makes her to contemn,  
Or less respect his Royal Diadem,  
Nor would the Gems wherewith herself is Crowned  
Be much esteemed, were they as Pebbles found:  
'Tis Rarity, and hardness to obtain,  
Which raise their worth, and amplify the gain.  PHILARETE. 
Experience tells, as Evils are best known  
By presents, so are Goods by absence shown.  
And though full Stomaches Princely Tables slight,  
Yet Hunger whets the dullest appetite.  THEOPHOBE. 
When he, whose Lips are Fair beyond all men,  
Solicited his Spouse ' gen and again:  
Stood at her door, till dews his head did fill,  
And thence down on his Rosy Cheeks Distil;  
Her love like to the Ignis-fatuus light,  
When most pursued, than most doth take its flight.  
Alas! fair one, she hath put off her Vest;  
('Tis too much pain) how shall she now be dressed?  
The more he woos, the nearer is at hand,  
The more doth she at unkind distance stand;  
But when disgusted he withdraws, O then!  
He's more than Fairest of Ten Thousand Men.  
His absence brings him near, his anger proves  
More lovely than his most obliging Loves.  
With careful looks, with dropping languid Eyes,  
She walks with piteous Importunities.  
Did you (I pray) my best-beloved see?  
O how I burn! O bring him unto me!  
At length he turns, how welcome think you may,  
As to the Polar Climes, the wished day  
After a tedious night; to see, he's proud,  
His fair-one looking through a Rorid Cloud:  
Absence Revirginates their chaste Embrace,  
And brings the Flower of their Love in place.  
Thus the Alwise disposer, for Delight,  
Makes sow'rs to serve to Virtue's appetite.  PHILARETE. 
No bodied virtue's pure, but by commerce  
With Earth contracts much noxious Sordidness.  
Which unpurged of corrupts, consumes her wealth,  
Of Beauty, Vigour, and her Treasure, Health.  THEOPHOBE. 
Therefore her great Physician oft designs  
Her Potions of Cathartick Medicines:  
Which cannot work without some great regret  
Proceeding from relucting Natures let.  
And if more stout, than stronger Revulsives  
Must take the place of gentle Purgatives.  PHILARETE. 
Sometimes in Divine fullness she Exceeds:  THEOPHOBE. 
Yes, therefore oft in vigorous health she Bleeds,  
(O wise Physician! lest her highflown tide  
Of Blood should ferment to the worst of pride)  
Which gently oft repeated much restrains  
The force of lapsed Nature's swelling Veins.  PHILARETE. 
Ah Moral Virtue! but a splendid sin!  
Except the Deities true fear doth bring  
Thee in the way to rightly apprehend  
Thy worthy Object, only worthy End:  
Thou well becomest thy name Theophobe,  
Vain, vain without thee were Philarete.  THEOPHOBE. 
The Royal Singer Chants the Divers States  
Of, Just, and Unjust, with their Divers Fates; 
* Psalms 1st.   
Which when together viewed, the good complain  
Without Just Cause, the Impious boast in vain.  PHILARETE. 
I wish your plainest Sense of it to hear;  
(The Sun walks high) then let us disappear.  THEOPHOBE. 

Thrice happy man, whose Divine Soul defies  
Infernal Paths of wicked Policies;  
Abhorring, when seduced, there to abide,  
Where Worldlings in Triumphant Chariots Ride:  
And dreads to rest in Atheists Sweet-sleep Chair,  
Or herd himself to thick Assemblies, where  
Hardy Blasphemers Scornfully Proclaim  
Contempt to God, reproach to Heaven's Reign.  
But Heaven's Law is Heaven to his mind,  
Where he more than Hyblean Sweets doth find.  
This he Studies: witness all ye, which fly  
Minutes on Down-Wings to Eternity.  
All day it is his brightest Sun so far  
As Sable Night, and then his Brightest Star.  
Blessed Soul! when Fields and Woods Rejoice to see  
Thy florid state, as of a Fruitful Tree;  
Which some Experienced Planters skilful Hand  
Hath made near to the Watery Trenches stand;  
Where Fertile Streams convey Sap to its Roots  
With Vital Spirit; that of numerous Fruits  
Fair Offsprings in due time shall still be found  
To Bless with plenteous falls, the bearing Ground;  
Its leaf no Autumn knows; but vernal Pride  
Adorn its Aged Limbs on every side.  
Thus the Blessed Saint Planted in Holy Soil,  
Grows by Celestial Dew, not Earthly Toil;  
Watered with constant Showers from above,  
Which Pregnant with Ethereal Spirit, love  
To Gemm forth pleasant Fruits of Various kinds  
Of Divine Grace enriching Heavenly minds.  
His Leaves, external goods, which Beautify,  
And shroud the fair Fruits of his Piety:  
No unkind Sun shall Burn, no Winds so Shake,  
Or roughest blustering Tempests from him take,  
But that his Boughs hold what does best suffice  
For noble Virtues fittest Exercise:  
Till prospering more and more, he grows so high,  
To have his florid top above the Sky.  
As for the vicious viprous brood of Hell,  
A divers direful fate hath them befell.  
The most high Thunderer of wrath shall blow  
A furious Whirlwind on them below,  
To pluck them from their Contumacious Roots,  
And toss like Chaff, or lightest Husks of Fruits;  
The Air's unstable sports, which every blast  
Drives from their scarce known place, and at the last  
By Heaven's mighty force of Justest Ire  
From Earth to restless Flames of endless Fire.  
Then, when the Judge comes in a shining Cloud  
With Myriad of Angelic Troops aloud;  
Sounding with mighty Trumpets a gen'ral call,  
Awake ye dead, arise, and stand forth all.  
The Judge, the Judge! how will these Miscreants  
The Radiant Crown of his Imperial Head.  
Their trembling Joints an horrid Palsy fills,  
Whilst they beg shelter of the Rocks, and Hills:  
Dying to see thick Legions of Saints bright  
In Sunbeam Armour of Meridian Light;  
Who with United Votes applaud, and hum  
Those miserable Caitiffs final doom.  
For now the Alwise Arbiter approves  
The goings of his precious harmless Doves  
In public presence; when black Belial's friend  
Is Sentenced to an endless doleful end.   

She said, and rose; then hand in hand they passed  
To darker Shades, no Star could shut so fast;  
Their shapes flowed into Light, seeming to be  
Like what clear Nights present, the Galaxy.  
I and my Friend with Joy returning, gave  
The Glory, whence poor men such Visions have.   
Glory to God in the Highest, on Earth Peace, good will towards men.   

Hymnus Matutinus. OR, A SONG to be Sung, or Said at the first daybreak.  

I.  
O Living Source of Holy Heat!  
Tho I am little, and thou great;  
Tho thou between the Cherubims dost sit,  
And I among Potsherds; yet me admit  
(And to this end my Breast inspire  
With a most chaste Serafick Fire)  
To Sing thee with the Morning-Stars so Bright,  
True God of God, Eternal Light of Light,  
The Blessed Dayspring from on high,  
Which to the world-brought'st a new Birth  
Of Light, and Life; whilst it did lie  
In darkness, and the shades of Death.   

II.  
Thou, that hast healing in thy Wing,  
Let thy Daystar of Grace now bring  
A Joyful Morn to my benighted mind,  
And let its course a happy Progress find,  
Till thy (blessed Sun) more powerful Beams  
Break forth in mighty Flowing Streams  
Of clearest light, to make an open way  
For Glories perfect (O Eternal) Day.  
No Waxings, Wanings, vary this,  
Nor Clouds, or fear of Clouds draw near  
To fully, or disturb its Bliss  
So far above the Atmosphere.   

III.  
Father of Lights! then of thy Love  
Send down thy Spirit, which may prove,  
As Salve, to clear from Scales my Clouded Eyes,  
That I may see thy Sun when he doth rise;  
And all my observations take  
By thy most sacred Rules, which make  
The simple wise, and with unerring hand  
To steer their Course to the Eternal Land  
In roughest Storms, through proudest Seas,  
O make this day one advance more  
(Most blessed Three-One) to the true ease  
Of its most-to-be-wished Shore.   

IV.  
But Night's far spent, and day's at hand;  
Am I in dark Oblivion's Land?  
Shall my Soul lie worse than a stupid beast,  
Not to Salute fair light from yonder East?  
O mind me! how that sweet-lookt thing  
Did first from thee (great Good-Word) spring:  
When thou the obscure Chaos didst refine  
And Beauteous form in Nature began to shine.  
But say ('tis done) let there be light  
In my dark Soul, which still lies in  
The dismal shades of Ghostly Night,  
And deep in the Abyss of sin.   

V.  
But Night's far spent, and day's at hand,  
Am I in dark Oblivion's Land?  
Shall my Soul lie worse than a stupid Beast,  
Not to Salute fair light from yonder East?  
O! let it mind me, what did shine,  
(Great God-Man) when thy Stars Divine  
To humble Shepherds did glad tidings Sing  
Of thy amazing Birth, Immortal King!  
Glory to God in highest, peace  
On Earth, to sinful man good will;  
Which never now again can cease,  
Since God to Man's United still.   

VI  
But Night's far spent, and Day's at hand,  
Am I in dark Oblivion's Land?  
Shall my Soul lie worse than a stupid Beast,  
Not to salute fair light from yonder East?  
O mind me of that dawning Day,  
When thou thy rising didst display  
(Great God) in power and splendour from the dead  
(As well became) after thy setting red.  
Give Life, and Light, that I may leave  
My Grave of sin, as Bed, to run  
In thy blessed strength, which I receive  
To worship thee, my Rising Sun!   

VII.  
But Night's far spent, and Day's at hand,  
Am I in dark Oblivion's Land?  
Shall my Soul lie worse than a stupid Beast,  
Not to Salute fair Light from yonder East?  
O let it mind me of that Light  
To which (Good God) our Noon is Night:  
Blessed Shechinah, where thy great Clemency  
Hath carr'd in Triumph our Humanity.  
Refine my Nature from dross Dregs,  
That I may presently contend,  
And (though, alas, with heavy Legs)  
Make, where first Fruits thou didst ascend.   

VIII.  
But Night's far spent, and Day's at hand,  
Am I in dark Oblivion's Land?  
Shall my Soul lie worse than a stupid Beast?  
Not to Salute fair Light from yonder East?  
O let it mind me of what light,  
When thou comest Judge in Clouds most bright:  
When at thy Trumpets New-Creating call,  
The Dead from their Dust-beds shall start up all.  
O may I live that sleep to take,  
With which thou dost thy dear ones bless;  
That when thou callest, I may wake  
To see thy Face in Righteousness.   

IX.  
The Night's far spent, and day's at hand,  
Am I in dark Oblivion's Land?  
Remains my body like a stupid Beast,  
Not moved by nimble light from yonder East,  
Which flows full through the Hemisphere,  
And tells the busy Sun is near?  
Up, up! thy foreheads sweat justly decreed,  
Must now to pleasing ease and sleep succeed:  
Then make thy face, God on me shine,  
That with new Spirits, and vigorous Joy,  
I may pursue thy Work; and mine,  
(O prosper Lord) in just employ.    

Hymnus Vespertinus: OR, The EVENING SONG.  

THrice Blest my God and King,  
The only Spring  
Of every good and perfect Thing.   

Thou hast preserved my ways,  
(Accept my Praise)  
This, and all other my past days.   

And now the Shades come on,  
O Living Sun,  
Go not out of my Horizon!   

Stream forth thy glorious Light,  
That I by Night  
May count my past days sins aright,   

But how shall I recall  
These Errors all,  
Which under numbers will not fall!   

O hide them in that night,  
Which from our sight,  
Did take and hide the World's great Light.   

To thy all-piercing sight,  
My darkest Night  
Is clearer than to us Noon-light.   

O let this thought me bring,  
To keep within,  
My heart and hand from secret sin.   

When I my Clay undress,  
Do thou me bless  
From rags of all Unrighteousness.   

Who knows where I may have  
My Bed for Grave!  
O then receive my Soul, and save.   

Great Watch, on whom no sleep  
Doth ever creep:  
In grateful rest (I pray) me keep   

From all malignant things,  
Which darkness brings,  
Under the shadow of thy Wings.   

Dart forth thy healthful beams,  
Dispel these steams,  
Which cause or cherish hurtful dreams.   

Pitch round me Angels Tent;  
And from thee sent,  
Let them blest Visions represent.   

As in thy Jacob's Night,  
A Ladder bright,  
Thee on the Top, my Shield and Light.   

Whilst they to thee ascend,  
And from thee bend,  
By turns, thy Jewels to defend.   

So shall I in thy arms,  
Circled from harms,  
Be lulled to bliss with sweetest charms.   

Whilst gently from above,  
Thy favours prove  
My safeguard, and my bed of love.   

When I awake, move me  
To sing of thee,  
And meditate on thy Mercy.   

And with the Morning's wings,  
As Light begins,  
To fly to thee great King of Kings.    

TO THE Candid READER.  
NOW because amongst all Moral & Christian Virtues, which indeed differ only as the rude and the complete draught, (Christianity being but summum Morale, Morality refined and sublimated to an heroical and diviner pitch); humility and meekness are of all other most eminently exercised by an Alwise, Holy, Just, and good particular Providence; and by its exercitations rendered more conspicuous and resplendent; I therefore thought it not impertinent to annex as an Appendix to the foregoing debate, a Poetical Sermon on each of these most Divine and Metropolitan Graces.  
Nor may the name of Sermon here applied, offend any with a seeming incongruity, that have but cursorily read (not to say any thing of the most harmonious Sermons of the Royal and other sweet Singers of Israel) the excellent composures of at least the 
⸫ Horace.  Prince, though not the King of Latin Poets, exhibiting Instances of the like, both Nature and Title.  
And because these Mother Virtues, Humility and Meekness, never look more like themselves, than in their genuine and most true begotten Daughters, Repentance and Obedience; particularly that which hath for her proper and immediate object humane Power; Obedience to God, never evidencing itself more, than in a reverend and facile subjection to those his most Wise and most Good Providence hath thought meet to set over us. I have therefore moreover added a Penitential Song in Four Parts; and Three Anti-Phanatical Poems; Anti-Phanatical I call t'him, for Fanatical and disobedient to humane Powers, if deliberately inspected, will appear to be in truth convertible Terms. Nor could I be disanimated from these endeavours by supposing Poetry wholly unbecoming Divinity; for the first Theology of the Heathen, (as Antiquity tells us) was sung by Linus, Orpheus, and other succeeding Poets, who in a special manner were esteemed their Priests and Prophets; but passing by these, rather cast an eye at your pleasure on the true and select Worshippers of the One only true God. Here 'tis easily observable, that in both the Jewish and Christian Churches, the most ample and cheerfullest gratulations for the manifold and innumerable Benefits daily poured on the whole Creation by his Eternal Majesty, together with the most worthy Praises of both the Essential Infinite Perfections and Excellencies of the Divine Nature, and also of its communicated Virtues and Transplantations of Goodness to, and in all rational Being's, particularly Humane nature, were ever esteemed an essential and most peculiar part of Divine Worship; and the celebration thereof principally performed in Psalms, Hymns, and spiritual Songs.  
This in brief may be a competent Apology for at least the kind of my assays, to dress Divinity in Poesy, though not perhaps for the quality of my Attempts, to wrap so noble and highborn a Creature in such swaddling Clouts, as are the inventions and composures of an unfortunate and flagging Fancy. And yet those homely productions may serve a little to display the admirable Beauty of Providence in the most wise disposition of things, viz. one in order to the advancement and commendation of the good and Glory of another, and all to the good and Glory of man, Lord Deputy of the World; but still with most humble Subordination to the Glory and good Pleasure of the supreme Lord of Lords, who is both Alpha and Omega, the one only absolutely first Beginning and ultimate End of all things visible and invisible; for the Beauty of this sensible World consists chiefly in a well-proportioned variety gradually proceeding from lesser to greater Perfections, from gross and heavy Earth, to the thinner and more active body of Water, from water to more pellucid and spirit-like Air, from Air to Fire, the subtlest and most vigorous of the Elements; from Fire to Light, the most nimble and purest of sensible Being's. Were the World all Sun, or Stars, 'twould not be the Ten Thousandth part so beauteous, as now a parcel thereof is, Earth, the dulness and opacity of the one (as Opposites use to do) setting forth and amplifying the beauty and splendour of the other.  
And the Earth itself is never so beautiful, as when dedala Tellus, (as Lucretius speaks almost in his first strains) arrayed in her Spring Coat of divers Colours; that which is sad and grave, mightily setting forth and commending her gay and flowery parts. Nor is it the least Glory of the Sun, Moon, and Stars, that one Star differs from another Star in Glory. Even so in the World of Spirits is there the like gradation in a most proportioned variety of Perfection; from the spirit of Plants, which is educed out, lives with, and dies with its subject, containing only the powers of vegetation; there is an assent to the spirit of Animals, which is likewise educed out, lives and dies with its subject; but besides the powers of vegetation, contains moreover the faculties of sense: From the spirit of bruit Animals there is another assent to the intelligence of man, unitable and actually united with matter, but in herself and most genuine operations immaterial and immortal, a rational mind virtually comprising both the vegetive and sensitive souls: from the spirit of Man at length the ascent is to Angels, noble intelligences abstracted from all matter and material conditions; From Angels the last ascent is to the Father of Spirits, an Infinite Intelligence absolutely abstracted as to all act and possibility, not only from all matter and material, but from all finite conditions, an eternal and immensible Sea of Perfection, of which all created Perfections are essentially dependent derivations, and compared with which, were they all sublimated into one quintessence, the same would be infinitely less considerable, than the minutest drop of a Bucket in competition with the whole material and visible Ocean. Amongst the Angels, as we are assured from the sacred Oracles, there is a great variety as to superiority and inferiority of Order and Office, so by all rational inference must there be a diversity of degrees of Perfection answerable to their respective Orders and Offices: But in that part of the intellectual World, which comprehends men and humane society, he that runs may read the greatest variety both in body and mind, of natural and acquired Perfections, and as vast a difference of happiness in the action and exercise of either, as great (might I say) almost as of Faces: All which variety abundantly declares the infinite fullness and fecundity of the supreme Fountain: For every good giving, and every perfect gift, of what nature and quality soever, how mean and contracted, or how large and noble soever it be, cometh down from above from the Father of Lights, with whom is no variableness, nor shadow of turning.  
And though there are diversitits of Gifts, and diversities of Operations, yet they all flow from one most Simple, Infinite Spirit of Alwise Goodness; which gives and manifests in the World, the lesser Wits, not only for an agreeable ministration to the lower and more scanty apprehensions; but likewise as foils to set forth and commend the lustre of the more large and nobler capacities: So that (Readers of both sorts) the sum of all is this; You which are of the meaner and more contracted parts, may read these with gratitude to Heaven for providing you such suitable food: And you which are of the more large and nobler endowments, may read likewise, and bless Heaven in a more ample manner for its amplier and more magnificent diffusions of goodness to you, than to others; so both and all together may contemplate, admire, and adore the Infinite Wisdom of the Divine Providence in its so excellent contrivance of the whole system of the sensible and intellectual World; to be its own most beautiful Picture by a wonderful commixture of Light and Shade in and throughout all its parts; that each one should serve to the good and Glory of each other, and all together reflect the Image of the immortal Glory: Which one only Most worthy End, Heaven grant that, we may all eternally answer in our respective capacities. Farewell.   

SERMON I.  
The Subject's Kingdom,  On Matth. V. 3. 
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.  
BLESSED are the minds enriched with poverty,  
For them a Kingdom waits above the Sky.  
Laid here in grace: which as a pledge begins  
That Glory which completes them after Kings.  
Their infant Stature in their own Conceit,  
Makes them the men in Heavens measures great:  
Which still delights to give the humble Grace,  
But thunder-strikes with frowns the Mountain Face,  
Making God rising Herod's openly  
Egregious proofs of bragged Divinity;  
The Voice of God, not man, they cry; for worms,  
The God a prey then in a moment turns.  
Colossus-like, strutting his Glorious Court,  
What, have not I for my most mighty Port  
This Palace built? boasts Nebo 
⸫ Nabuchadnezzar  of the East,  
Then turned from men, he pastures with the beast.  
His Palace to a Forest, singing Boys  
And Maids are turned to Bats and Owls hoarse noise.  
So greatly swelling minds Lycanthropise  
Themselves to bruits from demi-deities;  
To bruits? Nay fiends, whilst full of grins and groans,  
They yet aspire still to unequal Thrones.  
Nor is the humble Port less fair to men,  
Whilst hate attends the haughty Diadem:  
And (as Experience speaks) the man that's proud,  
Goes closely cursed of his adoring crowd:  
If Honour be the Honourer's esteem,  
Then from dishonours who can him redeem?  
Much feared, not loved; just as the Nations prize,  
When they adore their evil Deities:  
The Rising Sun Sejanus sees on high;  
But Setting, sees him in a Dungeon lie:  
But now the people worshipped him; he falls,  
And then they cry, to the Gemonian Scales;  
O humble Greatness, like the Mind profound,  
Which stoops in gentle Dews to kiss the ground!  
His lucid Globes, the Shadows of his Crown,  
Tho placed high, yet still are looking down:  
Nor take we measures of their Excellence,  
But from their kind and lowly Influence:  
Such Excellence spite of themselves all must  
With bosom-worship, honouring the dust;  
Whilst Pride big-lookt, as more than half-divine,  
Is trod for dirt, when its supports decline:  
For why do the infernal Lions lay  
Themselves like lowly Lambs? To gain a Prey.  
So grin with haughty Heart, yet couching Knee,  
Thy painful Praise Divine Humility:  
But shameful Grief! that Devils chiefly find  
Apt place for this in humane shape and kind,  
In humane shape and kind! How we unhinge  
Our lofty Poles, caress and cant, and cringe,  
To gain deluded Troops, when Policy  
Would Pride enthrone by feigned Humility?  
Yet foaming waves still toss th' ambitious mind,  
Which labouring like a troubled Sea can find  
No rest. Now up she mounts to Heaven above,  
Which if she cannot bend, than Hell she'll move.  
So that her inmost Chambers represent  
A straight and current foul and violent;  
Which in still Night the Bed made for repose,  
With boisterous Perturbations overflows:  
What threatening Rocks, Gulfs, Shoals, Quicksands, beside  
Ten thousand dangers chiefly wait on Pride?  
Nor doth she rarely meet with Winds and Seas,  
Both opposite, which sup her up with ease  
In rapid Ruins (farewel Sun and Light)  
Deep Vortex equal to her humours height.  
Sometimes in prosperous Gales her lofty eye,  
The headlands of fair-haven boasts to spy:  
Then all her waves of swelling Passions rise,  
And scorn the limits of the starry skies:  
When on a sudden, blows a cross-ful gust,  
That back to sea her gallant bottom must;  
Or hostile Rocks shall wrack her in distress,  
Just on the shore of her thought happiness.  
O most unsafe, when least of fears she knows!  
When at the best, still up and down she flows;  
Her Honour under-sail lives all on breath,  
And when at Anchor, but an inch from death:  
Witness great Haman's bliss in all his Pride,  
That ebbs when this is at the highest Tide:  
Haman the great, Haman the only man,  
In honouring whom the mighty Monarch can  
Delight himself: Haman the Rising Sun,  
To worship whom, lo all the Persians run:  
Haman the great, Haman whose eyes contemn  
As worms all others, or as Pigmy men,  
Compared with his more than Gigantic Port,  
When he looks from his Sinai at the Court;  
Yet one poor Mordecai's (ah) stubborn knee,  
The pleasures of his Glory makes to flee,  
And yield to anguish their deserted seat:  
Alas 'tis all too little to be great!  
When on the highest peak of Honour there,  
How slippery is his station? with what fear?  
Not all from others, who salute his rise  
With clouds of arrows from their envious eyes:  
Some still impatient of a parallel,  
And all of such as haughtily excel;  
But from himself, whose head sometimes unsound,  
Still unsecure stands in a place profound,  
Fatal, when fumes from giddy passions fly,  
And urge the dangers of a dazzling eye:  
Sometimes disquiet in their proper sphere,  
They to the Sun of Honour soar so near,  
That these bright beams which cherish humble things,  
Consume or melt their daring waxen wings:  
Or though like Comets for a while they blaze,  
And terrors move in all that on them gaze;  
Their own fierce motion urging to a Flame,  
Whose glaring streams beget a dreadful name:  
Their greatest splendour than predicts a fall;  
They burn, and turn from whence they did exhale,  
To fordid earth, and only leave behind  
Such dire effects as men with curses mind.  
But thou like the fair Lady of the Night,  
(First of the eight blessed 
* Of the eight Beatitudes.  Sisters) art most bright,  
When most at humble distance from thy Sun,  
Sweet Lowliness, than thou dost nearest come:  
Nor hath thy fair-skinned Beauty lest excess,  
When sable Morpheus thou dost most confess.  
Let Great Ones faithless Fortune on a round,  
Thou on a square sittest safest near the ground.  
Up goes the scale with thee, fall low or high,  
Tho Earth and Sea were mingled with the sky:  
But what needs this? the lesser is the more  
Fit to get into Heavens narrow Door;  
Which will not yield to those whose heads attempt  
With high Deserts to knock the Firmament.  
The Firmament? poor Nought and Dirt! look down  
And meditate the rise of thy proud Crown.  
View gravely thy deformed feet; how shall  
Thy Peacock's Crest, and brisling Plumes but fall?  
For is thy soul to an eclipse so prone,  
As when most full of what are not her own,  
But borrowed beams of the Eternal Light?  
Compared with whom a Summer's noon is night,  
And all the Morning Stars which sang and played  
In consort, when the World's first stone was laid,  
Therefore with Jesus, who for Sceptres look,  
Must stoop with Jesus, to the lowly Brook,  
On whose fresh Banks the Flowers all are found,  
Wherewith Celestial Princes must be Crowned.  
Most lowly Jesus, make my heart a Plot  
Most humbly seated: O the happy Lot,  
To be a Valley, where thy soul may feed  
'Midst Lilies, which to thy warm beams succeed,  
And through thy Merits may sweet Odours breathe,  
And garland me with an immortal wreath!  
Did Pride throw Lucifer with his bright Train,  
Of morning-stars from their affected Reign,  
Man out of Paradise, whilst Might in Thrones,  
The lowly in the seats of lofty ones?  
Behold thy Handmaid, (Lord) my naked soul,  
Thy spotless Robe can cover all that's foul.  
Make her fair Daughrer of thee (King most high)  
By being Mother to Humility.  
By this was thine (to carnal sense though odd)  
Both Royal Wife and Mother of great God,  
Of the Blessed Jesus, But what match thee can,  
Whose sovereign God becamest a Servingman?  
A Servingman? as vile a slave didst die,  
Whilst Prince of Life and immortality.  
What nobler Pride this side the Starry Sky,  
Than to Transcribe such rare Humility,  
Humility outwondring Miracle?  
God stoops to man; and Heaven unto Hell.  
Stoop my stout heart, thou that canst all things bend:  
That I with thee (great Godman) may descend:  
Then from a Worm in Dust, as Eagle may  
Mount the high Countries of Eternal Day  
To take Possession of that Throne, whose first  
Foundations are laid lowly in the Dust.   

SERMON II.  
The Meek Man's Inheritance.  On Matth. V. 5. 
Blessed are the meek, for they shall Inherit the Earth.  
BLESSED are the meek, whose sweet Sedateness can  
With Gentle Charms endear both God and Man,  
Calm in those passions, whose tempestuous Breath  
To the most Godlike Virtues, Threatens Death;  
When in great deeps their modest Sounding fail,  
Their yielding reason unto Faith strikes Sail,  
And still profoundly stoop'st to Mysteries,  
When too sublime for its undaring Eyes.  
Their pleasure can't but ever Couchant lie  
To the good pleasure of the Deity,  
Avowing, human will ought to resign  
Its self and all to Sovereign will Divine.  
The sacred Statute's are their Meat and Drink;  
Nor will they ought Repugnant do, speak, think.  
But their smooth passions all concentre in  
That boundless point, from whence they had their Spring,  
And in which they without deflecting, rest,  
Esteeming all from Heaven to be best:  
Worst evils best, as from a Providence  
Alwise and Fathomless to Humane Sense.  
O happy meekness! whom no Injuries  
Can ever Flame, though often may Surprise,  
And sometimes move, much rather bend to die,  
Than once affront a Lawful Dignity.  
She humbly Vows to all in higher Sphere,  
And to her equals modestly draws near,  
Like to the Heavenly Orbs imparts a sense  
To all below of sweet kind Influence:  
Obliging Friends with an Eternal Tie,  
Whilst conquering kindness kills her Enemy.  
Nor doth she less rejoice to satisfy,  
Than to remit an offered Injury.  
Tender to violate the sacred Name  
Of Friend with angry, though deserved Flame.  
All due Reproofs as Precious Balm she takes:  
And still the like with gentle Gesture makes,  
Making soft words well formed in place and time  
The Lenitive's of both, all wrath and crime.  
This is (what Tongues can tell how Excellent)  
The quiet Spirit's Lovely Ornament,  
Whose Charming Beauties are of greater Price  
Than Gold in men's, in Heavens Holy Eyes.  
Nor dares the Enemy its Magic fly,  
The Devils own its true Divinity,  
And howl its praise, assuming to perform  
Their Blackest Plots the meek-mans' taking form,  
Whose Glory is to be sole King of Man,  
Whom equalise no Earthly Monarch can;  
For having all, deny him this to have,  
And he's at highest but a Royal Slave.  
Whilst over others on a Throne he reigns;  
His Tyrant Passions hold himself in Chains;  
Whereas the meek man Conquering self, defies  
The worst Assaults of proudest Enemies.  
Their furious Shot find him as yielding Wool,  
To dead their force, that treats of Kindness full;  
Can mildly boast more Captives than the Sword  
In Glorious Triumphs ever could afford.  
No Winds disturb his mind: but like the Air's  
Superior Region, free from Stormy Cares  
It truly represents that Harmony,  
Which some but Dreamt the Soul of man to be.  
Not that his passions are expelled as things  
All over evil, Subjects still make Kings.  
And grant that this the meek man should enjoy,  
Is Reasons noble Empire to Destroy.  
No, but his passion yields to Regent Will  
And Will to Reason to be guided still,  
Reason conducting well, which rarely fails  
To go, from whence it came, with meek appeals.  
Thus 'bove the Earth he sets as in a Throne,  
Like Heaven firm: yet Earth is all his own.  
What though Usurping Hectors of the Age  
Triumph and Lord it in his Heritage,  
Set by th' Eternal Wisdom for a day  
To Exercise the Meek-man, and Display  
His Godlike Virtue, which through too much ease  
Might turn her Vigorous Health to a Disease  
Unapt to show herself, unless some foes  
With Noxious Fumes her gentle Air oppose;  
Their Hearts Delights their Happiness destroy,  
For having all, they nothing can enjoy:  
And domineering cannot truly Live:  
But restless furies daily Murders give  
In jealous fears. And when by fate they must  
Pass off the Stage, they go of all men cursed.  
All but the Meek-man, who as Lawful Heir  
Possesseth all, possessing without fear  
What Heaven meats, the breadth of one small Hand,  
Yet Adequate to all the Promised Land.  
The Blissful Visions of the Face Divine,  
His Goshen makes all Egypt to outshine:  
That though a Shepherd, he outhappy's Kings  
Under the shade of his Great Shepherds Wings.  
Omnipotence itself is his Lifeguard:  
And boundless goodness his complete reward.  
What if the Earth be moved, or Mountains were  
With Rapid winds swept through the Thundering Air  
Into the Sea, whose Floods lift to the Stars  
Strive to outdo the tumults of fierce Wars  
From Clashing Arms, Guns, Drums, and Trumpets loud,  
And Legions circling him as with a Cloud;  
Yet now, when only Storms without are seen,  
He still enjoys a peaceful calm within,  
With which he lies down foled in Heavens Arms  
Both out of reach, and out of fear of harms.  
The World to him is all a Paradise,  
And every Cottage of an Equal Price  
With all the World: where his contented mind  
The truest Empire can all Kingdoms find.  
Thus doth he all Inherit in a Mite:  
Whilst the Morose Invaders of his Right  
But rarely boast a Portion of good things  
Equal to what the Meek-man's study brings.  
By Nature's ways, contention being prone  
To Burn at once her Neighbour's House and own;  
Whilst peaceful meekness by her native Charms  
Herself and Fortune guards from studious harms;  
Few of the base delighting to annoy  
Her, whose delight is quiet to enjoy.  
But let the Lawyer and the Magistrate  
From dreaming Suits determine this debate,  
Whether the meek are Earth's Possessors more  
Than they who Fury's for their Gods Adore.  
Or stay till day arrives to perfect light,  
And you shall see the Meeks undoubted Right,  
When only they shall actual heirs be found  
Of the New Canaan, and be richly Crowned;  
No envious Rivals entering in so well,  
But such, as can bring into Heaven, Hell.  
Jesus, more Meek than Moses! make me mild,  
To God and Man like to a weaned Child;  
Contract my swelling Sails, and calm my mind,  
That thou in me no haughty looks may'st find,  
But which with meek assent may gently bend  
To thy great truth's, when science they transcend.  
Let Wonder then preside in Reason's seat  
Most fit in things for Human reach too great:  
That where is less of sight, the Head may more  
Profoundy bow, and awfully Adore.  
Subdue and smooth my rugged will, till thine  
(Alas, though rudely) be pourtraed in mine:  
That at thy beck her no regret may stay,  
When thou command'st, demurring to obey.  
But let her prise thy words more than the Gold  
That ever was from wealthy Ophir sold,  
Receiving all (too dear to be withstood)  
Thy Royal Laws for Holy, Just, and Good.  
So may my passions as a Loyal Train  
Of loving Subjects constitute her Reign,  
All voting it (when thou but sayest) no loss  
To change a Crown for thine Ennobled Cross.  
Dumb let me be at thy rebukes, (no word,  
But let him do his pleasure) 'tis the Lord,  
Submitting Life to thee with all the rest,  
Who only knowst, canst, wilt'st effect the best.  
Shouldst thou thy Viceroys and deputed Gods,  
The higher powers, make my scourging Rods;  
O! let me kiss them, dreading to defy  
The Image of Immortal Majesty,  
Both in itself, and other placed near,  
As serving Angels in a higher sphere.  
Whilst I accost all with obliging Grace  
In both an equal, an inferior place;  
Compose my frame for pardon to be prone,  
To give to others, and to crave my own.  
I in the Jewel of the Christian Crown,  
Not on my wrath to leave the Sun go down,  
But rather heap thick blessings which may prove  
Coals on their Heads to melt them into Love.  
Their thoughtful Heads, with causeless wrath who burn,  
And sulphurous Flames for Lambent Fire return;  
So may I (God) enjoy the Promise Land.  
That part is all, that's measured by thy hand.  
Tho in the midst of Thorns should be my lot,  
Thy favour makes it a most pleasant Plot,  
Secure of which how should I ever cease  
To rise refreshed, when I lie down in peace?   

Lacrimae Penitentiales: OR, A Penitential SONG, in Four Parts, in Poetical Meditations on the Principal of the Penitential Psalms.  

ODE I. On Psalm VI.  

I.  
O Sea, and every Spring!  
Your Floods and Rivers bring  
To my Heads deep,  
That I may weep  
A Deluge for my Sin.   

II.  
My sins, whose heads above  
All height (Blessed Jesus) move,  
Except the Flood  
Of thy dear Blood,  
And Mountains of thy Love.   

III.  
(Then Lord) rebuke me not,  
Whilst thy fierce Wrath is hot;  
But first assuage  
Thine Anger's rage:  
O spare! hast thou forgot.   

IV.  
Thou art the sick souls Friend;  
Thy healthful hand, Oh! lend;  
Tho my sick heart,  
Be my desert,  
ere life my languors end.   

V.  
The powers of Night combined,  
That my afflicted mind,  
Whilst Bones oppressed,  
Obtain no rest,  
No truce from Flames may find.   

VI  
How long without relief,  
Wilt thou leave me to grief?  
O turn in Love,  
And let me prove,  
Thy Mercy still is chief:   

VII.  
My soul from Hell return;  
Why should thy Fury burn,  
Till cruel death,  
Leaves me no breath  
To praise thee in mine Urn?   

VIII.  
I tyre each night with groans,  
Which beat my breast like stones,  
(Ah,) t'other day,  
More hard than they;  
What tongues can tell my moans?   

IX.  
My bed made for repose,  
No sleep, no quiet knows;  
But from mine eyes,  
Such Floods arise,  
That it quite overflows.   

X.  
Behold my hollow eyes,  
How strength and beauty dies,  
Betwixt the storms,  
And piercing thorns  
Of my souls Enemies.   

XI.  
Away hence, far depart,  
All ye which drew my heart  
With vain delights,  
And pleasant baits,  
To this most bitter smart   

XII.  
But thou (my God) rejoice,  
To hear my mournful voice:  
For Jesus Tears,  
Receive my Prayers,  
A Penitent's thy choice.   

XIII.  
Let his great Merit's Name,  
overwhelm my foes with shame,  
And put to flight  
Their blustering might,  
Whilst I extol the same.    

ODE II. On Psalm XXIII.  

THrice blessed man! whose sins are washed off in the flood  
Of dearest blood,  
(Most Blessed Jesus!) from thy lanced side:  
And all whose foul deformity,  
From the strict eye  
Of Purity,  
Thy spotless Robe of Innocence doth hide.  
Blessed man! when the most Righteous Judge shall quit from guilt each part,  
That no black guile,  
Shall to defile,  
Be found in Tongue or Heart.   

II.  
Blessed man! sing still my soul; for whilst that I in pride  
My wounds did hide  
From thee the sole Physician of my health;  
Through Racks which would no measure find,  
My Spirits pined,  
Vigour declined,  
And old age seized my bones by force, not stealth.  
Both day and night thy hand pressed me, moisture to drought did turn:  
My hopes were worn  
Like stalks of Corn,  
Which raging Summers burn.   

III.  
But when my putrid sores I nakedly addressed,  
And all confessed  
To thy (my great Physician's) tender eye;  
Thou cool'st the ardours of my Sin,  
Remov'dst its sting,  
And ease didst bring,  
With precious balm, which strongest poisons fly:  
A precious Balm (Gilead could thine both guilt and filth remove?)  
Which made my wound,  
Both clean and sound,  
A Balm of bleeding love.   

IV.  
For this the pious Troops will still frequent thy Court,  
In joyful sort,  
With Incense of their sacred Vows (great King),  
Inflamed with Love of Grace the Prime;  
In thy due time,  
From every Clime:  
Nor will they doubt, secure from fear, to sing;  
But though a universal flood should swiftly on them rise,  
They should find place  
To praise thy Grace,  
'Midst their Calamities,   

V.  
Thou art my only Tower, where I can run to fly  
The Enemy,  
Whose shortened rage thy Mercies Power prolongs,  
Whilst thou dost glorious Trophies raise,  
Each of my days,  
To thy great Praise,  
And circles me with glad victorious Songs.  
I hear thee, I'll dispel these mists and fogs, which make thee blind,  
That day seems night,  
And Darkness Light,  
To thy obscured Mind.   

VI  
If thou prove not like to the stupid Horse and Mule,  
Whom Curbs must rule,  
I'll guide thee with mine own auspicious eyes,  
Which well attended shall not cease,  
Thy Lights to ' crease  
In ways of Peace,  
Till thou attain'st Celestial Palaces;  
When thou shalt see what Plagues expect concealed impieties,  
What Saints shall reap,  
Tho now they weep,  
In hopeful Miseries.   

VII.  
Then lift up (O my soul) thy drooping Head and Heart,  
And Joy in smart,  
With all that love a pure Heart, and pure Hand;  
See in your Tears your Sun most bright,  
In Darkness Light,  
Blessed Day in Night,  
From boisterous Seas a firm Eternal Land:  
The which have mourned like Doves, now in a sacred Choir rejoice:  
Sing, 'tis our God,  
That was our Rod,  
With a triumphing Voice.    

ODE III. On Psalm XXXVIII. A Pindaric ODE.  

I.  
WHat lapsed again,  
(Poor Wretch) into thy former burning pain!  
Alas! too daring Confidence,  
Betrayed me sadly to improsp'rous negligents;  
Which gave my Enemies,  
Whose greedy Eyes,  
Are full of sleepless Cruelties,  
Both Strength and Time,  
Of all the Flower and Prime,  
For new Surprise.   

II.  
What shall I do? hast thou but one,  
(For thee I must now woo) (blessed Jesus!) King  
of Mercies most imperial Throne,  
One cordial drop with which thy lifeful death,  
Did once revive my dying breath:  
Yes, yes, they in vast multitude excel,  
As Heaven doth Earth, and infinitely more;  
So high, so deep, so large, so full is thy rich Mercies store,  
All sins of sinful Earth and Hell:  
Then (great All-love) whose tender Womb  
Alone gives life and breath to every thing,  
Before I go to my long silent home;  
From thy soft breasts let one drop spring,  
One drop (full Paps) to lay my parching heat,  
Whose Paroxisms never were so strong, so great.   

III.  
My Maker, and the World's, as good as just,  
O mind my Mould! I am but Dust;  
Strike, lo, I meekly kiss the kind paternal Rod,  
But strike not as my Lord, but God;  
Not whilst thy Justice with a Flaming Sword,  
Stands ready to avenge thy Royal Word;  
But with thy Mercy close at hand,  
Its fury to withstand:  
For how do thy most mighty keenest Arrows stick  
Fast in my Breast?  
And yet by thy Right Hand still deeper pressed.  
I feel them, though before incomparably Sick,  
Which venomed by my sin with deadly smart  
Pierce through the inmost fibres of my heart,   

IU.  
All Salutary Juice thine angry breath consume,  
That only fumes  
Most pestilent remain more black and foul  
Than blackest smoke, more hot than fire,  
In glowing compact 
* Iron.  Ire,  
Almighty Sire!  
O what a Tophet is a guilty soul!  
My guilty soul, which robs her servant body of all rest;  
As if each part,  
With the most skilful torturing art,  
Were Day and Night oppressed.   

V.  
Each Joint resolved with pains,  
By sad, but justest Law lets, and sucks in;  
(O had I forethought the sad gains),  
And so doth spread abroad the deadly poison of my sin,  
That I throughout infernal dolours find,  
From thy displeasure and my conscious mind,  
Which apprehends, imprisons, hales to Judgement, tries, attests, arraigns,  
Convicts, condemns to racking pains,  
And though not kills,  
Yet every hour with crowds of long-lived deaths it fills.   

VI  
What can ye more (my threatening sins)? whose mighty towering waves,  
Alarm Heaven, depress me to the Graves  
Of a dread deep; striving to rise, despair  
Still keeps me down, whose weight what Sampson's back can bear?  
Yet (darling Furies) will ye more,  
To me already one great sore?  
Alas! 'tis through mine own Chirurgery,  
That thus in Stench I lie,  
And float in mine own vile impurity:  
Rash folly seeking a too hasty calm,  
But slightly searched before, unskilfully it skinned the wound with balm;  
That now my festered sores recrude, and I  
Bowed down with languid eyes all day,  
Go on my way,  
And wash my steps with tears most mournfully.   

VII.  
How still my painful bowels burn,  
With noisome flames of divers kinds of brutish lust?  
Which to drought all moisture turn,  
And from my heart,  
To every near and distant part,  
Cause and communicate a raging thirst,  
After these waters, whence thou (grief) hadst thy first spring,  
Empoisoned with fair Paradice's sting;  
Of which yet wretched man I sought  
A greedy draught,  
Which so diffused the Poison, that from Head  
To Foot, a Plague is spread,  
A Plague which scorns all the Cathartick Medicines,  
Ta'en from rich Nature's hand,  
By Sea and Land,  
And which the best of Art refines,  
And only yields to what (blest Jesus! great  
Jehovah!) thou gav'st in thy bloody sweat;  
One drop whereof applied as well designed,  
Can antidote the Plagues of all mankind.   

VIII.  
Then (Lord!) what else remains,  
But that I forthwith flee  
To thee for remedy,  
And show thee (Boundless Goodness!) all my Pains,  
Tho brokenhearted, in strong cries,  
Which may, though from a horrid deep, yet pierce the lofty Skies.  
Let them approach thy Mercy's Throne,  
Who hearest every lowly sigh, and hearty, heavy groan:  
Thou knowst the whole of my desire:  
Quench not, but fan with thy kind breath, the smoking Flax's fire;  
Break not the bruised Reed;  
Nor kill (All-love) the heart that doth already bleed:  
See how it pants, beats with fear,  
Trembles with presaging care;  
That I most like a feeble Reed appear,  
To every breath, and fill with dismal tones all round the mournful Air.   

IX.  
Sight fails my clouded eyes which once were crowned  
With glorious Sunbeams; now a night profound  
Invelops all, that I can see  
Nought but my woeful misery;  
And how my dearest Lovers far, far, from me blushing fly.  
Which in my bosom use to lie,  
Blessed Angels, and thou boundless Source of Love,  
Most chaste and undefiled Dove,  
Who loathe to lie  
Near such a Sty,  
As I, of vile Impurity!  
Nor dare they join, with mine, their hands,  
Whom Nature joined to me in strictest bands:  
Nay, and the venerable name  
Of Friend abhors my shame;  
Friends look from far,  
But dare not to draw near:  
They fearful are,  
To greet the wounded Deer.   

X.  
Dark Angels, and their numerous Race,  
The wicked World, triumph in my disgrace;  
My Soul's proud Foes with Glory lift their Horns,  
And add to misery their scorns,  
Which gore my wounded breast like Thorns:  
Nor want they Stratagems to strive,  
That I my grief might never more survive,  
At least survive true Penitent:  
So is their Malice bend:  
For thus they me caress; Come live a while,  
And turn those panic looks into a smile;  
Turn Tears to Wine, thy watered Couch to Beds  
Of sweetest Odours; come, let's crown our heads  
With Rosy Chaplets, that it may be known  
To others and ourselves, we're still our own:  
What means this phlegmatic, dull Penitence?  
Needest thou, more than thy fellows, a pretence?  
What pleasure after grim Death's day?  
Whilst blood rounds briskly in our veins,  
Let's use our time, and slight no cheering means,  
Each Moment we decay,  
With our last breath all fleets away;  
And nought we have shall stay.   

XI.  
But I refrained my tongue in silent grief,  
Although my breast did swell, as all together dumb and deaf;  
For of Thee (Thrice best, greatest Parent!) I  
Hope all defence against their monstrous Blasphemy;  
Whose Oily Tongues are sharper than their Swords,  
And Poison lurks within their Candid words:  
Hear me with most benign ears,  
And rescue me from all my fears;  
Sustain me (Heaven!) with an Almighty hand,  
That I upright may walk and stand;  
For when (alas!) I step aside,  
Or in most slippery ways but slide,  
'Tis joyful Triumph to their envious Pride:  
As men infected with the Plague desire,  
And joy to spread the flames of the pestiferous Fire.   

XII.  
Thy Acts, whate'er they be,  
Are all alike most highly Holy, Just, and good:  
Lo, I'm content to bear, Great Clemency!  
what's by thee fit understood,  
Tho Sacrifice of Blood,  
And fix my eye  
On the true cause of misery.  
Yes (Judge most equal of th' Eternal Throne),  
The Spring of my sick Heart is all my own.  
My sins, my sins, exact, of right,  
A plague that's infinite:  
These I own, and have in sight;  
These more numerous than the Sand;  
Those above the Mountains stand;  
Those above the Stars ascend;  
Those to Hell's deep Centre bend:  
But as thy mighty Son hath here gi'n all  
Dark Powers a Second Fall;  
So there he's gone Triumphant King,  
To lead us on, and to secure us in,  
By blessed Portculliss made of Immortal Diamond,  
Whose brightness can benight the Sun:  
Lift all quite up to let us, us men in,  
In our first Fruits, our universal conquering King,  
Whilst glorious Hierarchy's found all Contents,  
To compose Quires on Heaven's Battlements;  
The most victorious Godman to commend  
Alternately with those, that him did in ascent attend;  
Ascent to the Eternal Capitol,  
Where all his faithful Soldiers shall  
In Triumph follow—   

XIII.  
Then whilst (dear Sire!) thy Love in angers reign,  
Let thy strong hand fast Chain  
The cruel Mercies of both Earth and Hell;  
For why should they excel,  
Excel in Malice, yet in mighty numbers ' crease,  
That Sport and Triumph in a forlorn Peace;  
That laugh when Heaven frowns,  
And feast like Vultures on my Wounds;  
That repay good with ill, grin at a Penitent,  
And with his Tears would have his Blood, because he doth present  
Them all a hated, humble Precedent;  
But leave not God, than who there will come near?  
Be thou my Guard, no Enemy I'll fear;  
Remove sins Opace Globe hence speedily,  
Which interposeth 'twixt my Sun and me;  
That my poor Moon-like Soul, barred from his sight,  
May see and feel again his wont beams,  
And shine with free Reflection of lent-light;  
Whilst thou (blessed Life!) dost flow in liberal Streams.    

ODE IV. On Psalm LI.  
O Life and Light of all that live!  
Which facile Ears and Eyes dost give  
To penitential sighs and tears,  
Receive my humble fervent Prayers,  
Whose tender Mercies Crowd exceeds  
All numbers, blot out my misdeeds;  
Which howsoever numerous prove,  
Yet cannot parallel thy love:  
Perfect (great Power!) what tears begin,  
And wash me throughly from my sin;  
Those sins which in my misery,  
Too justly claim supremacy:  
Wash in the streams that strong Rock gave,  
Which Mercy in the Deserts clavae,  
Dry Deserts which no water have:  
Wash o'er and o'er, that I may be  
A living Temple, 'gain for thee:  
For (Lord!) in most prostrate address,  
I my most crimson Crimes confess:  
Nor doth their Image day or night,  
One Moment die out of my sight;  
Only to thy Allseeing Eye,  
Their hideous Form did naked lie;  
Who only dost my secrets see,  
The only Judge to punish me;  
That 'twere most just to purge the same  
With thy fierce Fury's hottest Flame;  
Whilst thou dost clearly vindicate  
Thy sacred Sentence from debate,  
And baffle their proud Blasphemy,  
Who dare Arraign thy Equity,  
Triumphing in a perdite sense,  
Of no overruling Providence;  
Or charge All-love with cruelty;  
O purge and heal my Malady;  
For I (alas) diseased thing,  
Derived from a contagious Spring,  
Black Spots to my first light did bring!  
And e'er I into light was sent,  
From the dark Womb, the rudiment  
The fertile seeds of Vice did take,  
Into my liquid Natures make;  
But thou Great Faith! whose changeless might,  
Cannot 'mids storms but stand upright,  
Art simple Truth, whom never guile,  
No not in shadow could defile:  
This doth thy sacred Love so prise,  
That though with vicious Fumes made blind,  
Thou hast enlightened my dark eyes,  
With beams of Glorious Promises,  
That I through hidden Wisdom find,  
Tho all the powers of Night combined  
Me to seduce, to thee a way  
Blessed Father of Eternal Day!  
Purge therefore my foul Leprosy,  
Thy loathing, and my misery,  
With Hyssop in the sacred Flood  
Of thine own Son's dear Water-blood;  
Whose side a willing Sluice did prove,  
To let out that Red-Sea of Love,  
That I, I washed with it might be,  
Whiter than Snow's Virginity;  
O could I hear thy peaceful voice!  
My bones which have been broken long,  
How would they in a dance rejoice,  
As if by fracture made more strong!  
O make my mourning soul rejoice,  
To hear (good God) that pleasant voice!  
I'll not survey with rigorous eyes,  
Thy numerous Impurities:  
But rather will thy sins remove,  
And drown them in my Sea of Love:  
Great Parent of the World! by whom,  
All sprang from nothing's teeming Womb,  
Speak into me a heart that's sound,  
Where no defiling loves are found:  
And in that heart renew a mind,  
From earthly faeculence refined;  
Where thine own Image true and bright,  
Thy Royal Presence may delight,  
To feast all Day, to lodge all Night;  
Here let Celestial Flames still burn,  
That hence thy Spirit ne'er may turn  
To leave me 'gain as liveless Urn:  
For what wish I? the healthful Grace,  
And solid Joy of thy blessed Face;  
And that restored, I may abide;  
Let thy free Spirit ever guide,  
With Kingly Conduct to suppress  
All rebel motions of the flesh,  
Then shall I preach the Glories of thy name,  
And crowds of Converts shall adore the same;  
Reduced by my example to obey  
Thy sacred Laws from error's crooked way;  
God of my Life! deliver from the Cries  
Of loud-tongue blood, whose voice surmounts the Skies,  
Our guilty Land; so shall be all day long,  
Great! Good! and Just! the burden of our Song:  
Rouse up my living Lyre, my breast inspire,  
With vigorous sparks of pure Seraphic Fire:  
That Heart and Tongue enlarged, their strains may raise  
To sing (Great Harmony!) thy noble Praise:  
Mercy and Judgement sing, how they in thee,  
By discord Notes, most lovingly agreed:  
Thou art not pleased with Thousands of Young Rams,  
Nor with the Hollicosts of fat of Lambs,  
Or fairest Bulls prepared with holy Flames;  
The World is thine; but lo a Heart contrite,  
A Spirit broken with sins heavy weight,  
Abhorring Fraud, is thy blessed Heart's delight,  
Lo such I offer, such to thee I lift,  
My God accept and crown thine own free gift:  
O may men see, so long as Night knows Moon,  
And whilst the Sun makes Morning and the Noon,  
Thy Face serene to gild fair Sion's Hill,  
Thy Holy Church with Heavenly Splendour fill:  
Behold the Rents, view well her battered Walls,  
Mark how (alas!) she shakes, she totters, falls;  
Cement her breaches with a lasting Peace;  
And let her held-proof bulwarks still increase,  
That hostile Nations may her Progress more  
Admire, than at her backward course before:  
Then shall the Righteous (great Sionian King!)  
With freewill Joy their live Oblations bring  
Of hallowed Bodies, with pure Souls, to grace,  
Like fruitful Palms, thine Owner's dwelling-place.  
Then shall thy Votaries come from all parts,  
With whole Burnt Offerings of inflamed hearts,  
With zealous love, which breathe up to the Skies,  
Thick Clouds of Prayers a grateful Sacrifice,  
With thy sweet Incense (Jesus!) well perfumed,  
And lofty Praises, though but lowly tuned:  
Then shall they still on thy blessed Altar's, place  
Thy Royal Son, the Brightness of thy Face:  
Where all our Delila's in bonds succeed,  
And Victims to his Love, our hatred breed:  
And this shall more thy pleasure, more thy love,  
Than all the pomp of Hecatombs can move.    

THE Comfortable MOURNER: A SERMON  On Matth. V. 4. 
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.  
BLESSED, blessed are they, who for their follies mourn,  
Their Sorrow shall to greatest Triumph turn  
Ashes to Beauty, sad Sackcloth to white,  
Out-boasting all the Glories of the Light:  
Want of such Grief speaks a Lethargic State;  
O deadly Symptom of a Reprobate!  
Whilst active Grief is Comforts Excellence:  
The brisk acuteness of the vital sense:  
Quick feeling 'tis which, where it doth most thrive,  
Proclaims the Soul most vig'rously alive:  
Mourn, then rejoice in it, your healthful wound,  
When searched with wine, shall smoothest oil make sound;  
That precious Oil which speaks to every part,  
With Balmy Lips its great Composers Art;  
Able to turn afflicted Joseph's cold  
Hard Shackles of Iron into Chains of Gold:  
And lend his Tears more Virtue to refine  
His Mirth, than all th' ungrateful Butler's wine.  
The Dovelike Comforter will pardon sing,  
More pleasant than the chantings of the Spring,  
Into your peaceful, though once thundered Ears:  
Good Cheer these Eyes shall see, the fertile tears,  
Make this your Bakah Pleasures to afford,  
Like Paradise, the Garden of the Lord;  
When Harvest shouts, shall drown all noise of toil,  
In cultivating your well-watered soil:  
And you go up fair Sion's Hill, which leaves,  
All Pools behind, with loads of wealthy sheaves.  
Then begins great Jubilee, whose welcome ease,  
Gains from past pains an Emphasis of praise:  
For think, to whom sweet rest so grateful can  
Appear, as to the weary labouring man:  
What Tears remain, shall be as Orient Gems,  
To beautify your sacred Diadems;  
And memory of grief not to alloy,  
But sublimate the spirits of your Joy:  
Thus blackish Moles prove Beauty-Spots to grace,  
Not to deform true Virtues Godlike Face:  
But (ah!) true Virtue (Lord!) is far from me;  
I know, but serve not thy blessed Deity:  
What shall I do? I want due strength, not will,  
Do thou (Great Might!) my brutish Passions kill.  
My sins grow daily stronger, and are more  
Than all the Sands, by Seas washed on the Shore.  
Fain would I mourn, Blessed Wisdom! teach me how,  
But not how much, for I can ne'er enough:  
First give me pious tears, than (Living Vine!)  
Turn, turn, those tears into Immortal Wine:  
Which nobled with thy Blood (All-Righteousness!)  
Who trodst alone the overflowing Press;  
May glad, not only my poor heart, but all  
The mighty States of Heavens great Whitehall:  
The blessed Three One will take what sweet content,  
When they behold their mourning Penitent;  
My Great Creator, welcome new-made Son;  
My Dear Redeemer, what my Blood hath done;  
My Holy Comforter, let me embrace  
My Precious Convert, and augment his Grace,  
Refreshing him with shades of Dovy wings:  
And then each Pole with Peals of Anthems rings,  
From good-willed Angels who much more rejoice,  
For one that mourns, than Ninety nine so choice,  
As not to know they need a mournful voice.  
O Joyful Grief! O mourning Festival,  
Preparing Virgins for the Bridegrooms call;  
Come panting hearts, come to consummate bliss,  
I'll you caress with an Eternal Kiss:  
Put off your sable Weeds, on Robes all white,  
Becoming best the Lambs blest Nuptial Light:  
Whose Beauty you shall find much, much more bright,  
When you compare it with your former Night:  
A Night whose shades deceasing soon as born,  
Give place to Joys most perfect Midday Morn:  
Fresh still as Infancy, as Manhood Strong,  
New as each Instant, yet as Ever, long.   

THE Epiologue or Corollary from all the Premises, in opposition to the principal Tenent of the Garden; that is, of Epicurus and his Followers, who Phylosophized anciently in a Garden; viz. Their Opinion of no overruling Providence, as being utterly destructive of the Happiness, and highly derogatory to the Majesty of a God to stoop to, and interfere with the care of any sub-Celestial, and especially Terrestrial Affairs; Which Doctrine their Philosophical Poet sings in these Verses,  

Omnis enim per se divum natura necesse'st,  
Immortali aevo summa cum pace fruatur,  
Semota ab nostris rebus, sejunctaque long;  
Nam privata dolore omni, privata periclis,  
Ipsa suis pollens opibus, nihil indiga nostri,  
Nec bene per meritus capitur, nec tangitur ira.  Lucret. lib. 1.  
Which the Oxford Swan hath thus excellently taught English. 
For whatsoe're's divine, must live in Peace,  
In undisturbed and everlasting ease;  
Not care for us, from fears and dangers free,  
Sufficient to its own felicity;  
Nought here below, nought in our power it needs,  
ne'er smiles at good, nor frowns at wicked deeds.  Mr. Creech in his Elevation of Lucretius.  
THen sing live Lute, that whatsoe're's divine  
Is not as fancied by the Garden 
* Epicuri de grege Porcus: Horace.  Swine;  
Men who to Fortune's chances all ascribe,  
And think, the world no Masters hand doth guide,  
But Nature rolls the rounds of Day and 
‖ Sunt qui fortunae jam casibus omnia ponunt.  Year:  
And so they touch all Altars without fear:  
What's God, of all below must careless be 
* Et nullo credunt, mundum rectore moveri: ,  
Not Saints from Friends, not Fogs from Incense  
Diseern not praising from blaspheming tongue;  
ne'er shine on right, nor storm at impious wrongs.  
As if it were abasing to a God 
† Natura volvente vires & lucis & anni ,  
To cast one glance on a terrene abode:  
As if (good God) Supreme felicity,  
Did wholly in a lazy posture lie: 
* Atque adeo intrepedi quecunque altaria tangunt. Juvenal.   
And to thy bliss it needs disturbance brings,  
To intermeddle with the care of things,  
Chiefly of that which from mean Seed begins.  
O bruits! that shape a God out of the vain  
Ideas of their own distempered brain,  
And suited to their vicious nature's strain:  
Shall we supiness, and an idle state,  
Make Gods chief bliss, which good men scorn and hate;  
Esteeming it the Glory of great Kings,  
With guardiant eyes to shield the shrubs of things?  
God's Bliss, to whose unlimitable quick eye,  
All things are present, and all naked lie;  
So that without discourse, which labour brings,  
He comprehends the perfect rule of things.  
God's bliss, the beck of whose Almighty Hand,  
Whole Nature's force, nay, Nothing can't withstand,  
But into Something springs at his command.  
To whom to make more Worlds is easier found,  
Than to take up an Acorn from the Ground,  
To all the Garden Swine—  
Since then the 'ternal Power can live in Peace,  
Yet foster all, and rule with perfect ease,  
Nor in the least his Grandeur thus displease:  
Why murmur ye, that ye his Goodness find:  
To you more than you to your own selves kind?  
Ungrateful Swine! Go herd yourselves and run  
With one fowl Mouth to grunt against the Sun,  
For humbling his high Heavenly self so low,  
As with warm Beams to make your Pastures flow.  
And talk no more, that Heaven nothing needs,  
To banish quite from Earth Religious deeds.  
As if a Peasant should not Homage pay  
Of Grateful Honours to his Prince; and say,  
I humbly thank my Gracious Lord the King,  
From whom to me such Bounties daily Spring;  
Because the mighty Monarch needs no Clown,  
To grace with thanks the Jewels of his Crown.  
True, the Almighty Kings Imperial Bliss  
Placed in his Self's high Contemplation is  
The Mirror and great Architype of all  
That solid reason Great and Good can call:  
That not all Hymns from Men and Angels sent,  
His Native Bliss and Glory can Augment,  
As much as one poor spark bound upwards may  
Augment the Brightness of an August day.  
Why then should this most blissful One Create  

* Objection of the Epicurean  The World, and still with care o'er rule its State?  
Ask why 
* Answer.  the Sun doth flow in ampler Streams  
Than Moon or Stars, why with more generous Beams?  
Why do the Heavens so Bless the Womb of Earth  
With Vital Heat and Seed for Fruitful Birth?  
Why from the Brooks such puny purl come,  
Whilst Nile with Thundering Floods sets from his home,  
And Yearly hugs blest Egypt's wealthy Land,  
With the o'erwhelming bounty of his Hand?  
Why doth the Sea with restless kindness too,  
To all th' unnumbered Springs supplies renew,  
Whilst narrow Cisterns just begin to flow,  
And strait they fail, dry up and empty grow?  
Why are some Lands of such an hidebound soil,  
And so ungrateful to the tilers toil,  
When Rich returns from better natured ground  
To fill his Mouth, and Deck his Head, are found,  
And Plains with freewill Fruits and Flowers Crowned?  
Why doth most Beauty most compliant prove  
With the sweet motions of all noble Love,  
And why such Clemency, such goodness find  
We from the Valiant and Heroic mind?  
For still the largest Soul is the most kind.  
'Tis, 'tis, because things of themselves are free  
According to their natural Goods degree.  
So greatest Goods love most self to diffuse:  
Therefore did God whole Nature's frame produce.  
Therefore from one Point willing lines are found  
To spring and pass all numbers and all bound:  
Of which no cause can well-purged ears approve  
But one, Self, and all moving Sea of Love.  
And thou (my Soul) knowst he who knows no ends  
Of Days, of Bliss, of Glory, condescends  
Meek, Lowly vales to visit with kind Eyes,  
Their Springs of Penitential Waters rise.  
Not thinking therefore that this Ocean looks,  
Or needs assistance from such puny Brooks,  
Yet every Hour and Moment of each day,  
Send grateful Rivers to the boundless Sea,  
Not as Earth's Fountains to recruit, but show  
That thou to it thyself and all dost owe.   

AN ADDRESS TO A LOYAL PENCIL; BEING A gentle satire against the Arch Fanaticism of our days, and the Substance of some Antifanatical Poems Publicly Communicated in Manuscript, when the Lopping or Excluding Faction was in its Meridian and highest Impudence; the contraction of which into this one, though Composed before the Birth of the last most Holy Rebellion, may yet be less Impertinent than wished to our present Circumstances, if we consider the possibility of a remaining root of bitterness, and the secret throws of Santa Pretenza, for her after-burden.  
Beware of false Prophets which come to you in Sheeps-clothing, but inwardly they are Ravening Wolves; ye shall know them by their Fruits,  Matth. 7.15. 
Pictoribus atque Poetis.  
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa Potestas  
Seimus, & hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicissem.  
To Painters and to Poets still hath been  
An equal power of daring any thing  
We know of old, and humbly crave such leave,  
And such to all, with all our Heart we give.  Horat. de Art. Poet.  

ADDRESS TO A PAINTER.  
DEAR Painter Draw a Sepulchre within,  
Full fraught with dead men's Bones, a 〈◊〉 some thing,  
As Putrid stuff can make, without more white,  
(If possible) than Virgin's Snow or Light;  
Or what's the same, draw Fiend's as lately made  
The only Saints, in Holy Masquerade.  
No wonder Sir, these should themselves so fly  
To Refuge in a Contrariety:  
For from the first, the devil used this deceit,  
And dearly loved to play the Counterfeit,  
Shame and his Policy enforcing to't  
To hide what might, all but his Cloven Foot;  
For such is his Deformed Excellence,  
'Twould scare both Scot-and-Lot-men out of sense,  
Should he appear upon Election  
In his own shape to move Affection.  
No, no, he knows his Picture would not take,  
But only for the Golden Frame's sweet sake.  
Zelub left out, he doubts not to do well,  
Looking as if his Name was only Bell.  
Pray Draw him therefore with a curious Hand,  
And let his Worship like an Image stand  
Enriched all over with the Temple's spoils,  
Which no presumptuous spot or wrinkle foils.  
Make his grim Blackmores Face and Hands, most bright  
With glorious gilt of fresh Angelic light,  
In all so feigning forms of Sanctity,  
As if new-sent from the Empir'al Sky.  
In these he may successfully trepan,  
At least the honest-hearted Christian,  
Who oft mistakes a Jezebel for Saint;  
Adores, for Native Beauty, sordid Paint.  
By her starched looks, and Oily Tongue, which talks  
Nought but the Holy Land, bewitched he walks,  
Admiring her, till by Syrenean Charms,  
He's Conjured in the Circle of her Arms;  
Here Hug'd, he lives in Blindness till he Dies  
(Poor wretch) the Worst of all Captivities.  
Then (prithee Pencil) be most Exquisite,  
To draw this devil, when Factious, bolt-upright;  
Let him not in the least peep out his Nose  
Of Door, but in Religious Sundays clothes,  
Grave, Black, on Maiden White, to keep fast in  
His supple wits, which are prone forth to spring  
When great pains taking, opes the little Doors  
Through fervency, which natural men call Pores.  
Add hallowed Frontlet's of the largest size;  
A Cloak more than the half Phylacteries,  
His Chariot must be Flaming Zeal, whereon  
With Jehu's Tongue he acts a Phaeton.  
Saints all like Angels for his numerous Train,  
And Kings made wicked, to make good his Reign;  
Kings with their fettered Nobles on each side,  
To Grace his Chariot with triumphant pride.  
Paint Lively on his Lips the sacred word,  
And in his Hand a double-edged Sword,  
Mottoed (for and against) to separate,  
'Twixt Godlike Caesar's Person and his State,  
To fight the Lairds own Battles, Maugre Laws,  
The Lairds own Battles in the Devil's Cause!  
O Prince of sins! what Heaven mod defies,  
Dares that of Heaven borrow a disguise?  
Rebellion which with Witchcrafts cursed Hands  
Profanes and violates all Holy Bands;  
By Covenant with Hell and the Black Prince,  
Quite to Renounce Heaven's highest Excellence,  
Whilst (horrid thing!) it spitefully agrees  
To scorn on Earth his sacred Deputies;  
And that in all the likeness may hold good,  
The Solemn Covenant is signed with Blood,  
Their own malignant Blood, which Rebels must  
Give to appease th' Infernal Dragon's thirst.  
Not only theirs, but Blood of Innocents',  
And from Bazillick Veins; astonishments  
Confound me here, and horror sense prevents!  
But draw an Altar, under which still cry,  
Thick Purple Bands of Martyred Loyalty;  
Encircling round a bleeding Royal Love,  
Like a meek Lamb, crowned with a gall-less Dove.  
How long (just Powers) shall our dear Blood be found,  
Yet unappeased to die the British ground?  
And yet near by, paint Adders, which appear  
Stopping 'gainst charms their unrelenting ear.  
And Chairman Pilate, with washed hands, lift eyes,  
Still mingling Blood with holy Sacrifice,  
The Blood of the most holy Votaries.  
Nor doth vain humour bring unto my mind  
Strange forms, unheard-of shapes to make or find;  
For never yet did Rebel-Devil ride,  
But with both men and arms all sanctified.  
Consult a while your reverend Monuments,  
And draw what their sage Story represents,  
That this besotted Age may see its old,  
To hilt seditious Swords with Temple-Gold.  
Give one for all, proud Korahs' company;  
In formal ranks, and let their Banners fly,  
Inscribed, The Lords own People, all Holy  
Assertors of a Holy Liberty.  
Lift up their Snow-white hands towards the Skies,  
Whilst poisoned Arrows pelt their Dignities.  
what's Moses or Saint Aaron, that they thus  
(Are they more holy?) Lord it over us?  
Then whilst with mouths full of a godly word,  
They hand the Censor, squinting on the Sword,  
Let them approach the Altar, whence alone  
They hope to Scale successfully the Throne;  
Princes of Priests! Oh Holy Violence,  
Not in a Mystic, but a lit'ral Sense,  
At once to take, (what dares it not perform?)  
The Earth's & Heaven's Kingdoms both by storm.  
But Paint (canst thou) true fire, or what's the same,  
Give Painted Fire a quick Vivacious Flame,  
To which their Sacrilegious Zealots all,  
(Strange Fire!) (strange Sacrifice!) Just Victims fall,  
Now for Jacks Parentage. Paint him begot  
On discontent, kind Cats most happy lot;  
On discontent, by some Male Incubus;  
Paint Faction, Midwife; Paint Sedition, Nurse;  
Paint black Rebellion, bringing him at last  
To proper Man, bad weed! that grows so fast  
Up to an Elder, soon as come to light,  
A Mushroom Offspring of but tother night.  
Paint him close joined to any sect or thing,  
To make Extinct the hated Name of King.  
What if their Eyes to adverse points are bend?  
Their Tails, like Sampsons' Foxes, may consent  
To carry Hells Firebrands of Zeal, to Burn  
The Lords and his Anointed's sacred Corn.  
Paint all his Associations near to be;  
The League of France in Holy Amity,  
Both meeting kind to Rob the Diadem,  
With cursed Hands, of its most Orient Gem,  
Supremacy o'er sacred men and things,  
The right of Jewish and all Christian Kings.  
But show the Thiefs all up in arms to be,  
Where this their stolen Treasure placed should be;  
Jack big with pride, (alas enraged Fool!)  
Commanding Thrones to his Repenting-stool,  
And the Impereal Robe by Holy Trump,  
To kiss the Him of his Synodick Jump.  
Show how derived Gods he Violates,  
And with Brute Thunder Excommunicates;  
Thunder, which in another he defies,  
And as the Triform Cerb'rus howls decries;  
Yet Heavens Viceroys presumes he to displace,  
Piping all Kingdom to be found in Grace;  
And lest no sequel from such premises  
Let them be Saints, he'll make them Tyrannise.  
Paint now our bands asunder, and give thence  
All Law to Eagle-sighted Impudence,  
Which must outstare the Sun, amazed to Eye  
Religion-Murd'ring Divinity,  
That peaceful Gospel which came from the Stars;  
Proclaiming nought but dire Intestine Wars.  
Loud Mouthed Bo'nerges, belching Flames like Guns,  
And Thundering Pulpits, like to Major Drums.  
Conducting silly Souls with devilish Spells,  
From Purgatories feigned to Real Hells.  
Bound with cross Chains of Contradicting Oaths,  
Which Turks and Pagans never could Impose.  
Paint now Egyptian Taxers, which may rate,  
Poll Decimate, Plunder and Sequestrate,  
Selling Lives, Liberties all to support  
Hells high Tribunal, Heaven's Judging Court.  
But lest that Mealmouth Jack complains that here  
He hath no part, pray draw a Butcher fair,  
Binding a Lamb, the Meekest of the Flock,  
Then Boy dispatch him first, thus tied to Block;  
And Pencil, this depending strife decide,  
Which of the two may best be justified.  
Then show how this (what heart could other think)  
This viprous Brood expires with curse and stink;  
Whilst Vengeance halls its Arch-conductors all  
To the due Glories of their Godly call.  
Yet by, so draw the Stars, that all appear  
In form to hasten a Plantonick Year.  
men's Heads Vertigo'd with male Influence,  
Distracting so their very common Sense,  
That they all over Act in public view  
The frantic Scenes of Forty one and two.  
Show how the Martyred Rumpers now awake,  
And in the Senate their old Stations take,  
With Reverend shades ascending from black Dis,  
Into our Saints (blest Metempsycoses),  
To Club for one 
* The four Club Divines.  Smectimnean Monster more,  
And make again Geneva's Bull to Roar,  
That only could out-bellow Greeks Stantore.  
Show how old Pan the Mobile Inspires  
Both with his Pipe and with his wand'ring Fires,  
Which look like Fiends to Malanchollick sights,  
Tho nought in truth, but Jack with Lanthorn-Light.  
Raised by and to Distempered fancies pains,  
Out of the heated Bogs of Factious Brains,  
As poison full as the Plot-Masters Reins.  
Let Black-mouthed Calumny with filthy steams,  
Now strive again to dark the Sun's bright beams,  
Which being stout, thousand to one at last,  
But some howe'er unjust, may yet stick fast.  
Here let bold Clippers of the Crown, and there  
The parers of the Royal Robe appear,  
Such as for Cowardice, Damned david's Breast,  
When with Regret for Saul's cropped Garment pressed  
And would both Saul and David to Divest  
Divest their Kings, till them should nakedness,  
The people's Creatures, (though their Gods) confess.  
All this can't do, pray change the Pencil, and  
Call Aiding Genij to your Royal Hand.  
Call him that drew the Vine so cur'ously,  
That Birds with eager Wings towards it fly,  
And set upon plump lively clusters, loath  
To own the Cheat, though they go blushing off.  
Call him that drew the shade so Dextrously,  
That as a Curtain men would put it by,  
That of the Vine they might have fuller sight,  
One Sense befooled, the other Reason's light.  
Call Angelo, and all for Paint Renowned  
In and about the famed Italian Ground.  
Then draw a Saint for Glorious Zeal more gay  
Than ever was Saint Barnaba's bright day.  
* Santa Pretenza is her Name, a Saint Holy Pretence.  
That of all others Merits most of Paint.  
Her habit must be all of Heavenly Loom;  
A Present from some Sister-Angel come,  
But chiefly let her upper Robe white be,  
As if died newly in the Gallaxie;  
That it be long enough (pray) have great care,  
That there below no Cloven Foot appear.  
Her Face, Neck, Hands and Breasts, and all to sight  
That comes, must be washed with Fresh Virgin Light,  
Such as that Noon, which by th'Almighty Word,  
Nothing did in the world's daybreak afford;  
For here no Mot no Spot may Critics spy,  
Nor shade, except Religious Gravity.  
When e'er her Saintship deigns to take process  
To solemn Acts of full-blown holiness,  
Her let Nymph Echo follow, and the rest,  
With which Narcissus in the Woods was blest.  
Paint more than 
* Atropus one of the three Destinies, whose office was to cut the Thread of human periods, as of the other two, one to hold the distaff, the other to spin the Thread out.  Atropos knife in her right hand,  
Whilst in the Left a Sage black Box must stand  
With Knife, she as a new fourth Destiny,  
Rescinds the Acts of the old Sacred three,  
Cuts off those Lines which heavens high Council makes  
To meet and fix the Bounds of Regal states,  
Dread thing! dares oft break Heavens Eternal Line,  
To make way for her own, as more Divine!  
But this can't do, firm Thread which Heaven hath spun,  
And only hath end, whence it first begun,  
Nor needs Religion fair Pretenza skill;  
For prop obedience to the Heavenly will,  
Is pure and only true Religion still.  
They Gods dread Self Exclude in very deed,  
That Vote not his Vicegerents to succeed.  
As liquid Floods in one continued stream,  
Where they in fee hold the bright Diadem,  
In see of the blessed Deity alone,  
And scorn Election to Eclipse the Throne;  
To make good therefore true succession's Line,  
And show how Pretenza next with Hands Divine  
Presents (O rarely skilled in all state-locks)  
A Reverend black thing like Pandora's Box,  
Looking as if she knew no mighty odds,  
But that herself was gifted by the gods,  
As well as she when sent to men's abodes.  
First let her the Prometheans tempt with it,  
Boasting it brings an Heir of Royal Wit,  
As well as of a Royal true Descent,  
God's chief Delight, israel's chief Ornament.  
But let these weigh the Presents Excellence  
In Golden Scales of Godlike Providence.  
So scorn her offer as a damned pretence,  
The boasted Eagle scorn, whose spurious Eye  
Dares not behold the Sun's bright Majesty.  
But rather would the joy of all Eyes fly.  
Then let the Saint with all her care and art,  
Make Present to the Epimethean part.  
Who more consulting change, than solid peace;  
Muchless Religions than their pride's increase;  
Accept and open this Mysterious Box,  
Out flies a swarm of worse than Plague or Pox;  
A swarm of Hellbred mischiefs rushes out,  
And buzzing flies three brainsick Realms about.  
Paint lively this, show how the people run,  
As if all with Tarantula's were stung.  
Some their mad selves dance almost out of breath;  
And some more eager Dance themselves to death.  
Their Master's Music still more poison brings  
Than cure, till they crack their Enchanting strings▪  
This some beholding with considering Eyes,  
Leave off their Dancing, to be timely wise;  
Wise when they see the Reverend Box so open,  
That there remains in, not so much as hope;  
Less than in Pander's taking Air 'tis Dead.  
Else on the Eagles hanging pinions fled.  
Paint Saint now like Medea, muttering Charms,  
Or Chafing like an Amazon in Arms;  
The great Penthisile, when mad with Grief,  
She foamed amidst thick Troops for Troy's Relief.  
For nothing 'gainst succession can succeed,  
No, neither Knife nor Box will do the deed.  
Therefore in place of these, flung off with Curse,  
Paint (what may both supply) a Blunderbus  
Inscribed, Since I supernal Gods can't bend,  
I'll roar to make th' Infernal Gods ascend.  
But whilst the Saint a Lioness in Heart,  
Yet gently acts the lowly Lambs meek part,  
And Couching waits the dismal day, to tear  
Three mighty Kingdoms in a Royal Pair.  
(O sacred Pair) in whom did mighti'st love  
Most mystic powers and powerful mysteries prove,  

* New Market Fire.  Show fire from Heaven, a fire whose wondrous light  
Brings both Saint & her pious frauds to sight;  
Display how at this Fires Puissant heat,  
(Bad friend to paint) the Saint dessolves in sweat;  
How her fine clothes drop off, hands melt, and face,  
And leave a Naked Devil in their place.  
For Pencil now, and Colours, send to Hell,  
Else canst thou never draw this Fury well;  
Describe her squalid hairs thick traced with knots  
In which grim Serpents hatch and hiss out Plots.  
Some on her blistered shoulders dangling down,  
Some brisling up, and clustered to a Crown;  
Still threatening Heaven with endeavoured Wars,  
Heaven, whence she dropped amongst the rebel stars▪  
From both her Eyes let flaming Rivers flow,  
Such as Vesavius and fierce Aetna know.  
Out of her Mouth black smoke must never rest,  
To speak a Phlegathon within her breast,  
Nor let her meager Cheeks desist to tell,  
That Envy is her most Compendious Hell.  
Throughout her Negro frame, let Pictrine Brass,  
With Cuts of various shapes, her honour grace▪  
Old Britain's gallantry, as sage Bards sang,  
ere French Diseases, with French Modes began.  
Here let fierce Harpies, ravenous Praetors there,  
The numerous race of Tiphons' blood appear.  
Here Minotaurs, there Centaurs 'bove the rest,  
A Monster of six Heads upon one Breast.  
Circled with all the Monsters Libya finds,  
Sprung from Conjunction of far distant kinds.  
Then let a Viper have next signal part,  
A Viper preying on its Parent's Heart.  
But by a Pigmi Proteus taught too well,  
Who Faces Heaven, whilst he looks to Hell.  
Thy Mystic Signet of this mighty thing,  
A Crafty Monster called a Sphinx must bring.  
Posy (unridled!) I am Dead.—  
To make good this at length in streams most foul,  
Let slimy Tap piss out his Plotful Soul.  
Himself first seeing Heaven, Anatomise  

* Pandemonian of the General Court or Council-House of all the Devils.  His Pandemonian Heart to all men's Eyes;  
Stay here no more, but give at last this Fiend  
A Cloven Foot (inscribed) Divide and Reign,  
And show how she in pleasure doth prevail,  
Scourging herself with her own Snaky Tayl.  
But (Painter) next a mighty Troop bring in,  
That now hedge in no Cuckoos but their sin!  
O! Holy One! Prince Disinheriting,  
Show how they stamp with zealous spite at will  
On poor black Boxes, an Exclusion Bill.  
Yet giving (gentle Pencil!) each man leave  
To have a Weatherglass within his sleeve,  
Whose Motto peeping out, minds what their will is,  
(Tempora Mutantur nos & Mutamur in illis.  
Still yielding to, with most observant care,  
The changeling temper of the Ambient Air.  
As free and facile, to fall low or rise,  
As the prophetic Liquor Weather-wise.  
But let them on and curse Pretenza more  
Than ever they Hosanned her before  
Heaven most Triumphs, when Devils forced be  
To grin confession of the Deity.  
Yet draw the Roman Crow prepared to cry,  
All Hail Great Cesar, or Mark Anthony,  
According to the chance of Victory.  
And lest late Janus' now cheat the Eyes  
Of honest Hearts with Rainbow Loyalties,  
Paint Lively out, how Earth-bred Clouds can soon  
As oft in par'lels Ape the Sun or Moon;  
Show how warm Suns make Butterflies to frisk,  
And out Carvet Brave Barbs not half so brisk;  
Show how the seven Sleepers all Retreat  
And hide, when Sunbeams seem to lose their heat  
And wail their Fountain's power as not great.  
Which when Favonius whispers in their Ear,  
With his warm Breath, and tells that Sol is near,  
And full of kindly power, all forth run  
Like Persians, adore the Rising Sun.  
This is enough to deck a Palace round  
Where Prester Jack with pleasures might be Crowned  
Seeing great Caesar's mighty Chariot Grace  
With Saint Pretenza to its wheels made fast;  
Whilst truebred Royalists fly cheerful by,  
As free as Eagles through the yielding sky.  
True Hearts that Cherished in sad Wintertime,  
Poor Loyalty damned for a first-rate Crime;  
Tho now the very Brambles Garlands bear  
Of Amaranth to Crown her Golden Hair,  
Thus that great Word which Chaos did Refine,  
Still out of darkness, makes fair light to shine.  
FINIS.