depiction of two figures kneeling, one looking down with arms crossed, the other looking up with arms raised; between them a winged figure looking up floats above the ground; at the top, separated from this group by a large heart and rings of clouds, a distant figure with wings and halo looks down with arms outstretched; in the background between the two kneeling figures, a church 
DIVINE ADDRESSES  
Ier: 9 1.  
Psal: 119. 5.  
Psal 55. 6  Sturt Sc:  
LONDON Printed for Henry Bonwick at the Red Lion in St. Paul's Churchyard.   

PIA DESIDERIA: OR, Divine Addresses, In Three BOOKS. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latin by Herm. Hugo. Englished by EDM. ARWAKER, M. A.  
LONDON: Printed for Henry Bonwicke, at the Red-Lion in St. Paul's Churchyard. MDCLXXXVI.   

IMPRIMATUR,  
October 20. 1685. Rob. Midgley.   

TO Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS ANNE Of DENMARK.  
THE Great, Madam, seldom want Addresses from the Multitude, to applaud and celebrate them; for Greatness draws the Crowd, as the burning Bush did Moses, to admire it. But what encourages others in their approaches to their Superiors, had prohibited mine to Your Royal Highness, and, like the Voice sent from amidst that Bush, had prescribed my admiration limits, and confinded it to so due a distance, that it might not commit a Rudeness, where it designed to pay a Reverence. But, Madam, the obliging condescension of Your Excellent and truly Royal Temper, which awes all Your approachers only with a gentle Influence, as it encouraged me to beg, so it readily procured me Your gracious permission to lay this humble Offering at Your feet. I have therefore presumed to introduce into Your Royal Highness' Presence a Foreigner ambitious of the Honour, and one who must certainly be divertive, if his sense be not impaired by the unskilfulness of his Interpreter.  
For you will find him, Madam, so much your own resemblance, so religiously Devout, so sincerely Christian so versed in all the heights and transports of an exalted Piety, as well as all the excellencies of Wit and Sense, that his Conversation cannot be unpleasing.  
And now, to whom but Your Royal Highness can he become a Suppliant? for where can a Work of the highest Devotion be so favourably received, as where the Person whose Patronage it implores is the most Unimitable, as well as most Illustrious Pattern of it?  
It is not, Madam, because You are Daughter to the best, no less than the Greatest of Christian Monarches, but because You are a faithful Servant to the King of Kings, that this poor piece begs your Royal Acceptance. It admires You not so much for Your external Pomp and Grandeur, as for the nobler Ornaments of Your Soul; nor takes so much notice that Your Garments are of Needlework and Embroidery, as that You are all glorious within. For Your Piety, Madam, is eminent as Your Quality; and the Constancy of Your Presence, as well as the Religion of Your Performance, at the Devotions of our Church, might powerfully put to silence not only the Ignorance of foolish men, but the Malice too of the wicked and perverse: Or if they should still continue their false suggestions, yet the genuine Sons of the Church of England can have no apprehensions of unkindness from their Sovereign, who has given His Princely Word, that He will defend and support it in its present Establishment, and whose Royal Issue are such inseparable Members of it, that all Its sufferings must affect Them. But God be praised the Church, thro' His Majesty's goodness and favour, is as far from danger as from the dread or suspicion of it, and the notion it has of His benign and gracious disposition, renders it as fearless, as the addition of a Promise, as sacred and inviolable as the Laws of the Medes and Persians, makes it safe. And as 'tis the Church's first happiness to be under the Government of so excellent a Prince, so 'tis its ●econd blessing to be owned by Your Royal Highness, the public daily demonstrations of whose affection towards it, are so many convincing arguments of its Purity and Perfection; and all must believe worthily of it, since it stands fair in the good opinion of one of the Wisest and most Religious Princesses in the world. Which favour it cannot fear to lose, till 'tis estranged from itself, till it forfeits that Character which His Majesty was pleased to give of it, and falls from its ancient Loyalty, that signal Loyalty for which it has been always eminent, and which is a main part of ●ts Religion; that Religion which Your Royal Highness honours by Your Profession, and adorns by your Practice of it, and which the world must admire, out of an ambitian to imitate such a great Exemplar. But as Your Royal Highness is absolute in all points of a real Piety, so You excel in that of not seeking th● world's applause by Your performances, an● therefore I leave all Panegyrics, and only make it my humble petition, that You wi● with Your usual sweetness and candour accept this mean present, and pardon the unworthy Offerer,  
Your Royal Highness' most Humble and most Obedient Servant, EDM. ARWAKER   

THE PREFACE.  
FRom my first acquaintance with this Author, which was as early as I was able to understand him, I found him so pleasing and agreeable, ●hat I wished he were taught to speak English, that ●hose who could not understand him in his own language might by that means partake of the satisfaction and advantage I, at least, received in my conversation with him. And finding that not any Pen had been employed about the Work, (for Mr. Quarles only borrowed his Emblems, to praefix them to much inferior sense) ra●her than it should remain undone, and such an excellent piece of Devotion be lost to those who would prise it most, the Religious Ladies of our Age: I resolved to engage in the attempt; and the rather, because the Subject was as suitable to my Calling, as a Clergyman, as the Sense was to my Fancy, as an humble Admirer of Poetry, especially such as is Divine.  
But on a more considerate perusal of the Book, in order to a Translation, I found some things in it which put a stop to my proceeding, that even my zeal to have ●t done, could scarce prevail with me to undertake the Work. For my Author, I found, was a little too much a Poet, and had inserted several fictitious stories in his Poems, which did much lessen their gravity, and very ●ll become their Devotion; and which, indeed, would take from them that prevalency which they ought to have, as serious Addresses from the Soul to God, over the affections of all that read them. But at last my inclination to the Work, made me resolve rath● wholly to omit those Fictions where I met them, tha● recede from my design. And accordingly I have made ● my business to leave them always out, only where ● could think of an apposite example out of the Scripture● I have used it instead of the fictitious one omitted. A● in the first Poem of the second Book, where the Author brings in Phaeton as an example of men's desiring Liberty in choosing, though their choice proves oftentimes thei● rui●, I have used the Prodigal Son, as more sutab● to t●e design, and I am sure to the gravity of the Poem▪ A●● such another alteration I have made in the secon● Poem of the third Book, where, instead of Cydippe● being deceived by Acontius with an Apple, I hav● mentioned Eve's being so deluded by the Serpent. An● in several other places I have done the like, wher● th●se fabulous stories came in my way, as whoever ha● the curiosity to inquire, may find, by comparing th● English with the Latin. And in all this, I think, ● have rather done my Author a kindness than an injury▪ But there is another thing for which some of the Author's friends may perhaps call me to an account; th● is, for omitting several historical passages taken fro● the Legend of Saints and Martyrologies: And fo● this I must return in my own behalf, that it was no● out of any disregard to, or prejudice against the Sain● and holy persons of whom the account is given, nor th● I superstitiously disbelieve their stories, however som● perhaps may with too much superstition credit them; bu● the true reasons of my leaving out the mention of them were these: ●irst, because I knew that great part o● ●e Readers would be strangers to their Histories, and ●ust consequently be at a loss in understanding the Poems. ●econdly, because the truth of the relations is not so evident as to render them unquestionable, I thought them ●tter left out, especially since they are only bare recitals ● such passages, without any improvement of Fancy, or ●ckiness of Thought upon them, which could not injure ●e Book by being omitted, whereas the inserting that ●art might prejudice some nice judgements against the ●hole: And, which was my third reason, might be a hindrance to the Impression.  
But however they may censure me for this, I hope ●ey will not take it ill that I have left out the Satyri●l part of the second Poem of the first Book, wherein ●e Author reflects on the Monks and Friars in their ●ariety of Habits, and contests about them; for indeed ● thought it something too uncharitable to have any room ● so Divine a Poem. And now I am apologizing for ●missions, let me not forget to acquaint the Reader that ● have left out some of the Author's sense, particularly ● the eighth Poem of the second Book, and in the second poem of the third Book: In the first of which he recounts ●ll the several sorts of Perfumes he can think of, and in ●he latter makes a long recital of the various kinds of Flowers, both which rather tyre than delight the Rea●er, and he must be unkind if he does not thank me for ●mitting them. But still it may be objected against me, ●hat I have made bold with my Author, in varying ●rom him, and sometimes adding to him: 'Tis true, I ●ave done both; as in the third Poem of the first Book ●or instance, where, instead of mentioning Podalirius and Melampus, and the other Physicians, I have u● ten lines of my own; and in the fifth Poem of the sa● Book, I have given an account of Man's Creation so●thing different from that in my Author, (both which, all the other variations and additions, may be known the English Reader by their being printed in the Itali● Character.) But whether I have impaired the sen● whether done for the better or the worse, I must sub● myself to the judgement of the Learned, whose pardo● must beg for whatever is amiss, and particularly if ● any thing I have injured the worthy Author, to whom I a● willing to make all the reparation I am able. And if ● have injured him in other additions, I have done him ● kindness in that in the tenth Poem of the third Boo● where he seems to apologise for Self-murder; for wh● I have there added takes away all possibility of mistaki● him, who I am confident was too good a Christian ● design any thing of that kind, and we find he sufficienty condemned all such attempts by this Verse:  
O quoties quaesita fugae fuit ansa pudendae! which I have rendered,  
How oft would I attempt a shameful flight! where the epithet he gives to slight, proves that he ha● no good opinion of it. And this gives me the hint to s● something of his wishing for death in the eighth Poe● of the same Book, which is not any way meant in favour of Self-murder, but a pious desire of the Soul to be fre● from the captivity of the body, that it might enjoy i● Saviour; which is no more than what St. Paul tells ● of himself, that he had a desire to be dissolved, an● to be with Christ. More might be urged in behalf of ● Author▪ on this account, but that he needs no apology, & ● shall have enough to do to excuse myself, for 'tis not improbable I shall be accused of an indecorum as to Chro●ology, in bringing in the glorious Saint & Martyr King Charles I. with our late and present Monarches, for examples of the misfortune that oftentimes attends the greatest and best of men, instead of Menelaus and Dio●ysius: but I desire the Reader to give me leave to ●form him, that I design my Translation to represent ●e Book as if but now first written, and where then ●uld I produce more apt examples of the instability of ●ortune, and the sufferings of good men, than those princes were, whose Unhappiness, like their Excellen●es, had no parallel? I am sure They must be more suable than Dionysius, whose tyranny made him unpitied ● his misery. And having told my Reader my design, ● hope he will not blame me for changing the 7th. of May which I suppose was my Author's Birthday) to the 7th. of July, (which was my own) and applying to my ●lf all that part of the eighth Poem in the third Book; ●nd then I am confident I shall not be condemned on any and for that digression in the fourteenth Poem of the ●me Book, wherein I conceive the joyful reception of his ●te Majesty's Soul in Heaven, and the great satisfacti● which his present Majesty's succession to the Crown ●ought to those Celestial Spirits, who being lovers of ●ight and Equity, must be exceedingly pleased to have ●s undoubted Title take place: for that they are affects with some transactions here below, is evident from ●r Saviour's words, that there is joy in Heaven ●ong the Angels over sinners that repent; and ●hy not then over the Just that are rewarded?  
I would not willingly tyre my Reader with a long P●face, and therefore shall only add a word or two in beh● both of my Author and myself. 'Tis true the Title-p● in the Latin declares him of the Society of Jesus, ● his Book shows nothing either of his Order, or particu● Opinion in Religion, but that he is an excellent Christ● in the main: And indeed he seems to me to have designedly avoided all occasion of offence to his Readers of ● different judgement; for though in the fourteenth Poem of ● first Book he had a fair opportunity of mentioning P●gatory, he wholly declines it, and takes no notice at ● of such a place. And in the twelfth Poem of the th● Book he says nothing of Transubstantiation, though he ● occasion to mention the Sacrament of the Eucharist. A● this particularly I thought necessary to offer, lest so● may think I have mis-rendered him in those pla● which, if they consult himself, they'll find I have had ● occasion for. Thus, having made my excuse for some thi● which I feared might be carped at, if I have any ot● faults, I shall detain the Reader no longer, but let h● go on to find them.   

Some Errors have escaped the Press: Those which relate to ● se●se, are inserted underneath; those in the Pointing, ● left to the courteous Reader to correct, who is desired like● to pardon and amend any literal faults.  
Page 1. line 3. for Those, read Whose. p. 46. l. 8. r. Frie● p. 146. l. 10. r. I move. p. 150. - l. 4. for whose, r. who's. p. 2● l. 20. r: And then. p. 232. l. 16. r. my deliverer.   

 depiction of a figure kneeling beside a bow, arrows and a theatrical mask; from his chest an arrow is emerging pointed upwards; above him three arrows labelled "Ah Lord", "Oh That" and "Alass" rise toward two ears and an eye in a circle of light surrounded by a cloud Lord thou knowest all my desire, and my groaning is not hid from thee. Psal. 38. v. 9  

TO THE DESIRE OF THE Eternal Habitations, ●ESUS CHRIST, Whom the Angels desire to pry into.  ●rd, thou knowest all my desire, and my groaning is not hid from thee. Psal. 38. v. 9 

BY no discovery did I  impart  
The secret pant of my lovesick Heart▪  
Those close recesses to no other eye  
●t the great Pow'r's that framed them, open lie:  
● only views my thoughts in their undress,  
●d His bright beams expose their nakedness.  
Who can his sense t'anothers' ears convey,  
Unless himself his own designs betray?  
Yet, could Discovery gratify my wish,  
Concealment should not long defer the Bliss:  
But no relation can my wants relieve,  
Or limits to my boundless wishes give.   

Rachel (alas!) would her lost Sons deplore,  
But th'ineffectual grief was quickly o'er:  
Since published sorrows still were unredrest,  
She called them back home to her mournful breast.  
Thus Fire emits, and then devours its Seeds,  
And on its Offspring the wild Parent feeds.  
Thus, when the Clouds have emptied all their R●  
They drink up the exhausted stock again.  
And thus I best receive the tears I shed,  
And turn the Streams back to their Fountain's hea●   

Then what my thoughts are while I seem to mo●  
Only to me, and him I love, is known;  
What I design in every silent Vow,  
Only myself, and my Beloved know;  
● longing SIGHS a mystic Language prove,  
uknown to all but me and Him I love.   

How oft have I with hypocritick art  
●a dissembled look belied my heart?  
●ile Sadness all without deludes the sight,  
●en all within is Pleasure in the height:  
● faithless tears are practised in deceit,  
●d my false smiles are all a varnished cheat.  
●en I lament, the world believes me sad;  
●en I rejoice, than it concludes me glad:  
●us by my countenance guessing at my state,  
●s oft abused to a wrong estimate;  
●r false appearances deceive its sense,  
●d all it sees is Vizard and Pretence.  
●hat mean my throbbing breasts▪ and melting eyes,  
●e only know, and only We suffice.   Heb. 4. 13. Neither is there any Creature that is not manifest in his sight, but all things are naked and opened to the eyes of him with whom we have to do.   


I.   depiction of a night scene with starry sky; a female figure in the dark discovering an angel with wings and halo holding a lamp With my Soul have I desired thee in the night. Isa: 26. 9 SIGHS OF THE Penitent Soul, BOOK the First.  


I.  With my soul have I desired thee in the night. Isa. 26. 9 

HOw do my wand'ring thoughts mistake their way,  
And in a Maze of darksome Error stray?  
Lost in which dismal labyrinth, I conclude  
Th' Egyptian Plague is in my Soul renewed.  
A Night of so much Horror's fit alone  
For the neglect of dull Oblivion.  
No Scythian or Cimmerian Sky's so black,  
Tho heavens bright Lamps those gloomy Shades forsake;  
Even Hell, where Night in sable Triumph dwells,  
Yields to the terror of my darker Cells:  
For though no favouring Star imparts its light,  
To banish thence the Horror and Affright;  
Yet there so much their punishment they feel,  
As will not let them be insensible:  
There the sad Shades bewail their want of Light,  
And the Cimmerians grieve away their Night;  
And, when the Scythians six dark Moons have spent,  
Th'expected Day returns from Banishment.   

But I am to eternal Night confined,  
And what should guide me, is itself struck blind:  
Nor can I hope but that I still must stray,  
Since I perceive not how I lose my way;  
But court the baneful Shades in which I err,  
And to heavens safe and faithful Cynosure  
The Ignis Fatuus of my sense prefer:  
For Prides false light misguides my wand'ring mind,  
●nd vain Ambition does my Judgement blind;  
●hile Love with soft Enchantments does entice  
●y heart, and with false fire deceives my eyes.  
●hen this black Image does my thoughts possess,  
●he darkness and the horror still increase.  
●y eyes have their successive Night and Day,  
●nd Heaven allows them an alternate sway:  
●h! that my Soul as happy were as They!  
●hat Reason jointly might with Will preside,  
●hose office 'tis the straggling Mind to guide!   

They more are grieved who lose the use of sight,  
●an they who ne'er enjoyed the benefit;  
●d he that in Night's shades has lost his way,  
●utes with greater joy th'approaching Day:  
●t that (alas!) is a too tedious Night,  
●at never will admit the grateful Light.   

When the bright Sun returns to cheer our eyes,  
● haste, like Persians, to adore his Rise;  
Thither our early homage we address,  
And strive who first shall his kind Influence bless.  
Thus oft, on high, I heavens bright Orb surveyed  
From Pole to Pole, and thus as oft have prayed;  
Shine, shine, my Sun, bright subject of my Song,  
Thou that hast left my watchful eyes too long,  
Rise, rise, and raise thy wondrous head on high;  
Can one faint Ray indulge my longing eye?  
Yet, if that Bliss is too sublime for me,  
Give me, oh! give me one kind glimpse of Thee   Bernard in Cant. Serm. 75. The World has its Nights, and those not a few. Alas! why do I say its Nights, since itself is almost one continual Night, and always overspread with Darkness?   


II.   depiction of an angel with wings and halo hiding its eyes and admonishing a passing fool, with bell, motley, a hobby-horse, a windmill on a stick, and a basket with a cat inside O God, thou knowest my Simplicily, and my faults are not hid from thee. Psal: 69. 5.  

II.  O God, thou knowest my simplicity, and my faults are not hid from thee. Psal. 69. 5. 

IF thou our childish Folly canst not bear,  
Thou, who dost all things by wise Counsels steer;  
Who can accepted, who can pardoned be,  
Since none from Folly, none from Faults are free?  
This strange infectious Poison of the mind  
Has spread its Venom o'er all humankind:  
'Tis vain to counterfeit, 've all been frail,  
Folly's our Birthright by a long Entail,  
Since our first Parents went themselves astray,  
And taught us too to fool our Bliss away:  
They for an Apple all Mankind betrayed;  
Was e'er a more imprudent bargain made?  
Nor Esau's Folly has its parallel,  
Who, Wretch! devoured his Birthright at a Meal.   

Even He,—  
Whom Sheba's Queen for Wisdom did prefer,  
(Strange weakness!) acted Folly even with Her;  
Which proves that King's oraculous Sentence true,  
Who says, that Fools are numerous, Wisemen few.  
Nor was the prudent Moses wish in vain,  
When he of Man's destruction did complain;  

O that unthinking Mortals would be wise,  
And place their End before their heedful eyes!  
Then Sins short pleasures they would soon despise,  
Not yield, like Wax, to every Stamp of Vice.    

Would any but a strange besotted Rout,  
Th' Existence of a God deny, or doubt?  
These, that in sin they may unchecked go on,  
Persuade themselves to a belief of None.  
Our very Crimes t'improve our Folly tend,  
And we're infatuate,  we dare offend;  
Nor does the growing frenzy here give o'er,  
But from this Ill runs headlong on to more:  
We Castles build in this inferior Air,  
As if to have Eternal Being's here:  
●t when unthought-of Death shall snatch us hence,  
●e then shall own the fond Improvidence.  
●ith endless and unprofitable toil  
●e strive t'enrich and beautify the Soil;  
●is Soil, which we must leave at last behind  
● those for whom our pains were ne'er designed.   

How does our toil resemble children's play,  
●hen they erect an Edifice of Clay?  
●ow idly busy and employed they are?  
●ere, some bring Straw; there, others Sticks prepare;  
●is loads his Cart with Dirt; that in a Shell  
●ings Water, that it may be tempered well;  
●nd in their work themselves they fond pride,  
●hile Age the childish Fabric does deride:  
● on our Work Heaven with contempt looks down;  
●nd with a breath our Babel-Tow'r's o'erthrown.   

What strange desire of Gems, what thirst of Gold,  
●hose, drops of Rain congealed; that, ripened Mold!  
●et these so much men's nobler Souls debase,  
●hat they their bliss in such mean trifles place.  
Ah! foolish Ign'rants! can your choice appro●  
No more exalted Objects of your love,  
That all your time in their pursuit you spend,  
As if Salvation did on them depend?  
Heaven may be purchased at an easy rate;  
But, oh! how few bid any thing for That!  
Unthinking Sots! that Earth to Heaven prefer,  
And fading Joys to endless Glory there!  
The Crime of such an inconsiderate choice  
Ought not pretend to Pardon, even in Boys;  
For They from Counters currant Money know,  
Almost as soon as they have learned to go:  
But Men (oh shame!) prise counterfeit delights  
Before the Joys to which kind Heaven invites.   

Oh! for some Artist to retrieve their sense,  
 more degrees of Folly they commence.   

But by heavens piercing Eye we are descried,  
Which does our sins with Folly's Mantle hid.  
He's pleased to wink at Errors too in me,  
And seeing, seems as though he did not see.  
He knows I've but a slender stock of Wit,  
●nd want a Guardian too to manage it:  
● then, some kind Protection, Lord, assign  
●his Idiot Soul! But 'twill be best in Thine.   Chrysost. in Joann. Hom. 4. They are no better than Fools, who are ever, as it were, dreaming of earthly things, and of short continuance.   


III.   depiction of an angel with wings and halo comforting an ill figure lying in a bed  Have mercy upon me O Lord, for I am Weak: O Lord heal me, for my bones are vexed Psal: 6. 2 

III.  ●ave mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak: O Lord, heal me, for my bones are vexed. Psal. 6. 2. 

SHall my just grief be querulous, or mute,  
Full of Disease, of Physic destitute!  
●ought thy Love so constant heretofore,  
●at Vows were needless to confirm me more:  
●d dost thou now absent, and slight my pain!  
●at fault of mine has caused this cold Disdain?  
O blessed Physician of my lovesick Soul,  
●ose sight alone will make thy Patient whole;  
●ou who hast caused, canst thou forget my grief,  
●ich only from its Author seeks relief?  
Should they whose Art gave dying Fame new breath;  
●d rescued their surviving names from Death:  
●y in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand  
● trembling vanished at their least command;  
They who each Simples sov'rein Virtue knew,  
And to their ends could well apply them too:  
Should they their skill in tedious Consult try,  
All, all would fail to ease my misery;  
All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain,  
Thine only suit the nature of my pain.  
Thou who hast caused, canst thou forget my gri●  
Which only from its Author seeks relief!   

See! my parched tongue my body's flame declare  
And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars;  
While so much blood's profusely spent within,  
That not one drop can in my cheeks be seen;  
And the same Pulse that gave the brisk Alarms,  
Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms:  
My Doctor's sigh, and shrugging take their leave,  
And me to Heaven and a cold Grave bequeath,  
While more than they the fatal sense I feel  
Of my lost health, and their successless skill.   

What can the Patiented hope, when sad despair  
Discourages the lost Physician's care!  
●e subtle Poison creeps through all my Veins,  
●nd in my Bones the fierce Infection reigns:  
●y drooping head flies to my hands for aid,  
●t by the feeble Props is soon betrayed:  
●ow my last breath is ready to expire,  
●nd I must next to Death's dark Cell retire.  
●ainly I strive my other pains to tell,  
●or they (alas!) are unaccountable.  
● this forlorn unpityed state I lie,  
●hile he who can relieve me, let's me die.  
●y Face is strange, and out of knowledge grown,  
even I am scarce persuaded 'tis my own.  
●y Eyes have shrunk for shelter in my head,  
●nd on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead.  
●o power could drive the fierce Disease away,  
●or force the plundering Conqueror from his prey.   

My Wounds— But oh! that word has pierced my heart,  
●he very mention does renew their smart;  
●y Wounds gape wide, as they would let in Death,  
●nd make quick passage for my flitting breath:  
Nor can they even the lightest touch endure,  
But dread the hand that would attempt their C●  
For, Lord, my Wounds are from the Darts of ●  
That rage and torture my grieved Soul within.  
Here a hydropic thirst of Riches reigns,  
And there Pride's flatuous humour puffs my veins  
Next frantic Passion plays the Tyrant's part,  
And Loves o'respreading Cancer gnaws my hea●  
Oft to the learned I made my sufferings known,  
Oft tried their skill, but found redress from none  
Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool,  
Without thy help, could ever make me whole:  
Then to what healing Altar should I fly,  
But that whose prostrate Victims never die?  
To Thee, Health-giver to the world, I kneel,  
Who most canst pity what thyself didst feel:  
There's no sound part in all my tortured Soul;  
But, if thou wilt, Lord, thou canst make me whole.  
See how by Thiefs I spoiled and wounded am!  
Forget not then thy good Samaritan:  
My fainting Spirits with rich Wine revive,  
And for my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give:  
Then take me home, lest if I here remain,  
My Foes return, and make thy succour vain.   Aug. de Verb. Dom. Serm. 55. cap. 55: The whole World, from East to West, lies very sick; but to cure this very sick World, there descends an Omnipotent Physician, who humbled himself even to the Assumption of a mortal body, as if he had gone into the bed of the diseased.   


iv   depiction of an angel with halo and wings leaning against a mill mechanism to which a kneeling, blindfold figure is tied Look upon my adversity and misery, and forgive me all my sin. Psal. 25. 17.  

iv  look upon my adversity and misery, and forgive me all my sin. Psal. 25. 17. 

CAn all my Sufferings no compassion move,  
And wouldst thou yet persuade me thou dost love?  
●ove does, by sympathetick power, impart  
●he Lovers Passions to each others heart.  
●anst thou behold my grief, and seek no way  
●or my redress? True Love brooks no delay.  
●ee what a servile Yoke my neck sustains,  
●hose shame is more afflicting than its pains!  
●ith any task my Soul would be content,  
●ut one whose Scandal is a Punishment.  
●ad my afflictions any parallel,  
●aught by Example, I should bear them well:  
And 'twould, amidst my woes, bring some relief,  
To have more shoulders to support the grief:  
Eor bravest Heroes oft have felt the weight  
Of their injurious Stepdame Fortune's hate.  
Thus our famed Martyr, in his Murderers' stead,  
Bowed to a Rebel Axe His Sacred Head;  
While His great Sons, Princes of high Renown,  
The Best, next Him, that e'er adorned the Crown,  
In an obscure, ignoble Banishment,  
Did Their own Fate, and Rebels Gild prevent.  
Sad instances of Man's uncertain state!  
Yet 'tis no Crime to be unfortunate:  
But my base Slavery is alone my blame,  
And less to be bewailed with tears, than shame;  
And to a heavier sum my woes amount,  
Since I must place them to my own account.  
Like captived Samson I am driven about,  
The drudge and scorn of an insulting Rout.  
Around I draw the heavy restless Wheel,  
And find my endless task beginning still:  
Within this Circle by strange Magic bound,  
I'm still in motion, yet I gain no ground.   

O! that some usual Labour were enjoined,  
And not the Tyrant Vice enslave my mind!  
No weight of Chains could grieve my captive hands  
Like the loathed drudgery of its base Commands;  
And this a double mis'ry does contract,  
Even I condemn the hated Ills I act.  
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,  
But that I still am putting others on.  
For Sin has always this attending curse,  
To back the first Transgression with a worse:  
And though I saw the threatening Plague from far,  
Not all the danger could my will deter:  
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,  
Like a Ship harast between Wind and Tide.  
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,  
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back again;  
Yet Pleasure comes Victorious from the Field,  
And makes my Soul to Vice its homage yield:  
Tho Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,  
Placed, like the Slave by the great Conqu'ror's side.  
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,  
While I, with endless labour, Both obey:  
And to increase my pains, as if too small,  
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,  
And, with deep-piercing strokes, corrects that sin,  
Which in itself had more than punished been.   

Oh! cast an eye of pity on my grief,  
And use some gentler methods of relief!   Aug. in Psal. 36. I suppose the World is called a Mill, because it is turned about on the Wheels of Time, and grinds and crushes those who most admire it.   


V   depiction of an angel with halo and wings in a workshop steadying a doll or mannequin on a potter's wheel near a kneeling female figure Remember I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me into dust again job. 10. 9  

V  Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the clay, and wilt thou bring me into dust again? Job. 10. 9 

HAs Providence regard to things below?  
Or does it slight what 'tis not pleased to know?  
●at the great Author of this brittle Frame  
●rgets from what Original it came?   

Ages, to Thee are but as yesterday,  
●nd canst thou, Lord, forget thy humble Clay?  
armed with a touch, and quickened with a breath,  
● one short moment made, and doomed to death.  
● thou hast this forgot, receive from me  
●he sad relation of the History.  
●hen this great Fabric of the World was reared,  
●nd its original Nothing disappeared,  
●hen, towards the close of the Sixth busy day,  
●hou with a glance didst the whole Work survey,  
And pleased with that fair product of thy Power,  
Wouldst copied o'er again in Miniature,  
And from a Lump of despicable Earth,  
Gav'st Man (the less, but Nobler World) his Bi●  
The Nobler, since in his small Frame we view  
At once the World and its Creator too.   

But things of finest texture first decay,  
And heavens great Masterpiece is brittle Clay;  
Ruined by that which does its worth advance,  
And dashed to pieces by the least mischance.   

This frail, this transitory thing am I,  
Who only live, to learn the way to die:  
So soon shall Fate to its first Matten turn  
The curious Structure of this living Urn.  
Thus China-Vessels, wrought with Art and Pain,  
Are, without either, soon reduced again.  
Such is th'uncertainty of human state,  
Such the destructive haste of necessary Fate!   

Why then, my God, does swift-paced time bet●  
What of itself's so subject to decay?  
All to the Grave, their Centre, freely bend,  
And thither, pressed with their own weight descent  
●ate needs not any hasty vi'lence use,  
● force a motion, which unurged they choose.   

Did I the Stars more tempered matter share,  
●ll they first fell, I no decay should fear:  
● could I like th'unbodied Angels be,  
●ke them, I'd triumph o'er Mortality.  
●t I, like Infects, sure derive my Birth  
●m some plebeian, putrifying Earth.  
●y did not Heaven a brazen temper grant,  
●hew me from a Rock of Adamant?  
But how dare I with Heaven expostulate;  
● blame the frailty of my mortal state?  
●vain my wise Creator I upbraid,  
●ce he applauds the work,—  
●d I was only for his pleasure made.   Rupert. in Jerem. lib. 1. cap. 4. ●es the unhappy Clay blaspheme the fingers of its Potter? How so! because the Potter contracting his finger's, and striking the Vessel with his whole hand, ● is violently dashed to pieces:   

 depiction of an armoured angel with halo and wings holding a sword and dagger over a kneeling female figure with another sword and dagger on the ground nearby I have sinned, what shall I do unto thee, O thou preserver of men, why hast thou set me as a mark against thee▪ job. 7. 20.  

VI:  ● have sinned, what shall I do unto thee, O thou Preserver of Men? Why hast thou set me as a Mark against thee? Job 7. 20. 

'tIs just, nor will I longer hid my shame,  
But own myself egregiously to blame:  
●y sins to such a mighty sum amount,  
●hat hope of Pardon would increase th'account;  
●nd the black Cat'logue of their unwiped score  
●alls for more Plagues than Vengeance has in store.   

I own it, Lord, nor just reproaches fear,  
●he easiest punishment I ought to bear;  
●ere, at thy feet, I humbly prostrate bow,  
●nd beg my Sentence from thy mouth to know.  
●all my own hands dissect my hated Womb?  
●all I retire alive into my Tomb?  
Shall I with Gifts thy loaden Altar crown,  
Or sacrifice the Beast, myself, thereon?  
(Tho sure my blood would that blessed place profane,  
And give what it should cleanse a fouler stain.)  
All this, and more, if possible to do,  
Would fall far short to pay the Debt jowe.  
But thou art not severe, nor hard to please,  
A God whom Slaughter only can appease:  
Thy Sword has often spared thy conquered Foe,  
Less pleased to Conquer, than to Pardon so;  
No tyrant Passion rages in thy Breast,  
But the meek Dove builds there her peaceful Nest▪  
And when thou wouldst thy height of anger show  
A sudden Calm unbends thy threatening brow;  
And thou dost kindly raise the prostrate Foe,  
With the same hand that should have struck th● blow.   

Wouldst thou permit.— But oh! what Eloquenc●  
Can with success appear in my defence!  
Yet let me, Lord, plead for myself, and Thee,  
Lest even thy Cause, as mine, may faulty be.  
●ord, I confess I've sinned, but not alone;  
Wilt thou impute a common Gild to One?  
Thy barefaced Rebels prosper in their sin,  
As if th' Extreme of Vice were meritting;  
Thy brandished Thunder thou hast oft laid down,  
And stretched a peaceful Olive in its room.  
But every slip, each inadvertency,  
●s magnified t'insuff'rable in me:  
● am the Mark of every wounding stroke,  
As if I only did thy wrath provoke.  
This I confess. That most of all I do:  
● hear my Prayer, with my Confession too!  
Accept the good Effects of an ill Cause,  
And pardon sin that gains thee most applause.  
Forgive me conqueror, since thou must confess  
Had I not erred, thy Glory had been less.   Greg. in 7 cap. Job, lib. 8. cap. 23. ●hen God sets Man as a mark against him, when Man by sinning has forsaken God: But our just Creator set him as a mark against him, because he thought him his enemy by his haughtiness.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings masking its face with its hand from a female figure pulling at its wrist Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemy. job. 13. 24.  

VII.  Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemy? Job 13. 24. 

IS't my great Error, or thy small Respect,  
That I am treated with this cold neglect?  
I thought thy frowns were but dissembled heat,  
And all thy threatening looks an amorous cheat.  
As tender Mothers draw the breast away,  
To urge their pretty Innocents' to play;  
Or as the Nurse seems to deny a Kiss,  
To make the fonder suppliant steal the Bliss:  
So I believed thou didst avoid my sight,  
Only to heighten my keen appetite.  
But now, (alas!) 'tis earnest all, I find,  
And not pretended Anger, but designed:  
My kind Embrace you coily entertain,  
As if we never should be Friends again:  
And with such eager haste my presence shun,  
As men from Monsters or Infection run;  
As if my looks would turn you into stone:  
But fear not that, the work's already done;  
So cold you are, so senseless of my smart,  
Some Magic sure has petrified your heart.  
O let me know what Crime I must deplore,  
That lets me see your dear-loved Face no more!  
Why must I, Love, that Face no longer see,  
That ne'er, till now, once looked awry on me?  
Sure you believe there's poison in my breath,  
Or that my eyes dart unavoided Death.  
Prevent the danger with thy conquering eye,  
Unsheathe its Rays, and let let'Offender die;  
Or else discharge a frown, and strike me dead,  
For more than Death I your Displeasure dread.  
Your eyes are all I wish, let them be mine,  
The Sun, unmist by me, may cease to shine:  
But if deprived of them, not his faint light,  
Nor all its Objects, can reprize my sight.  
Then think, my Love, with pity and remorse,  
How I am tortured by this sad Divorce:  
Think on the pains of unregarded Love,  
And blame their cause, if them you disapprove.   Amb. Apolog. pro David. If any of our Servants offend us, we are wont not to look upon them: If this be thought a punishment among Men, how much more with God? for you see that God turned away his face from the Offering of Cain.   

 depiction of a female figure kneeling beside a fountain in the shape of a female figure while an angel with halo and wings in the sky above pours water on her head from a jug O that my Head were Waters, and mine Eyes a fountain of Tears, that I might weep day and night. jer. 9 1.  

VIII.  O that my Head were Waters, and mine Eyes a fountain of Tears, that I might weep day and night! Jer. 9 1. 

OH! that my head were one vast source of tears,  
With bubbling streams as numerous as my hairs!  
That grief with inexhaustible supplies  
Would fill the Cisterns of my flowing eyes!  
Till the fierce torrents which those springs impart  
Flow down my breast, and stagnate round my heart.   

Not all the tears the Royal Psalmist shed,  
With which his Couch was washed, himself was fed▪  
Nor those which once the weeping Mary poured,  
To wash the feet of her forgiving Lord;  
Nor those which drowned the great Apostle's breast,  
Whose boasted Zeal shrunk at th' affrighting Test;  
Nor these, nor more than these, can e'er suffice  
To cleanse the stains of my Impieties.  
Give me the undiscovered source of Nile,  
That with seven Streams overflows th' Egyptian So▪  
Or let Noe's wondrous Deluge be renewed,  
Till I am drowned in the impetuous Flood.   

O that these Fountains would their course begin,  
And flow as fast as I made haste to sin!  
The weeping Limbecks never should give o'er,  
Till the last drop had emptied all their store.  
How do I grudge the Clouds their envied Rain!  
How wish the boundless Treasures of the Main!  
Then should my Tears, like that, just motion keep,  
And I should take a strange delight to weép:  
Nor the swift current of my grief forbid,  
Till in the waves this little World were hid:  
Hid, as the neighbouring Valleys are o'erspread,  
When the warm Sun melts Pindus' snowy head  
The blessed Assyrian found in Jordan's Seas  
A happy Medicine for his foul Disease;  
●●t what kind Torrent will my Cure begin,  
And cleanse my filthier Leprosy of Sin?   

See! from my Saviour's side a stream of Blood!  
●ll bathe myself in that Redeeming Flood.  
●hat healing Torrent was on purpose spilt,  
●o wash my stains, and expiate all my guilt.  
●hat ever-flowing Ocean will suffice  
●or the defect of my exhausted Eyes.   Hieron. in Jerem. cap. 9 If I were all dissolved to Tears, and those not only some few drops, but an Ocean or a Deluge, I should never weep enough.   

 depiction of a figure caught in a trap baited with food and coins, being pulled closed by a skeleton as mythical or demonic figures run towards them, watched by an angel The Pains of Hell came about me, the snares of Death overtook me. Psal: 18. 4.  

IX.  The pains of Hell came about me, the snares of Death overtook me. Psal. 18. 4. 

WHile in this sad distress myself I view,  
Methinks I make Actaeon's story true:  
Long I the pleasures of the Wood pursued,  
Till, like its Beasts, myself grew wild and rude;  
I hoped with Hunting to divert my care,  
But ran at last into the secret Snare.   

Yet to those Woods (alas!) I did not go,  
Whose innocent Sports give health and pleasure too.  
I spread no Toils to take the timorous Deer,  
Nor aimed my Jaulin at the rugged Bear.  
Happy, had I my time so well employed,  
Nor had I been by my own Game destroyed:  
I had not then misspent my youthful days,  
Nor torn my flesh among sharp thorny ways.   

But I (alas!) still plied the sparkling Wine,  
That poisonous Juice of the pernicious Vine;  
And this exposed me to Love's fatal Dart,  
The false betray'r of my unguarded heart:  
Love, not contented with his Bow alone,  
Has more destructive Instruments than One:  
Nor Wine alone on its own strength depends,  
But uses Arts t'intoxicate its Friend.  
Thus Samson, by his Dalila betrayed,  
Was Hers, and then his Enemies Captive made:  
Thus, when too freely No had used the Vine,  
He who escaped the Flood, lay drowned in Wine.   

Thus Love, by me pursued (alas!) too fast,  
Seized my lost Soul, and preyed on me at last;  
Within whose close encircling Toils beset,  
I seemed a Beast just fallen into the Net:  
Destroyed by what my inclination sought,  
As Birds by their frequented Lime-twigs caught;  
For Death around its subtle Nets does spread,  
Fine as the texture of the Spider's Web;  
And as purdieu that watchful Lurcher lies,  
His buzzing prey the better to surprise;  
But, taught by motion when the booty's nigh,  
Leaps out, and seizeth the entangled Fly:  
Or as a Fowler, with his hidden Snare,  
Contrives t'entrap the Racers of the Air,  
While to conceal and further the deceit,  
He strews the ground with his destructive meat;  
And fastens Birds of the same kind, to sing  
About the Net, and call their fellows in:  
So Death the Wretch into his Snare decoys,  
And with pretended happiness destroys;  
While, in pursuit of a dissembled Bliss,  
We headlong fall into Hell's low Abyss.   Amb. lib. 4. in cap. 4. Lucae. The reward of Honours, the height of Power, the delicacy of Diet, and the beauty of an Harlot, are the snares of the Devil. Idem, de bono mortis. Whilst thou seekest Pleasures, thou runnest into Snares; for the eye of the Harlot is the snare of the Adulterer.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings seated beneath two stone tablets representing the ten commandments and writing in a book while an anxious-looking female figure stands before him; behind her stands the female personification of Justice, blindfold, holding a sword and scales Enter not into judgement with thy Servant; O Lord. Psal: 143. 2.  

X.  ●ter not into Judgement with thy servant, O Lord. Psal. 143. 2. 

●He Master's gains to a small sum amount,  
That calls his Servant to a strict account;  
● though the Servant has not wronged his trust,  
●ere's the applause of being only Just?  
●ly the Master does a Suit begin,  
●gain a victory he must blush to win;  
● though the Servant's Innocence is great,  
● blemished with suspicion of a Cheat.  
●eve me, Lord, to be severe with me,  
● wrong thee more than my offending thee.  
● so much too mean for thy regard,  
●ill lessen thee to mind how I have erred.  
●t! must thy Registries the plead show,  
●ln with the history of my overthrow?  
●an I hope my Cause should Thine outdo,  
●re thou sittest Judge, that art the Plaintiff too?  
What Eloquence can plead with such success,  
To free the wretch that does his debt confess?  
Alas! what Advocate best read in Laws,  
Can weaken Thine, or reinforce my Cause?  
Thou dost too strictly my Accounts survey,  
While for abatement still in vain I pray.  
The distant Poles thy boundless Mercy know,  
To Pardon, easy; and to Punish, slow:  
Even when our Crimes pull thy just Vengeance dow  
'Tis rather grief, than anger, makes thee frown;  
And when thou dost our Punishment decree,  
Thou seest our stripes with more concern tha●  
And dost chastise us at so mild a rate,  
That what we bear, we would not deprecate.  
But though this Character is All thy due,  
Let me thy lightest Censure undergo;  
For though thy Mercy does no limits know;  
Thy Justice must have satisfaction too.  
These Attributes in equal balance lie,  
And neither must the others Right deny▪  
No melting Passion can affect thy breast,  
Nor soft entreaties charm thy hand to rest:  
●or baffled Eloquence dares here engage,  
●ut wants itself some happy Patronage.  
●o Fee, no Bribe, no trick in all the Laws,  
●an  prevail to carry such a Cause.  
●is vain with Thee, Lord, to commence a Suit,  
●hose awful presence strikes all Pleaders mute.  
●o other Judge so terribble can be,  
●o make me fear his shrictest scrutiny;  
●ut Thy Tribunal, Lord, with dread I view,  
●here thou art Plaintiff, Judge, and Witness too:  
●here, when my Sentence from thy mouth is come,  
●o Plea can urge thee to reverse the Doom.  
●ow this dread place augments the guilty's fear,  
●here so much awe and gravity appear!  
e'en He whose reasoning did this truth assert,  
●nd shot a trembling into Felix heart;  
●o his own Judgement did his Soul acquit,  
●e're thought of Thine without an Ague-fit.  
●nd Wisdom's famous Oracle denies  
●e purest Soul unblemished in thy eyes;  
●hose pious Father (after thine own heart)  
●eclares Thy Wrath the best of man's desert.  
And Job assures us, that the Stars, whose Light  
Cheers with kind influence our admiring sight,  
Tho glorious all in our dim eyes they shine,  
Are only vast Opacous Orbs in thine.  
How then can weaker Posts support that weight,  
Which shook these Pillars with such strange affrig●  
Or how can th'humble Hyssop keep its wall,  
When Libanus' tallest Cedars fall?   

When I behold my large unblotted score,  
And think what Plagues thy Vengeance has in fl●  
An icy horror chills my freezing blood,  
And stops the active motion of its flood.   

As some pale Captive, when condemned to death,  
Loath to resign, even his last puff of ●reath,  
Beholds, with an intent and steady eye,  
The dreadful Instrument of Fate raised high:  
Yet still unwilling from this World to go,  
Shuns with a start the disappointed blow:  
So, when I see thy Book, in which are writ  
All the black Crimes I rashly did commit,  
Amazed, I fly thy Bar;—  
For how can sinners that strict place abide,  
Where even the Just shall be arraigned and tried?   Bernard. Serm. 6. supper, Beati qui, etc. ●hat can be thought so fearful, what so full of trouble and anxiety, as to stand to be judged at such a Tribunal, and to expect an uncertain Sentence from such a Judge?   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings pulling a figure from a stormy sea; in the background a shipwreck Let not the water-flood drown me neither let the deep swallow me up. Psal. 69. 16.  

XI.  Let not the water-flood drown me, neither let the deep swallow me up. Psal. 69. 16. 

UNconstant motion of the restless Sea,  
Whose treacherous waves the Sailors hopes betray!  
● calm sometimes, so shining they appear,  
●o polished Crystal is more smooth or clear:  
●metimes they seem still as a standing Lake,  
●hose bounded waters can no motion take.  
●metimes the waves, raised by a gentle breeze,  
●rl their green heads, the wondering sight to please;  
●en, in soft measures, round the Barges dance,  
●d to the Music of their Shrouds advance.  
●ile thou, kind Sea, their burden dost sustain,  
● while their beaks plough furrows on the Main:  
● on thy yielding back each Vessel rides,  
● its rude Oars lash to a foam thy sides.  
The groaning Earth scarce weightier burdens feels  
From heavy loaden Carts with ir'n-bound wheels  
And that none may suspect thou wilt betray,  
Thy crystal waves their rocky breasts display,  
As if no treach'ry could be harboured there,  
Where such great shows of honesty appear.   

But when the Anchor's weighed, the Sails atrip,  
And a kind gale bears on the floating Ship,  
Soon as the Land can be perceived no more,  
And all relief is distant as the shore,  
Then the rough Winds their boisterous gusts discharge  
And all at once assault the helpless Barge.  
Just as the furious Lybian Lions rave,  
When eager to devour a sentenced Slave;  
Or as a crew of sturdy Thiefs prepare  
To seize and plunder some loan Traveller;  
Then the insulting Billows proudly rise,  
And menace, with their lofty heads, the Skies:  
Then the pale Flood, frighted at this Alarm,  
Trembles with dread of the approaching Storm▪  
And when the jarring Winds have tossed the Sea,  
Whose several Contests bear a  sway,  
The parted Ocean suffers a Divorce,  
Driven as the Storms the routed Billows force.  
Then a vast Gulf of ruins opened wide,  
And the Ship's swallowed in the rapid Tide:  
Or if born on a Tenth imposthumed Wave,  
The breaking bubble proves its watery Grave.  
Thus the false Ocean treacherously beguiles,  
And thus in frowns end its deceitful smiles.   

But I suspected not the wheedling Main;  
Nor did of its inconstancy complain;  
I ne'er the fury of the Winds did blame,  
Nor on the Tempests boisterous rage exclaim;  
Nor cursed the hardy wretch that led the way,  
And taught the world to perish in the Sea.  
My Vessel ne'er launched from my native shore,  
Nor did the Navigator's Art explore.  
I studied not the Chard, nor gave my mind  
To learn to tack and catch the veering Wind.  
Too soon these Artists of their skill repent,  
And perish by the Arts they did invent.  
My Life's the Sea, whose treach'ry I declare;  
My self the Vessel tossed and shipwrecked there:  
All the loud Storms of the insulting Wind,  
Are restless Passions of my troubled Mind.  
Thus harast in this fluctuating state,  
I pass thro' strange Vicissitudes of Fate.   

Deceitful Life! whose false serenity  
Changed in a moment, ends in misery!  
Thou want'st no sweet allectives to betray,  
But show'st a charming Beauty every day:  
While Love and Lust wreck our lost mind within,  
No dangerous Sands, no Rocks without are seen:  
But when a Tide of Vice breaks fiercely in,  
And beats the Soul on fatal Shelves of Sin;  
Then it perceives in what a vast Abyss  
(Sunk by the weight of its own Crimes) it lies.   

Oh! that, at least like wretched drowning men,  
These sinking Souls would rise and float again!  
That, while their grosser parts do downward move,  
Their pure Devotion would remain above!  
But, just as men to whom th'earth's gaping Womb▪  
Becomes at once their Murderer and their Tomb;  
Or as the wretch beneath some falling Rock,  
At once is killed and buried with the shock:  
So far the men by sins swift current born,  
Thoughtless of Heaven, by Heaven theyare left forlorn▪   

See, Lord, how I with Wind and Tide engage,  
While on each hand a threatening War they wage!  
See how my head is bowed unto the Grave,  
While I am forced to court the drowning Wave!  
Seest thou my Soul lost in a double Death,  
And wilt thou not reprieve my flitting breath?  
Behold, O Lord▪ behold, and pity me,  
And leave me not to perish in the Sea:  
Be thou my Pilot, and my motion guide,  
Then I shall swim, in spite of Wind and Tide.   Ambr. Apolog. post pro David. cap. 3. The multitude of our Lusts raise a mighty Tempest, which so tosses them that sail in the Ocean of the body, that the mind cannot be its own Pilot.   

 depiction of a figure hiding in a cave with a rat and a snake while an angel with halo and wings carrying lightning-bolts looks on and a lightning-bolt emerges from a cloud Oh! that thou wouldst hid me in the Grave! that thou wouldst keep me Secret until thy wrath be passed▪ job. 14. 13.  

XII.  ●h! that thou wouldst hid me in the Grave! that thou wouldst keep me secret, until thy wrath be passed! Job 14. 13. 

WHo, who will grant me a secure retreat,  
Where I may shun thy furies scorching ● heat?  
●hose piercing flames whenever I call to mind,  
●ear I can no safe concealment find:  
●en I desire the covert of the Wood,  
●here only Beasts range for their savage Food;  
●en in Earth's Womb would hid my fearful ● head,  
● in some Rock make my unminded bed;  
Then, even by Death, I wish myself to save,  
And court the dark recesses of the Grave;  
Or far remote from the fair Orbs of Light,  
Would in thick Darkness dwell, and endless Night   

When the loud Thunder rolls along the Sky,  
Men to the Laurels shelter trembling fly:  
In vain (alas!) they hope Protection thence,  
The helpless Tree proves not its own Defence;  
Much less can that a place of Refuge be  
From an allseeing angry Deity.   

Thy eyes the closest Solitudes invade,  
And pierce and pry into the darkest shade.  
The wretch who took his Ruin from a Tree,  
In vain with Leaves would hid his shame fr● Thee:  
For while to shun thy presence he assayed,  
Even his absconding his offence betrayed.  
In vain (alas!) to Caves and Dens we run,  
We carry with us what we strive to shun.  
The Den that did the Hebrew Captive save,  
When He was freed, proved his Accusers Grave;  
Nor was Lot's Incest hidden in his Cave.  
As much in vain we court the Earth's dark Womb,  
And fly for shelter to the silent Tomb:  
Vengeance, even thither, will our flight pursue,  
And rise to punish the black ills we do.  
Thus vainly Cain stopped righteous Abel's breath,  
The mouth of Blood was opened by his Death.  
Thus vainly Ionas in the Sea concealed  
His faithless flight, even by the Sea revealed:  
His living Tomb obeyed heavens great command,  
And cast him back to the forsaken Land.  
A brittle Faith is all the glassy Sea can boast,  
Whose pervious Waves betray what they should cover most.  
Nor can we hope concealment in a Tomb,  
That casts our bones from its o'reburthened Womb.  
In Rocks and Caves we must no trust repose,  
For their own sound the secret will disclose.  
And Leaves, and Trees themselves, alike will fade  
And then expose what they were meant to shade.  
Nor Sea, nor Land, nor Cave, nor Den, nor Wood,  
Nor Stars, nor Heaven itself, can do me good:  
Thou, Lord, alone canst hid my fearful head,  
Where I no Vengeance, not even Thine, can dread.   Amb. in Jerem. cap. 9 Whither, O Adam! have thy transgressions led thee, that thou shunn'st thy God, whom before thou soughtest? That Fear betrays thy Crime, that Flight thy Prevarication.   


XIII:   depiction of a figure holding a handkerchief and pointing to a sun-dial while an angel with halo and wings pulls them by their waist Are not my days few, cease then; and let me alone that I may bewail myself a little. job. 10. 20.  

XIII.  Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewail myself a little. Job 10. 20. 

MUst a few minutes added to my days  
Be thought a favour beyond thanks or praise?  
Ages, indeed, might well deserve that name,  
And render my Ingratitude to blame.  
But, the increase of a few days to come,  
How little adds it to the slender sum?  
As well the Infant, that but treads the Stage,  
Is said to leave it in a good old Age.  
As well poor Infects may be said to live,  
To whom their Birthday does their Funeral give.   

So fading Flowers their hasty minutes count,  
Whose longest hours scarce to one day amount.  
Flowers, in the morning Boys, at noon-tide Men,  
At night, with age, feeble as Boys again.  
Thus in one short-lived day they bloom and die,  
And all the difference of Man's ages try.  
Would Times o're-hasty Wheels their motion stay,  
And the swift hours not post so fast away,  
The Infects then might lengthen too their Song,  
And the Flowers boast their day had been so long.  
But Time is ever hastening to be gone,  
And, like a Stream, the Year glides swiftly on.  
Successive Months closely each other trace,  
And meet the Sun along his annual race.  
While the swift hours are pressing forward still,  
And, once gone by, are irretrievable.  

Thus envious Time loves on itself to prey,  
And still thro' its own Entrails eats its way.   
So wasting Lamps by their own flames expire,  
And kindle at themselves their Funeral Fire.  
Thus it's own course the circling Year pursues,  
Till like the Wheels on which 'tis moved it grows.   

This Truth the Poets weightily expressed,  
When they made Saturn on his Offspring feast:  
For Time on Months and Years, its Children feeds,  
And kills with motion, what its motion breeds.  
Hours waste their Days, the Days their Months consume,  
And the rapacious Months their Years entomb.  
Thus Years, Months, Days, and Hours, still keep their round,  
Till all in vast Eternity are drowned.   

Then, Lord, allow my grief some little space,  
To mourn the shortness of my hasty race:  
I wish not time for laughter; if I did,  
My circumstances and the place forbidden.  
All I desire, is time for grief and tears,  
Let that be all th'addition to my years:  
Which, though but short, have yet been full of sin,  
More than my time was to repent it in.  
Yet if thou grantest me some few minutes more,  
They'll make amends for my short days before:  
Drop then, my eyes, you cannot flow too fast;  
While you delay, what precious time is lost?  
'Tis done! my tears have a prevailing force,  
And heavens appeased, now stop their eager course.   Hieron. ad Paulam, Epist. 21. ●hen man first sinned, he changed Eternity for Mortality, Ninety years, or thereabouts: But sin increasing by degrees, Man's life was contracted to a very short space.   


XIV.   depiction of a female figure looking through a telescope; in the distance a figure with a halo attended by two angels sits in a circle of cloud, while below them a skeleton stands before a great fire holding a sword and a branch Oh! that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end. Deut. 32. 29.  

XIV.  Oh! that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter-end. Deut. 32. 29. 

SHame on besotted man, whose baffled mind  
Is to all dangers, but the present, blind!  
Whose thoughts are all employed on mischiefs near,  
But ills remote, never foresee, or fear.  
The Soldier is prepared before th'alarm,  
The Signal given, 'twould be too late to arm:  
The Pylot's foresight waits each distant blast,  
And loses no advantage in his haste.  
Th'industrious Hind manures and sows the Field,  
Which he expects a plenteous Crop should yield:  
The labouring Ant in Summer stores at home  
Provision against Age and Winter come.  
But, oh! what means Man's stupid negligence,  
That of the future has no care or sense!  
Does he expect Eternity below,  
A life that shall no alteration know?  
He's much abused; inevitable Death,  
Tho it delays, will one day stop his breath:  
Vain are the hopes the firmest Leagues produce,  
The Tyrant keeps no Faith, regards no Truce:  
He does not to the Peace he makes incline,  
To take advantage is his whole design:  
To him Alliance is an empty name,  
He does all interests, but his own, disclaim.  
Fiercely the greedy spoiler strikes at all,  
A prey for his insatiate Jaws too small:  
He tears even tender Infants from the breast,  
And wraps them in a , ere for the Cradle dr●  
Nor Sex nor Age the grim Destroyer spares,  
Unmoved alike by Innocence as Years.  
Like common Soldiers, chief Commanders die,  
And like Commanders, common Soldiers lie.  
No shining Dust appears in Croesus' Urn,  
Tho all he touched he seemed to Gold to turn:  
●or boasts fair Rachel's face that Beauty here,  
●or which the Patriarch served his twice-sev'n year,  
●nd never thought the pleasing Purchase dear:  
Even Dives here from Laz'rus is not known,  
For now One's Purple, th'Other's Rags are gone▪  
Each has no Mansion but his narrow Cell,  
Equal in colour, and alike in smell.  
Why then should man of such vain Treasure boast,  
So difficultly gained, so easily lost?  
For, late or early, all resign their breath,  
And bend pale Victims to their conqueror Death:  
Each Sex, each Age, Profession, and Degree,  
Moves towards this Centre of Humanity.   

But did they not a farther Journey go,  
And that to die were all they had to do;  
Could but their Souls dissolve as fast away,  
As their corrupting Carcases decay;  
They'd covet Death to end their present cares,  
And for prevention of their future fears:  
They'd to the Grave, as an Asylum run,  
And court the stroke which now they wish to shu●  
But Death (alas!) ends not their miseries,  
The Soul's immortal, though the Body dies.  
Which, soon as from it's prison of Clay enlarged,  
At heavens Tribunals sentenced or discharged.  
Before an awful Power, just and severe,  
Round whose bright head consuming flames appear;  
The shackled Captive, dazzled at his sight,  
Dejected stands, and trembles with the fright;  
While, with strict scrutiny, the God surveys  
Its heart, and close impieties displays.  
The wretch convicted, does its guilt confess,  
Nor hopes for mercy, for concealment less;  
While He, th' Accuser, Judge, and Witness too,  
Damns it to an Eternity of woe;  
Where, since no hope of an Appeal appears,  
'Twould feign dissolve and drown itself in tears.   

What terrors then seize the forsaken Soul,  
That finds no Patron for a Cause so foul!  
●hen it implores some Mountain to prevent,  
●y a kind crush, its shame and punishment.   

O wretched Soul, just Judge, hard Sentence too!  
●hat hardened wretch dares sin, that thinks on You?  
●et here, (alas!) ends not the fatal grief,  
●here is another Death, another Life.  
Life as boundless as Eternity;  
Death whence shall no Resurrection be.  
●hat Hell of Torments shall in This be found?  
●ith what a Heaven of Joys shall That abound?  
●hat, filled with Music of th' Angelic Choir,  
●hall the blessed Souls with Ecstasy inspire;  
●hile This disturbed, at every hideous yell,  
●hall in the Damned raise a new dread of Hell:  
●hat knows no sharp excess of cold or heat,  
● This the wretches always freeze or sweat.  
●here reign Eternal Rest, and soft Repose;  
●ere, painful toil no end or measure knows.  
●hat, void of grief, does nought afflictive see;  
●his, still disturbed from trouble's never free.  
O happy Life! O vast unequalled Bliss!  
O Death accursed! O endless Miseries!  
Either to That or This we daily bend;  
All our endeavours have no other end.  
Be wise then, Man, nor let thy care be vain,  
To shun the Mis'ry, and the Bliss obtain;  
Give Heaven thy Heart, if thou its Crown wou'd● gain.   Aug. Soliloq. cap. 3. What more lamentable and more dreadful can be thought of, than that terrible Sentence, Go? what more delightful, than that pleasing Invitation, Come? They are two words, of which nothing can be heard more affrighting than the One, nothing more rejoicing than the Other.   

 depiction of a female figure lying on the ground beside a winged hour-glass saying "Alass"; above the winged, bearded personification of Father Time holds an hour-glass and scythe, between them a figure dressed in a robe of stars reaches out to the moon while another figure reaches out to the sun My life is waxed old with heaviness, and my years with mourning. Psal. 31. 11  

XV.  My life is waxed old with heaviness, and my years with mourning. Psal. 31. 11. 

WHat lowering Star ruled my unhappy Birth,  
And banished thence all days of ease and mirth?  
●hile expectation does delude my mind,  
●eas'd with vain hope some smiling hour to find:  
●t still that smiling hour forbears to come,  
●d sends a row of Mourners in its room.  
●op'd alternate courses in each day,  
●d that the foul to fairer would give way:  
●d as the Sun dispels the Clouds of Night,  
●hen he to Heaven restores his welcome Light;  
● as the Moons kind influence brings again  
●e refluous motion of the low-ebbed Main:  
●●, with insuccesful Augury,  
●esag'd things so as I would have them be:  
But, oh! my grief exceeds in length and sum  
The Widow's Tribute at her Husband's Tomb:  
She, when the Author of her Joy is gone.  
Is twice-six months confined to mourn alone;  
Yet the last half she does not, as before,  
Hid her smooth Forehead in a close Bendore.  
But all my years are in deep mourning spent,  
There's not a month, not one short day exempt.  
No rules give bounds or measure to my woes,  
But their increase, like the feigned Hydra's grow▪  
My life so much in sighs and tears is spent,  
It minds that least, for which 'twas chief meant.   

'Tis true, Storms often make the Ocean swell,  
But the most violent are shortest still;  
For when with eager fury they engage,  
They lose themselves in their excess of rage.  
And when their Winter-blasts dis-robe the Wood,  
Their Summer-airs make all the trespass good:  
So that, while thus the inj'ry they repair,  
The loss proves gainful to the sufferer.  
But grief does all my hapless years employ,  
Nor grants me one Parenthesis of Joy  
My Music is in sighs and groans expressed,  
With my own hands extorted from my breast.  
This sad diversion is my sole delight,  
This my companion of the day and night:  
How oft have sighs, while I my words confined,  
Broke Prison, and betrayed my troubled mind!  
How oft have I in tears consumed the day,  
And in complaints passed the long night away!  
Oft you, my Friends, condemned my sorrows so,  
That oft I laboured to suppress them too:  
Let lose the reins to mirth, you always cried;  
To lose the reins, (alas!) in vain I tried:  
For when with laughter I a sigh suppressed,  
●t raised a fatal conflict in my breast;  
And if I wish for sleep to close my eyes,  
Still a fresh shower that envied bliss denies;  
Then if I stop its course, impetuous grown,  
▪ 'twill force its way, and bear the Sluices down.  
Each Brook, whose stream my tears have made to rise;  
Each shady Grove, filled with my mournful cries;  
Each lonely Vale, and every conscious Hill,  
The kind repeaters of my sorrows still;  
These know, the troubles which I wished conces  
Were by loud throbbings of my heart revealed;  
Till, moved with pity of my sad complaint,  
The Echoes too grew sorrowfully acquaint:  
My secret moans they vented o'er again;  
By turns we wept, and did by turns complain.   

So, moved by Progne's lamentable Note,  
Sad Philomela unlocks her mournful throat,  
As if the em'lous Rivals were at strife  
Whose tongue should best express the height of gr●  
The widowed Turtle so bewails her Mate,  
With grief unalterable, as his Fate.  
And so the Stars have my sad life designed,  
That not one minute should be fair or kind.   

And that my sorrows may not find relief,  
By wanting new occasions for my grief,  
'Tis their decree, That, as my Infant-breath  
Began with sighs, so I should sigh to death.   Chrysost. in Psal. 115. Ought we not worthily to lament, who are in a strange Country, and banished to a Climate remote from our Native Soil?    

 depiction of a female figure reaching out toward two stone tablets representing the Ten Commandments held by an angel with wings, halo and a bow; behind her another figure with wings and a bow and arrow but no halo; in the background a cow and a bucking horse My soul breaketh out for the very fervent desire that it hath always to thy judgements. Psal: 119. 20. DESIRES OF THE Religious Soul, BOOK the Second.  


I.  My soul breaketh out for the very fervent desire that it hath always unto thy Judgements. Psal. 119. 20. 

WHile Heaven and Earth solicit me to love,  
My doubtful choice is puzzled which t'approve:  
heaven cries, obey, while Earth proclaims, be free:  
heaven urges duty, Earth pleads liberty▪  
Called hence by Heaven, by Earth I'm called again  
Tossed, like a Vessel on the restless Main:  
These  Wo'ers a doubtful Combat wage,  
And thus obstruct the choice they would engage.  
Ah! 'tis enough; let my long-harast mind  
In the best choice a quiet Haven find!  
Oh! my dear God, or let me never love,  
Or let me only Thy commands approve!  
'Tis true, 'tis pleasant to be free to choose,  
And when we will, accept; when not, refuse.  
Freedom of choice endures restraint but ill,  
'Tis usurpation on th'unbounded will.  
So, from his Harness loosed, the neighing Steed  
Hasts to the Pastures where he loves to feed;  
So the glad Ox, from the Ploughs burden freed,  
Runs lowing on to wanton in the Mead:  
And when the Hind their freedom would revoke  
This scorns his Harness, That defies the Yoke.  
For freedom in our choice we count a bliss;  
Eager to choose, though oft we choose amiss.  
So the young Prodigal, impatient grown  
To manage his entire Estate alone,  
Takes from his prudent Father's frugal care  
His Stock, by that improved and thriv'n there:  
But his own Steward made, with eager haste  
He does the slow-gained Patrimony waste,  
Till starved by riot, and with want oppressed,  
He feeds with Swine, himself the greater Beast.  
Thus in Destruction often we rejoice,  
Pleased with our ruin, since it was our choice.  
How do we weary Heaven with  Prayers!  
The medley sure ridiculous appears.  
One begs a Wife, nor thinks a greater bliss;  
Another's earnest to be rid of his:  
This prays for Children; That o're-stocked, repines  
At the too fruitful Issue of his Loins.  
This asks his Father's days may be prolonged;  
That, if his Father lives, complains he's wronged:  
This covets to be old; while That, oppressed  
With Age, would of his burden be released.  
Scarce in Ten thousand any Two agree;  
Nay, some dislike what they just wished to be.  
None knows this minute what he should require,  
Since even the next begets a new desire.  
So Women pine with various Longing-fits,  
When Breeding has depraved their appetites;  
The humorsom impertinent Disease  
Makes that which pleased them most, as much displease   

Oh! why, like them, grown restless with desire▪  
Do my vain thoughts to boundless hopes aspire!  
Be gone false hopes, vain wishes, anxious fears!  
Hence, you disturbers of my peaceful years!  
Oh! my dear God, or let me never love,  
Or let me only Thy commands approve!  

For to obey the Precepts given by Thee,  
Exceeds the World's pretended liberty.    Aug. Solil. cap. 12. Allure, O Lord, my desires with thy sweetness which thou hast hid from them that fear thee, that they may desire thee with eternal long; lest the inward relish, being deceived, may mistake bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter.   


TWO   depiction of a female figure with pilgrim's hat and staff at the centre of a maze, holding onto a guide rope held by an angel at the top of a tower on a hill beyond the maze; two figures are trapped in ditches in the maze and two more are struggling to progress at the base of the tower; a man with a hat, stick and dog progresses along the top of the maze O that my ways were made so direct, that I might keep thy Statutes Psal: 119. 5.  

II.  O that my ways were made so direct, that I might keep thy Statutes! Psal. 119. 5. 

IN what a maze of Error do I stray,  
Where various paths confound my doubtful way!  
This, to the right; That, to the lefthand lies:  
Here, Vales descend; there, swelling Mountains rise.  
This has an easy, That a rugged way;  
The treach'ry This conceals, That does betray.  
But whither these so  courses go,  
Their wand'ring paths forbidden, till tried, to know.  
Maeander's stream a straighter motion steers,  
Tho with himself the wanderer interferes.  
Not the sictitious Labyrinth of old  
Did in more dubious paths its guests enfold;  
Here greater difficulties stay my fee●,  
And on each road I thwarting dangers meet.  
Nor I the  wind only fear,  
(In which the Artist's skill did most appear)  
But, more to heighten and increase my dread,  
Darkness involves each gloomy step I tread.  
No friendly tracks my wand'ring footsteps guid●  
Nor previous feet th'untrodden ground have tried  
And tho (lest on some fatal Rock I stray)  
With outstretched arms I grope my dusky way;  
Yet dare I not, even with their help, proceed,  
But night and horror stop my trembling feet.  
Like a strange traveler by the Sun forsook,  
And in a road unknown by night o'ertook,  
In whose loan paths no neighbouring Swains reside,  
No friendly Star appears to be his guide,  
No sign or tract by human footsteps worn,  
But solitary all, and all forlorn.  
He knows not but each blindfold step he tread▪  
To some wild Desert or fierce River leads:  
Then his exalted voice does loudly strain,  
In hope of answer from some neighbouring Swain;  
Still, still he calls, but still (alas!) in vain,  
Only faint Echoes answer him again.   

Oh! who will help a wretch thus gone astray!  
What friendly Cynosure direct my way!  
A signal Cloud conducted Israel's flight,  
By day their covering, and their guide by night.  
The Eastern-Kings found Bethlem too from far,  
Led by the shining conduct of a Star;  
Nor could they in their tedious journey err,  
Who had so bright a fellow-traveller.   

Be thou no less propitious, Lord, to me,  
Since all my business is to worship Thee.  
See how the wand'ring Crowd mistake their way,  
And, tossed about by their own error, stray!  
This tumbles headlong from an unseen Hill;  
That lights on a blind path, and wanders still.  
This with more haste than speed goes stumbling on;  
That moves no faster than a Snail might run.  
While to and fro another hastes in vain,  
No sooner in the right, than out again.  
Here one walks on alone, whose boasted skill  
●nvites another to attend him still,  
Till among Thorns or miry Pools they tread;  
This by his guide, That by himself misled.  
Here one in a perpetual Circle moves,  
While there another in a labyrinth roves;  
And when he thinks his weary ramble done,  
He finds (alas!) he has but just begun.  
Thus still the wand'ring Multitude does stray,  
Scarce one of thousands keeps or finds the way.   

Oh! that my paths were all chalked out by Th●●  
From the deceits of baneful error free!  
Till all my motion, like a Dart's, became  
Swift as its flight, unerring as its aim,  
That where thy Laws require me to obey,  
I may not loiter, nor mistake the way.  
Then be Thou, Lord, the Bow, thy Law the White  
And I the Arrow destined for the flight:  
And when thou'rt pleased to show thy greatest skill▪  
Let Me, dear God, be thy choice Arrow still.   Aug: Soliloq. cap. 4. O Lord, who art the Light, the Way, the Truth, and the Life; in whom there is no Darkness, Error, Vanity, nor Death. Say the word, O Lord, let there be Light, that I may see the Light, and shun the Darkness; that I may find the right way, and avoid the wrong; that I may follow Truth, and fly from Vanity; that I may obtain Life, and escape Death.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings beckoning forward a female figure in a wheeled walking-frame O hold thou up my go in thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Psal. 17. 5.  

III.  O hold thou up my go in thy paths, that my footsteps slip not. Psal. 17. 5. 

WHat! will my faithless feet deceive me more,  
And make false steps upon the even floor?   

Thou, who from Heaven my motion dost approve,  
Grant me such strength, that I may firmly move.   

The Eagles teach their unfledged young to fly,  
Practised in towering towered the lofty Sky;  
●ill the apt brood, by bold example led,  
perform the daring flight they used to dread.  
●hus Boys, when first th'unusual stream they try,  
With spongy Cork their weighty bodies buoy;  
●ill more improved, they their first help disown,  
ambitious now t'attempt the flood alone:  
And thus, by practice, such perfection gain,  
To sport and wanton safely in the Main.   

Thou, who from Heaven observest our steps belo●,  
See by what arts thy Servant learns to go;  
While all my weight on this slight Engine's laid,  
I move the Wheels that do my motion aid.  
Thus feeble age, supported by a Cane,  
Is tired with that on which 'tis forced to lean.  
Mistake not, Lord, th'ambiguous terms I use,  
For of no failure I my feet accuse:  
I can perceive no imperfection there,  
No rocky ways, or thorny roads they fear:  
The weakness of my mind disturbs me most,  
Whose languid feet have all their motion lost:  
All its affections lame and bedrid are,  
(Those feet, alas! which should its motion steer;)  
When it should move in Virtues easy road,  
Alas! 'tis tired as soon as got abroad.  
Sometimes, but rarely, it renews the race,  
And eagerly moves on, a Jehu 's pace:  
But, weary of its journey, scarce begun,  
Its boasted flame is all extinct, as soon  
As a faint Lamp by the rude Northwind blown.  
Yet, lest I should too much my sloth betray,  
I force my steps, and make some little way;  
But then am cautious not to be exposed,  
Lest I be thought too plentifully dosed.  
My reeling steps move an indented pace,  
As 'twere a Cripple hopping o'er a race.  
I will, I won't, I burn, all in a breath;  
And that's scarce out,  I'm as cold as death:  
And then, impatient at my fruitless pain,  
Tired in the midway, I go back again:  
Yet cannot then recover my first place,  
The pleasant seat whence I began my race.  
Tost, like a Ship on the tempestuous waves,  
Which neither help of Sails nor rowing saves.  
While with new vain attempts I try again,  
And would repair the loss I did sustain,  
The small success too manifestly proves  
My fruitless labour in a circle moves.  
Thus Slaves, condemned to ply a toilsome Mill,  
Repeat the same returning motion still:  
Tho still the restless Engine's hurried round,  
They by its haste gain not one foot of ground.   

What shall I do, a stranger to the race,  
Whose lazy feet scarce move an Ass' pace?  
Heaven lies remote from this mean Globe below,  
None but the swift and strong can thither go;  
What then shall this my slow-wheeled Chariot do?   

Thou, Lord, movest nimbly o'er the rugged way,  
Thy Gyant-feets are balked by no delay:  
Thou with a step dost East and West divide,  
And o'er the world, like a Colossus, stride.   

But with a Tortoice-motion I proceed,  
Or rather, like the Crab, am retrograde.  
How can I then hope to that Goal to run,  
Which 'tis the business of my life to shun?  
But do thou, Lord, my trembling feet sustain,  
Then I the Race and the Reward shall gain.   Amb. de fuga saeculi cap. 1. ●ho among so many troubles of the body, among so many allurements of the world, can keep a safe and unerring course?   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings, wearing a monstrous mask; the angel holds a birch-twig scourge in one hand and with the other hand directs a lightning-bolt emerging from a storm-cloud toward a cowering female figure; in the background is a comet or shooting star; the female figure is also being attacked by a rabbit or hare My flesh trembleth for fear of thee, and I am afraid of thy judgements. Psal: 119. 120.  

iv  My flesh trembleth for fear of thee, and I am afraid of thy Judgements. Psal. 119. 120. 

A Dread of Heaven was by the Ancients taught,  
As the first impress on Man's infant thought.  
●nd he who understood it best, has said,  
●is the prime step that does to Wisdom lead.  
●nform'd by this my early childhood grew,  
●nd to fear Heaven was the first thing I knew:  
●ut still such dark Oblivion dulled my mind,  
● could not the repeated Alpha find.  
No stripes can punish my neglectful crime,  
●ho, unimproved, have trifled out my time.  
●ull Boys by stripes with Learning are inspired,  
●y little pains, with industry acquired:  
When twice or thrice they read their Letters o'er,  
●hey're as familiar as if known before:  
And though in colour all alike appear,  
Each is distinguished by its Character.  
May I not hope Age will complete in me  
The easy task of tender Infancy?  
In many things I no Instructor sought,  
Too apt (alas!) to practise them untaught.  
Why is not Fear as soon imbibed, a Rule  
So oft explained in Arts Improving School?  
What I should slight, still (to my shame) I fear,  
And slight that most, which I should most revere.  
I fear Man's eye when I would act a sin,  
But dread not Heaven, nor the great Judge within:  
For my gross body I am still in fear,  
But my pure Soul partakes not of my care.  
Thus Birds false men of Clouts (affrighted) shun,  
Yet boldly to the fatal Lime-twigs run.  
Thus the fierce Lion, of false fires afraid,  
Flies to the Toils, in which he is betrayed.  
Such vanity has men's dark minds o'erspread,  
That less the Thunder than the Clap they dread;  
Think Hell a Fable, an invented name,  
And count its Fire a harmless lambent flame.  
With brutish rage to blackest ills they run,  
And never fear the wickedness, till done:  
But though this fear did not their Crimes prevent,  
'Twill come, too sure, to be their punishment  
Then with strange frights, from their lost senses driven,  
Their restless thoughts run on offended Heaven:  
Then sudden fears their watchful limbs alarm,  
And call them from their lonely beds to arm,  
While their own shadows only do them harm.  
Each little thing's so magnified by fear,  
They dread a Lion, when a Mouse they hear.  
If in the night they hear a gentle breeze  
Begin to whisper in the murmuring Trees,  
With hair erect, and parboiled in a sweat,  
They shrink beneath the steaming Coverlet.  
whenever they see the nimble Lightning fly,  
Or hear the Thunder in the distant Sky,  
They think each flash a messenger of death,  
And at each crack despair of longer breath;  
At every noise they in new fears engage,  
And ruin from each accident presage.  
Thus, always of its guilty self afraid,  
The troubled mind eternally dismayed;  
Such punishments attend afflicting guilt,  
Which never pain like its own torments felt.  
Thus trembling Cain dreads from each hand he sees  
The fate his injured Brother had from his.  
His crimson Soul, with Abel 's Murder stained,  
Still with the bloody Scene is entertained.  
No more severe correction waits on sin,  
Than its unbribed upbraider still within.   

Then with thy Darts, Lord, frighten me from▪  
My fury wants this kind restriction still.  
Fear timely comes before a fault's begun,  
He fears too late, that fears not till 'tis done.   Bernard. Serm. 29. The holy Psalmist desires wisely to be smitten, and healthfully to be wounded, when he prays to be transfixed with the fear of God; for that fear is an excellent Dart, that wounds and destroys the lusts of the Flesh, that the Spirit may be safe.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings shielding and covering the eyes of a female figure from a richly-dressed female figure with ruff, crown, ostrich-feathers, and ermine O turn away mine eyes lest they behold vanity. Psal: 119. 37.  

V  O turn away mine eyes, lest they behold vanity. Psal. 119. 37. 

IN my high Capitol two Sentries still  
Keep constant watch, to guard my Citadel:  
● fixed or wand'ring Stars, I do not know,  
●ho either epithet becomes them too;  
●ach from its duty is in rambling lost,  
●et each maintains immovably its post;  
●th swift of motion, yet both fixed remain:  
●hat Samson this dark Riddle can explain?   

Even You, my Eyes, are these mysterious Stars,  
●'d in my head, yet daily wanderers:  
Who placed in that exalted Tower of mine,  
Like Torches in some lofty Pharos shine;  
Or like two Watchmen on some rising place,  
View every near, and every distant pass.  
Yet you to me less constant prove by far,  
Than those kind Guides to their Observers are;  
Their favours only with themselves expire,  
Unless the hand that gave, recalls their fire:  
Like Horses, you, too headstrong for the rain,  
Will let no power your rambling course restrain:  
You, by whose guidance we should danger shun,  
Betray us to the Rocks on which we run.  
Thus wand'ring Dina, led by your false light,  
Exposed her Honour, to oblige her Sight.  
Thus, while Jessides viewed the bathing Dame,  
What cooled her heat, kindled in him a flame;  
Her naked Beauty did a conquest-gain,  
Which armed Goliath undertook in vain.  
Thus gazing on the Hebrew Matrons eyes,  
Made the Assyrian's head her easy prize.  
Thus the fond Elders, by their sight misled,  
Pursued the joys of a forbidden bed;  
Nor could their lustful flame be dispossessed,  
●ill with a shower of weighty stones suppressed.   

More ruin'd Souls by these false guides are lost,  
●han shipwrecked Vessels on the Indian-Coast.   

Then happy he, happy alike and wise,  
●ho made a timely covenant with his eyes!  
●nd happier he who did his guards disband,  
●orn from their sockets by his fearless hand!   

So ill, false Sentries, you your charge perform,  
●u favour the surprise, that should the Camp alarm:  
●d you for this the Capitol obtain?  
● this the charge of the chief Castle gain?  
●at you have thus t' inferior Earth betrayed  
●an's lofty Soul, for nobler Objects made?  
●d do not rather raise his thoughts on high,  
●ove the starry arches of the Sky?  
●t Theatre will entertain his sight  
●h various Scenes of suitable delight:  
But you are more on Earth than Heaven intent,  
And your industrious search is downward bend.   

What shall I do, since you unruly grow,  
And will no limits, no confinement know?  
Oh! shut the wandrer's up in endless night,  
Or with thy hand, dear God, contract their sight.   Aug. Solil. cap. 4: Woe to the blind eyes that see not Thee, the Sun that enlightens both Heaven and Earth! woe to the dim eyes that cannot see Thee! woe to them that turn away their eyes from beholding Truth! woe to them that turn not away their eyes from beholding Vanity!   

 depiction of a female figure kneeling and holding out a heart in her right hand to an angel holding two tablets of stone; with her left hand she shuns a table holding cosmetics, jewellery and a mirror O let my heart be Sound in thy Statutes, that I be not ashamed. Psal. 119. 80.  

VI  O let my heart be sound in thy Statutes, that I be not ashamed. Psal. 119. 80. 

Could I but hope my Face would please my Dear,  
That should be all my business, all my care:  
My first concern should for Complexion be,  
The next, to keep my skin from freckles free:  
No help of Art, or Industry I'd want,  
No Beauty-water, or improving Paint.  
My Dressing-boxes should with Charms abound,  
To make decayed old flesh seem young and sound:  
With Spanish-wool, red as the blooming Rose,  
And Ceruse, whiter than the Mountain Snows:  
With all the Arts that studious Virgins know,  
Who on their Beauty too much pains bestow.  
Then I'd correct each error by my Glass,  
Till not one fault were found in all my face.  
If on my brow one hair amiss I spied,  
How would I fret till it were rectified!  
If my complexion were not always right,  
'Twould be a Nuisance to my troubled sight.  
If any motion did contract my brow,  
I should believe Time did my forehead plough.  
Even with each Mole t'offend thee I should fear,  
If of my Beauty thou hadst any care.  
If in my face the smallest Wart should rise,  
I fear 'twould seem a Mountain in your eyes:  
And the least fault to me would great appear,  
Lest it should prove offensive to my Dear:  
And every Grace which Nature has denied,  
By Art's kind help should amply be supplied:  
With towers and Locks I would adorn my head,  
And thick with Jewels my curled tresses spread:  
With double Pearls I'll hang my loaded ears,  
While my white neck vast Chains of Rubies wea●●;  
Thus I among the fairest will be seen,  
And dare vie Beauty, even with Sheba's Queen.   

But oh! no such vain toys affect your mind,  
●hese meet with no admirers, but the blind,  
●ho in a Dress seek Objects of their love,  
●hich once put off, the Beauty does remove.  
●hus the fond Crowds caught by a gay attire,  
●he only thing indeed they find t'admire.   

But You, my Love, no borrowed Beauty's prize,  
●o artificial Charms attract your eyes.  
●ear as your own, you rate a spotless heart,  
●nd for its sake accept each other part.   

Oh that my heart unspotted were, and free  
●rom every tincture of impurity!  
●hen in your favour I should make my boast,  
And hate each stain by which it might be lost.   Hugo de S. Vict. in Arrha animae. ● base and filthy spots, why do you stick so long? Be gone, depart, and presume no more to offend my Beloved's sighed.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings holding a staff, leading a female figure with a pilgrim's hat and staff Come my Beloved, let us go forth into the Fields, let us lodge in the Villages Cant. 7. 11.  

VII.  Come my Beloved, let us go forth into the Fields, let us lodge in the Villages. Cant. 7. 11. 

COme, come, my Love, let's leave the busy throng,  
We trifle there our precious time too long.  
Come, let us hasten to some lonely Grove,  
The fittest Theatre for Scenes of Love.  
Strong Walls and Gates the City guard, 'tis true;  
But what secures it thus, confines it too.  
We'll reap the pleasures of the open Field,  
Which does security with freedom yield.  
What though the City-Tow'rs the Clouds invade,  
And o'er the Fields project their lofty shade?  
Yet thence Content has made a far retreat,  
And chose the humble Cottages its seat;  
And the remotest Solitude enjoys  
The blessing of more quiet, and less noise.  
Come then, my Love, and let's retire from hence,  
And leave this busy fond impertinence.  
See! even the City's eldest Son and Heir,  
Who gets his Gold, his dear-loved Idol, there;  
Yet in the Country spends his City-gains,  
And makes its pleasures recompense his pains:  
And though the City has his public voice,  
The Country ever is his private choice.  
Here still the Rich, the Noble, and the Great,  
Unbend their minds in a secure retreat;  
And heavens free Canopy yields more delight  
Than guilded Roofs and Fretwork, to the sight;  
Nor can fenced Cities keep the mind in peace,  
So well as open guardless Villages.  
Come then, my Love, let's from the City haste,  
Each minute we spend there, is so much waste.   

I have a Countrey-Farm, whose fertile ground  
Soft murmuring Brooks and crystal Streams surround;  
A better Air or Soil were never known,  
Nor more convenient distance from the Town:  
Hither, my Love, if thou wilt take thy flight,  
The City will no more thy sense delight,  
Driven from thy thoughts as quickly as thy sight.  
Here in the shades I will my Dear caress,  
At leisure to receive my kind Address.  
Here, from the City and its Tumults free,  
I shall enjoy more than myself, in Thee.  
No business shall invade our pleasure here,  
No rude disturber of our sports appear.  
Here thou thy secret passion shalt reveal,  
And whisper in my ear the pleasing tale;  
While in requital I disclose my flame,  
And in the favouring Shades conceal my shame.  
Here, like kind Turtles, we will bill and cooe,  
For here, to love is all we have to do.  
Oh! could I see that happy happy day!  
I know no bliss beyond, for which to pray  
Then to the Country let us, Dear, repair,  
For Love thrives best in the clear open air.   Hieron. Ep. ad Hesiod. 1. What dost thou? how long do the shadows of the houses confine thee? how long does the Prison of the smoky City shut thee up? Believe me, I see some greater Light, and am resolved to throw off the burden of the Flesh, and fly to the splendour of the purer air.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings leading a female figure lying on the ground by a rope and by the scent of a flaming torch or incense-holder Draw me, we will run after thee (in the Savour of thy Ointments.) Cant. 1. 3.  

VIII.  Draw me, we will run after thee, (in the savour of thy Ointments.) Cant. 1. 3. 

SEe how my feeble Limbs, now given in vain,  
Increase the burden which they should sustain!  
●hile, weary of my hated life, I lie;  
● faint resemblance of what once was I.  
●y head, depressed with its own weight, hangs low,  
●nd to themselves my Limbs a burden grow.  
● various postures still I seek for ease,  
●ut find at last not any one to please.  
●ow I would rise, now wish myself in bed,  
●ow with my hands support my drooping head:  
●ow on my back, now on my face I lie;  
●nd now for rest on either side I try:  
●nd when my bed I've tumbled restless o'er,  
●● still th' uneasy wretch I was before.  
Thus hindered by my own Infirmity,  
Tho fain I would, I cannot follow thee.  
Then wilt thou go, and leave me destitute?  
Canst thou not stay, at least to hear my suit?  
Thus Soldiers from their wounded Comrades fly  
At an alarm of any danger nigh.  
unnatural Mothers thus their Babes disclaim,  
Urged to the sin by poverty or shame.  
Stretches, Lord, thy hand, and thy weak follower me:  
Or if not reach thy hand, yet stay thy feet.   

The grateful Stork bears o'er the spacious Flo●  
Its aged Dam, and triumphs in the load:  
The do supports her tender swimmers weight,  
And minds herself less than her dearer freight.   

But You, fair fugitive, forsake your Love,  
And shun the burden you should most approve  
Yet I'll not hinder or retard your haste,  
If you but draw me, I shall follow fast:  
And though now bedrid, in a little space  
I'll rise, and move along a Lover's pace:  
Nor shall you need a Whip to drive me on,  
Free and unurged, close at your back I'll run:  
As, when at your command the Net was thrown,  
The eager Fish did gladly to it run,  
And, unconcerned, their own destruction sought,  
So much 'twas their ambition to be caught.   

Pleasure and Sense do all mankind misguide,  
Some by their eyes, some by their ears are tied:  
I seek not, Lord, my eyes or ears to please,  
Th' Arabian sweets suit best with my Disease.  
Thy Tresses of the balmy spikenard smell,  
And from thy Head the richest Oils distil.  
Choice fragrant scents from thy moist Temples flow,  
And on thy Lips still dwells a Myrrhy Dew.  
Thou breathest the Odours of the spicy East,  
And in fresh Roses all thy words are dressed.  
Thy ivory Neck sweats richest Frankincense,  
And every part does some rare scent dispense.  
whate'er Perfumes in the vast World are found,  
●n a rich Compound mixed, in Thee abound.  
Such, such a scent filled the blessed Virgin's Room,  
When Thou, the Flower of Jesse, beganst to bloom.   

Oh! might this Odour bless my longing sense,  
How would it cure my feeble Impotence!  
I soon should conquer all my languishment,  
And briskly follow the attracting scent.  
And my Companions the same course would move,  
As the whole Flock waits on th' anointed Dove.   Gilbert. in Cant. Hom. 18. Love is a Cord that holds fast, and draws affectionately, whose words are so many allurements. Nothing holds faster than the band of Love, nothing attracts more powerfully.   

 depiction of a female figure holding an angel with halo and wings in her arms like a baby; nearby a cradle and a walking frame with wheels O that thou wert as my brother, that Sucked the breasts of my mother; when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; yet I should not be despised. Cant. 8. 1.  

IX.  O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother; when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee, yet I should not be despised. Cant. 8. 1. 

WHo will ennoble my unworthy Race,  
And Thy great Name among the number● place?  
Nor wish I this to raise my Pedigree,  
Contented with my mean obscurity.  
Yet, though my Blood would be a stain to Thine,  
Still I must wish we had one Parent-line.  
Nor would I have thee grown to those brisk years  
When first the budding downy beard appears;  
But still an Infant, hanging on the breast,  
The same which I before have often pressed:  
A Brother such would my ambition choose,  
If elder, I thy converse must refuse.  
Then, Dear, vouchsafe a second Birth, that I  
May rock thy Cradle with a lullaby.  
Children have pretty, pleasant, gaining arts,  
Above the elder sort, to win our hearts;  
And though each age would its own merit prove,  
Childhood is still most prevalent in Love:  
Besides, my wish is for Enjoyment-sake,  
For thus I can thy presence best partake,  
Then, Dear, vouchsafe a sec●nd Birth, that I  
May rock thy Cradle with a lullaby.  
Then my Enjoyment would be full and free,  
And all my business should be tending Thee.  
My arms all day should bear thy grateful weight,  
And be thy safe enclosure all the night.  
When thy soft Cheeks or ruddy Lips I'd kiss,  
No fear or shame should interrupt the bliss;  
For none a Sister's kindness can upbraid,  
At lest when to an Infant-Brother paid:  
And though on thy soft Lips long time I'd dwell,  
Sure a chaste kiss can never be but well.  
Then condescend my Brother to become,  
Dear as the offspring of my Parents Womb.  
What would I do to make my transport known?  
What would I do? what would I leave undone?  
How oft would I, by stealth, even when forbidden,  
Stand all night Sentry by the Cradle-side!  
How numerous should my services become,  
Even till, perhaps, they were thought troublesome!  
For when my Mother took thee from the breast,  
My arms should with the next remove be blest:  
Or if she willed to carry thee abroad,  
Still I would bear the acceptable load:  
Or would she have thee in the Cradle lie,  
●'d gently rock thee with a lullaby.  
●f she to take the loved employment went  
My eager haste should her design prevent:  
But when she would intrust thee to my care,  
And going forth, leave me to tend my Dear;  
How great would be the pleasure of my charge!  
How would I then indulge myself at large!  
Thy Face-cloth soon I softly would remove,  
Eager t'enjoy th'object of my Love;  
And, favoured by the most commodious light,  
Feast on thy lovely face my longing sight.  
Thy head should on my lefthand gently rest,  
While with my right I bond thee to my breast;  
And then so lightly I would steal a kiss,  
It should not interrupt thy sleeping bliss.  
Then, Dear, be pleased a second Birth t'allow,  
That on thy Cheeks my lips may pay their vow.  
And as thy growth renders thy Organs strong,  
And thou beginnest to use thy loosened tongue;  
Then thou, my Love, shalt my small Pupil be,  
And as I speak, shalt stammer after me:  
And when thou dost the help of arms refuse,  
And darest attempt the Hobby-horse to use;  
I'll teach thee safely how to prance along,  
And keep thy nimble footsteps firm and stro●●▪  
And if some naughty stone offend thy feet,  
My ready arms their stumbling charge shall  
Pleased with a frequent opportunity  
Of thus receiving and embracing Thee:  
Nor shall I any recompense regard,  
The pleasing Service is its own Reward.   Bonavent. Solil. cap. 1. I was ignorant, O sweet Jesus, that thy Embraces were so pleasant, thy Touch so delightful, thy Conversation so diverting; for when I touch Thee, I am clean; when I receive Thee, I am a Virgin:   

 depiction of a female figure holding a lamp over a bed, beneath which sleeps an angel with halo and wings By night on my bed, I sought him whom my Soul loveth, I sought him, but I found him not. Cant. 3. 1.  

X.  By night on my Bed, I sought him whom my Soul loveth, I sought him, but I found him not. Cant. 3. 1. 

I Treat not of inferior mortal fires,  
But chastest sighs, and most sublime desires;  
As Bodies, so the Minds their flames receive,  
But still the grosser for the Bodies leave.  
The generous fire that's kindled in the Mind,  
That does alone Loves secret Pleasures find.  
What nobler flames the lofty Souls inspire!  
How are they raised to more refined desire!  
In what Divine Embraces do they join!  
What pious hands their mutual Contracts sign!  
How ravishings the pleasure of the Bed;  
With what unspeakable delights 'tis spread,  
Where the chaste Soul in her Beloved's arms,  
And He in Hers, improve their mutual Charms!  
The Bed on which such happy Lover's rest,  
Is downy peace in its own quiet blessed.   

Here I was wont, when care drove sleep awa●  
Pregnant with thought, to watch the dawning da●  
Here the dear He that stole my Virgin-heart  
Did oft to me his Bosom-cares impart:  
Then, than a sacred flame my Soul possessed,  
And no less heat reigned in his amorous breast:  
In silence than we made our mute complaint,  
And our dumb grief was prevalently acquaint.  
But now, nor know I why, my Love's estranged  
I fear some fault of mine his mind has changed:  
For, a whole day he has not blest my sight,  
Nor (which he never used) returned at night.  
Does this imply a fickle change of mind,  
Or that he does some better Mistress find?  
How sadly I in tears and discontent  
The tedious night of his grieved absence spent!  
'Twas now become the dead low ebb of night,  
And sleep had barred up close my weary sight;  
●hen a loud voice suprized my trembling ear,  
And called, Rise, sluggard, see your Love's not he●  
Strait I awake, and rub my sleepy eyes,  
Then the forsaken house I fill with cries:  
Sleepest thou, my Love? but answer I had not  
For He, (alas!) to whom I spoke, was gone.  
Soon with a lighted torch his steps I trace,  
And wish I ne'er had seen them nor his face.  
Then on the guiltless Bed begin t'exclaim,  
Ask where my Love is, and its silence blame.  
Distracted then I search the Chamber round,  
But what I sought was not where to be found.  
What tumults then were raised within my breast,  
Who once on Peace's downy Bed did rest!  
What raging storms then tossed my troubled min●  
Unused to Tempests of that boisterous kind!  
With pain my heavy eyes to Heaven I raise,  
And scarce my lips can open in its praise;  
My former strength in sacred Conflicts fails,  
And what was once my sport, my Soul bewails:  
For while success crowned my untroubled head,  
On Golden Peace I made my easy Bed:  
Then, like a boasting Soldier, raw and young,  
Who always is victorious with his tongue,  
I wished to exercise some Tyrant's rage,  
Or in some glorious hazard to engage.  
So warm a heat within my blood did play,  
While on the easy bed of Peace I lay:  
But when this heat forsook me with my Love,  
Colder than Scythian Frosts my Blood did prove.  
So Flowers, which gentle Zephyrs kindly rear,  
Nipped by cold Frosts, decay and disappear:  
So Lamps burn bright, while th' Oil maintains thei● fire▪  
But as that ceases, languish and expire.   

Alas! my Love, I sought thee in our Bed,  
Who on the Cross hadst laid thy weary head:  
Peace was my Bed, while the cursed Cross was Thi●  
I should have sought Thee by that fatal sign.  
Much time I lost in seeking thee around,  
But sought thee where thou wert not to be found.   Greg. in Ezek. hom. 19 ●e seek our Beloved in Bed, when in any little rest of this present life, we sigh with a desire of our Redeemer. We seek him by night, because though now the Mind is watchful in him, yet the Eye still is dark.   

 depiction of a female figure leaving her bed to follow a figure holding a lit torch; behind the bed is the silhouette of an angel's head and halo I will rise, and go about the City in the Streets, and in the broad ways, I will seek him whom my Soul loveth; I sought him, but I found him not. Cant. 3. 2.  

XI.  I will rise, and go about the City in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my Soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. Cant. 3. 2. 

AT last, though late, my error does appear,  
Had I searched well I sure had found my Dear;  
● thought him wrapped in soft repose, in Bed,  
●asing his troubled breast, and thoughtful head;  
●t there (alas!) my Love I could not find,  
●o such indulgence was for him designed.   

Alas! my Life, alas! what shall I do?  
●ow can I rest or sleep deprived of You?  
●o; though a thousand Rivers murmuring noise  
●ou'd court me to it with one lulling voice;  
●or though as many whispering Groves conspire,  
●d join the Music of their feathered Cheir.  
Scarce do I close my weary eyes to sleep,  
When grief enjoins me a strict watch to keep:  
My eyes no night, no night my thoughts do know▪  
Or if they do, each tedious hour seems two:  
If ever sleep indulge my misery,  
My sleeping thoughts are all employed on Thee:  
Why then should wretched I desire repose,  
Since sleep no other benefit bestows?   

My Bed I quit, and ranging all the Town,  
move as chance or reason leads me on:  
Each corner search, and hope in each to find  
The dearest Object of my eyes and mind:  
No place escapes me, none so private lies,  
To cheat th'inqury of my curious eyes.  
The eager Hound thus close his Game pursues,  
While the warm scent directs his ready nose:  
Thro Woods and Thickets, Bri●rs and Thorns, he ru●  
No danger dreads, or inconvenience shuns.  
Thus once the weeping Magdalen did roam  
To find her Lord, when missing in his Tomb.  
What that denies, she hopes the City yields;  
But there not found, she seeks him in the Fields:  
No man unasked, no place unsearched, remained,  
●ill the dear Treasure which she sought was gained.  
●hus the grieved Dam for her robbed Nest complains,  
And fills the Forest with her mournful strains;  
●bout the Tree enraged she flies, and now  
●ights on the top, now takes her seat below;  
●hen to her fellows sadly does relate  
●h' injurious stealth, and her lost Offsprings Fate.  
●hus have I searched thro' every lane and street,  
●ut what I sought (alas!) I could not meet.  
●ase lanes! and hateful streets! whose every road  
●●y weary feet so oft in vain have trod.  
● mist my Love in bed, and sought him there;  
●ut sought amiss, and still must want my Dear.   Amb. de Virg. lib. 3. ●hrist is not found in the Courts nor in the Streets; Christ is no frequenter of the Courts. Christ is Peace, in the Courts are Contentions: Christ is Justice, in the Courts is Iniquity, etc. Let us shun the Courts, let us avoid the streets.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings and a female figure embracing outside a walled town Saw you him whom my Soul loveth? It was but little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my Soul loveth: I held him and would not let him go. Cant: 3. 3. 4▪  

XII.  ●aw you him whom my Soul loveth? It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my Soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go. Cant. 3. 3, 4. 

IS there a corner left in all the Town,  
Which in my weary search I have not known?  
With lighted torches every street was bright,  
Nor did I even the meanest alleys slight.  
Alas! what ground did I not travel o'er,  
Till even the City had not any more?  
But why should I this fruitless toil approve,  
●ince all my seeking does not find my Love?  
Then, hopeless, back my pensive course I steered,  
But still no tidings of my Lover heard,  
When I at last approached the City-gate,  
There a strong Guard in constant Watch did wait:  
Said I, Perhaps my Love is hidden here:  
And then I asked them if they saw my Dear.  
They laughed, and my enquiry did deride,  
And whose your Love? one of the Sentries cried:  
Has he no name by which he may be known?  
How can we tell, since you have given us none?  
Excuse, said I, my rude simplicity,  
I thought him known to all the World, as me:  
And that our Love, so much the talk of Fame,  
Had made it needless to declare his name;  
And though you would pretend this ignorance now,  
I'm confident you cannot choose but know:  
Then pray be pleased in earnest to declare  
If you have seen him lately passing here:  
Him, whom above my Life I dearly prise,  
And Him, who values me above his eyes?  
Say, when he went, what stay he made with you,  
And whither he pretended he would go?  
Took he the right-hand, or the lefthand way?  
Was he alone, or had he company?  
The sportful Watch, regardless of my cares,  
Answer with laughter, and deride my tears.  
From them I go, hopeless my Love to find,  
While Tides of woe overwhelmed my sinking mind.  
But while my thoughts were thus oppressed with grief,  
And nothing hoped less than such blessed relief;  
My Love, the same I sought the City round,  
Now, unexpected and unsought, was found.   

Lost between joy and fear in the surprise,  
I durst not well give credit to my eyes.  
And have I thee again? I would have cried,  
But as I strove, my faltering tongue denied.  
As when some frighted Wife sees by her bed  
Her Husband, long by fame reported dead;  
Amazed to see what she had given for lost,  
She flies his touch, and takes him for a Ghost:  
Nor dares she, till by his known voice assured,  
The sight of what she most desires endure:  
And still she fears lest she too easy prove,  
Betrayed to this credulity by Love.  
Thus while I trembling stand, again I try,  
Again my Life salutes my joyful eye.  
Tossed between doubt, and hope, and love, and fear,  
Are you my Love, I cry, or in his shape appear?  
My Dear!— ah no! alas! you are not He;  
Yet sure you are:— Yes, yes, you are, I see.  
My Love, my Life, I see and know you now,  
My secret Ecstasy discovers you.  
Pleased with your voice, and ravished with your face,  
I fly unasked to your belov'd embrace.  
Thus, thus I'll bind you to me, and prevent  
A second search, the Soldiers merriment.  
O that my arms were Chains, and each part else,  
Feet, hands and all, were giveth and Manacles!  
Then with a triple band my Love I'd bind,  
Close as the Elm is by the Vine entwined;  
The snaky Ivy does not closer crawl  
About the ruins of its dear-loved Wall.  
And while my busy hands your neck enclose,  
Think that no burden which their kindness shows.  
Remember, Love, you have been absent long,  
And time that did it, must repair the wrong:  
But of the recompense you soon complain,  
And e'er my Joys commence, are gone again.  
But hold;— you must not think to fly me so;  
First force your way, and if you conquer, go.   Beda in Cant. cap. 3. When I had found him, I held him so much the faster, by how much the longer I was in finding him.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings carrying a female figure holding an anchor on its back; beyond them is a shipwreck in a storm, with two survivors floating in sea and a lighthouse in the distance But it is good for me to hold me fast by God, to put my trust in the Lord God. Psal. 73. 27.  

XIII.  But it is good for me to hold me fast by God, to put my trust in the Lord God. Psal. 73. 27. 

THro what strange turns of fortune have I passed?  
Just as a Ball from hand to hand is tossed.  
Wars loud alarms were first my sole delight,  
And hope of Glory led me out to fight:  
Arms raised my courage, Arms were all my care,  
As if I had no other business here.  
Oft with a Song I passed my tedious hour,  
While I stood Sentry on some lofty Tower:  
Oft I the Enemy's designs betrayed,  
And showed their motions by the signs I made.  
I learned t' entrench a Camp, and Bulwarks rear,  
With all the skill of a good Engineer.  
I ever forward was, and bold in fight,  
And did to action the faint Troops excite.  
None better understood the Arts of War,  
None more the Soldiers or Commanders care:  
Oft in the Lybian Deserts did I sweat,  
Tired with the Sand, and melted with the heat;  
Choked with the dust, yet not a River nigh,  
The place as little moisture had as I   

How oft have I swum mighty Rivers o'er,  
With heavy Armour loaden, tired, and sore?  
And still my Sword across my mouth I laid,  
whenever I did the adverse stream invade.  
Thus long the Camp has had my company,  
A Footman first, now of the Cavalry.  
My Breastplate has ten shots of Arrows born,  
And with no less my Head-piece has been torn.  
Thrice was My Horse shot under me, my Crest  
Four times struck off, and I as oft distressed.  
Yet boldly I exposed myself to harm,  
And in my Enemies' blood my hand was warm.  
But on my back I did no wounds receive,  
My ready breast met all my Foes durst give:  
For boldly against Fire and Sword I stood,  
And flights of Arrows which the Sky did cloud:  
On heaps of men, slain by my Sword, I trod,  
And as I moved, my way with Corpse I strowed.  
But yet the man that did these Conquests gain,  
Could not, with all his power, his wish obtain;  
With all his Laurels won, and Foes o'ercome,  
His Crowns deserved, and Trophies too brought home:  
One fault did all his former Triumphs blast,  
And blotted out their memory at last.  
The General cashiered me with a word,  
And o'er my head broke my once useful Sword.  
And thus in public scorn my Fame expired,  
With the dear purchase of my Blood acquired.  
O my dear God had I born arms for Thee,  
Thy favour had not thus deserted me.  
All my desires are firmly placed on Thee,  
And there secure as Ships at Anchor lie.  
Behind thy Altar then I'll lay my Arms,  
And bid a long adieu to War's alarms.  
But soon my mind on Gain was all intent,  
Gain to my thoughts such sweets did represent.  
A Ship I bought, which when I freighted well,  
Abroad I steered, to purchase, and to sell.  
In both the Indies I exposed my Ware,  
No Port was known but I had traffic there:  
For from small Ventures, large Acquests to gain,  
Was all the busy study of my brain.  
Wealth now came flowing in with such a Tide,  
It would not in my straitened Chests abide.  
My Ships came loaden from the Indian-shoar;  
But next return they perished at my door.  
My Books with Debtors names still larger grew;  
But they forswore, and so I lost my due.  
And thus, like Salt, my Wealth, got by the Sea,  
Did, in the place of its acquest, decay.   

How peaceful is the man, and how secure,  
Whom War did ne'er delight, nor Gain allure!  
No more shall Gain my cheated fancy please,  
That cannot purchase one short minutes ease.  
What shall I do, since my attempts are vain?  
In War, no Fame; in Trade, no Wealth I gain.  
Then to the Court I hastily repair,  
My Fame as soon finds kind reception there.  
I'm brought before the King, and kiss his hand,  
He likes my Person, gives me a Command.  
Now grown his Favourite, I have all his ear;  
whate'er I speak, he eagerly does hear:  
And to new Honours does me still advance,  
Not the effect of merit, but of chance.  
But, whether his mistake, or my desert,  
I am endeared, and wound into his heart.  
Oft in discourse we spent the busy day,  
And ne'er regarded how it passed away.  
Nay, without me, he would not play, nor eat,  
My presence gave a relish to his meat:  
No Favourite e'er was dearer to his Prince;  
No Prince such Favours ever did dispense.  
●●janus ruled not thus his Master's heart;  
●is wary Lord allowed him but a part:  
●or Clitus self could greater Honours have,  
●ho the World's conqueror was almost his Slave.  
●is new advancement pleased my thoughts, 'tis true,  
For there are secret charms in all things new.)  
The Courtier's envy, and the Crowds admire,  
To see the King my company desire.  
But, oh! on Kings 'tis folly to depend,  
Whose Power, much more their Favours, quickly end.  
The King to frowns does all his smiles convert,  
And as he loved, so hates, without desert.  
His favour sowrs to rage, and I am sent  
Far from my Native Soil to Banishment.  
My fall to History adds one story more,  
A story I for ever must deplore.  
Sejanus had not a severer fate,  
Nor Clitus happiness a shorter date.  
O God how great is their security,  
Whose hopes and wishes all rely on thee!   Aug. in Psal. 36. Forsake all other Loves; he is fairer who created Heaven and Earth.   

 depiction of an angel with halo and wings flying up to get an apple from a tree, with a female figure kneeling in their shade I sat down under his shadow (whom I loved) with great delight. Cant. 2. 3.  

XIV.  I sat down under his shadow (whom I loved) with great delight. Cant. 2. 3. 

IN a long journey to an unknown Clime,  
Much ground I traveled, & consumed much time;  
Till weary grown, computing in my mind,  
● thought the shortest of my way behind.  
But when I better had surveyed the race,  
● found there still remained the longer space.  
Then my faint limbs grew feeble with despair,  
Discouraged at a journey so severe:  
With hands and eyes erect, I vent my grief  
To Heaven, in hope from Heaven to find relief.   

Oh! who will shade me from this scorching heat!  
●ee on my head how the fierce Sunbeams beat!  
●hile by their servor parched, the burning Sand  
scalds my galled feet, and forces me to stand.  
Then, than I praise the Groves, and shady Bowers,  
Blest with cool Springs, and sweet refreshing Flowers.  
Then wish th'expanded Poplar would o'erspread,  
Or leafy Apple shade my weary head.   

The God whose aid I oft had sought before,  
As often found, now adds this favour more.  
Wither your haste designs, says he, I know;  
Know what you want, and how you want it too.  
I know you seek Jerusalem above,  
Thither your life and your endeavours move:  
But with the tedious Pilgrimage dismayed,  
Implore refreshment from the Apple's shade.  
See, see, I come to bring your pains relief!  
Beneath my shadow ease your weary grief.  
Behold my arms stretched on the fatal Tree,  
With these extended boughs I'll cover thee.  
Behold my bleeding feet, my gaping side,  
In these free Coverts thou thyself mayst hid.  
This shade will grant thee thy desired repose,  
This Tree alone for that kind purpose grows.   

Thus spoke the God, whose favour thus expressed,  
With strength inspired my limbs, with hope my breast.  
I raised my eyes, and there my Love I spied;  
But, oh! my Love, my Love was crucified!  
What dreadful Scene is this (alas!) I cried!  
Must I beneath this dismal shade abide!  
What comfort can it yield to wretched me,  
While Thou art hung on this accursed Tree!  
Cursed Tree! and more cursed hand by which 'twas set!  
The bloody stains are reeking on it yet!  
Yet this high Tree projects its spreading boughs,  
And with its cooling shade invites repose:  
Yet what it offers still itself denies,  
And more to tears than slecp inclines my eyes.   

Blessed Tree! and happy hand that fixed thee here!  
That hand deserves the honour of a Star!  
Now, now, my Love, I thy resemblance know,  
My cool, kind, shady residence below.  
As the large Apple spreads its loaden boughs,  
From whose rare Fruit a pleasing Liquor flows:  
And, more than all its fellows of the Wood,  
Allows the weary rest, the hungry food:  
Thus thou art, Lord, my Covert in the heat;  
My Drink when thirsty, and when hungry, Meat.  
How oft, my Love, how oft with earnest prayer,  
Have I invoked thy shade, to rest me there?  
There pensive I'll bewail my wretched state,  
Like a sad Turtle widowed of her Mate;  
I'll bathe thy pale dead lips in a warm flood,  
And from thy locks I'll wash the clotted blood;  
Thy hanging head my hands shall gently raise,  
And to my cheek I'll lay thy gory face;  
Thy wounded side with watery eyes I'll view,  
And as thy blood, my tears shall ever flow:  
Flow till my sight, by their kind flood relieved,  
With the sad object be no longer grieved.   

Yet this one wound in me will many make,  
Till prostrate at thy feet my place I take:  
Then I'll embrace again the fatal Tree,  
And write this sad Inscription under thee:  
Two Lovers see, who their own death conspire;  
●●e drowns in Tears, while He consumes in Fire.   Honorius in cap. 2. Cant. apud Delr. ● shadow is made of a body and light, and is the traveller's covert from the heat, his protection from the storm. The Tree of Life, to wit, the Apple, is the holy Cross; its Fruit is Christ, its shadow the refreshment and defence of mankind.   

 depiction of a female figure with a lute and an angel with halo and wings holding a book, sitting together by a river How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange Land. Psal. 137. 4.  

XV.  How shall we sing the Lord's Song in a strange Land? Psal. 137. 4. 

OH! why, my Friends, am I desired to sing?  
How can I raise a note, or touch a string?  
●lusick requires a Soul to mirth inclined,  
●nd sympathizes with the troubled mind.   

But you reply, Such seasons most require  
●he kind diversion of the warbling Lyre;  
When grief would strike you dumb, 'tis time to s●ng,  
●hen strain the voice, & strike the trembling string;  
●or than the mind overwhelmed in sorrow lies,  
●oo much intent on its own miseries.   

You urge, this remedy will grief assuage,  
●nd with examples prove what you. allege.  
You say, This tunes the weary Sailors note,  
While o'er long Seas their nimble Vessels float:  
You say, This makes the artful Shepherd play,  
Whose tuneful Pipes the tedious hours betray.  
And that the Trav'ller's journey easiest proves,  
When to the Music of his voice he moves.  
I'll not perversely blame this art in them,  
Nor the offensive policy condemn;  
But know my tongue, long practised in complaint,  
Is skilled in grief, in lamentations acquaint.  
Scarce my lost skill could I to practice bring,  
And Music seemed a strange unusual thing;  
And, as one blinded long scarce brooks the light,  
So pleasing Airs my uncouth tongue affright.  
When I my slighted Numbers would retrieve,  
And make the speaking Chords appear to live;  
When I would raise the murmuring Viols voice,  
Or make the Lute in brisker sounds rejoice;  
When on my Pipes attempt a shriller note,  
Or join my Harp in consort with my Throat:  
My Voice (alas!) in floods of tears is drowned,  
And boisterous sighs disperse the fainting sound.  
Again to sing, again to play I tried:  
Again my voice, again my hand denied:  
Now by disuse slow and unactive made,  
My hand and tongue t' Oblivion are betrayed:  
And now with these allays I try too late  
To mollify my hard, my rigid fate.  
Grant I excelled in Music, and in Song,  
And warbled swift Division with my tongue;  
Could I with Israel's sweetest Singer vie,  
Or strike the Harp with more success than He:  
Will Music or Complaint best suit my woe,  
Who never had more cause to weep, than now?  
●ut sorrow has my tuneful Harp unstrung,  
●nd grief's become habitual to my tongue:  
●or do the place or time such mirth allow;  
●ut grant they did, my sorrows answer no.  
●hat! would you have an exiled Stanger sing  
●is Country Anthems to a Foreign King?  
forbear; my fate and this loathed place conspire  
●o silence me, and hinder your desire.  
●hall I, driven far from the Seraphic Choir,  
●ouch the sweet Nerves of my Celestial Lyre?  
Ah! Fortunes wounded Captive kindly spare,  
My voice has lost its pleasing accents here.  
Sorrow disorders and distorts my face,  
I cannot give my Songs their former grace.  
Should I begin to sing or play, 'twould be  
Some doleful Emblem of my misery.  
My thoughts are all on my lost srate intent,  
And close Companions of my Banishment.  
Then why am I desired to play or sing,  
Now grief has broke my voice, and slackened every string▪  
Oh! my loved Country, when I think on thee,  
My Lute, my Voice, my Mind, all lose their harmon●  
But if to Thee I happily return,  
Then they shall all rejoice, as much as now th● mo●●   Aug. Medit. cap. 35. ● that I could say such things as the Hymn-singing Choir of Angels! How willingly would I power forth myself in thy praises!    

 depiction of a female figure with the butt of an arrow protruding from her heart addressing two other female figures I charge you O Daughters of jerusalem, if you find my Beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of Love. Cant. 5. 8. ECSTASIES OF THE Enamoured Soul. BOOK the Third.  


I.  I charge you, O Daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my Beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of Love. Cant. 5. 8. 

Blessed Residents on the bright Thrones above,  
Who are transformed to the sublimest Love:  
To my Beloved my restless Passion bear,  
And gently whispered in his sacred ear.  
To him my sighs, my languishments relate,  
Tell him my flame dissolves me with its heat.  
Tell him, I pine beneath Love's torrid Zone,  
As withering Flowers before the scorching Sun;  
For scattering round his Darts, among the rest  
He shot himself into my lovesick breast;  
Thro all my flesh the Shaft, like Lightning stole,  
And with strange influence seized my melting So●  
Now in a flame unquenchable I burn,  
Which does my breast t'another Aetna turn.  
If a more full account he would receive,  
(For Lovers always are inquisitive)  
Tell him how pale, how languishing I look,  
And how I fainted when I would have spoke.  
If he inquires what pace my Fever moves,  
Oh! tell him, I no Fever feel, but Love's:  
Or if he asks what danger's of my death,  
Tell him— I could not tell, for want of breath.  
Tell him you bring no message sent by me,  
But a relation of my misery.  
Yet, if he questions how in death I look,  
Say how my Beauty has my face forsaken.  
Thus then delineate me amidst my woe,  
That he my sufferings and their cause may know.  
Tell him I lie seized with a deadly swoon,  
A bloodless Corpse stretched on the naked ground.  
Tell him my eyes swim round my dizzy head,  
And on my breast my feeble hand is laid;  
The Coral of my Lips grows sickly pale,  
And on my Cheeks the withering Roses fail;  
My Veins, though chafed, have lost their azure hue,  
And this decay shows Nature failing too:  
Nor any signs express remaining life,  
But the worst symptoms, sighs that vent my grief.  
And yet I cannot any reason feign,  
Why, though unhurt, so often I complain:  
I know not why, unless the Tyrant Love  
Compels me thus his mighty Power to prove.  
This, this was sure my sorrows only cause;  
I loved, yet knew not what a Lover was.  
This from my breast extorted frequent fighs,  
Add pressed the tears from my overflowing eyes.  
This was the cause, that when I strove to frame  
Remote discourse, it ended with his Name.  
Oh! then—  
Tell the loved Object of my thought and eye,  
How I his Martyr and his Victim die.  
Distilled in Love's Alimbeck, I expire,  
Parched up, like Roses, by too warm a fire;  
Or dried, like Lilies which have long in vain  
Begged the refreshment of a gentle Rain.  
Tell Him, the cause of all, my grief will prove,  
Without his help, my Death; for, oh! 'tis LOV●   Rupert. in Cant. Tell him, That I am sick of Love, thro' the great desire I have of seeing his face: I endure the weariness of life, and I can hardly bear the delay of my present Exile.   

 depiction of two female figures nursing a third female figure with fruit on her lap and in a nearby basket Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of Love Cant 2. 5.  

II.  Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Cant. 2. 5. 

HOw strangely, Love, dost thou my will control,  
Thou pleasing Tyrant of my captived Soul!  
Oh! wouldst thou have thy fiery torment last,  
Slacken its heat, for I consume too fast.  
On other hearts imply thy Arrows power,  
For mine (alas!) has now no room for more.  
O spare thy own Artill'ry, and my breath!  
For the next shaft comes winged with certain Death.  
Oh! I am lost, and from myself estranged,  
To Love, my voice; to Love, my blood is changed:  
From part to part insensibly he stole,  
Till the sly conqueror had subdued the whole.   

Alas! will no one pity my distress?  
Will neither Earth nor Heaven afford redress?  
Canst Thou, the author of my miseries;  
Canst Thou behold me with relentless eyes?  
Oh! haste, you bright Inhabitants above,  
My fellow-patients in this charming Love;  
Rifle the Orchards; and disrobe the Fields,  
Bring all the Treasure Nature's Storehouse yields;  
Bind fragrant Rosebuds to my temples first,  
Then with cool apples quench my fiery thirst.  
These may allay the Fever of my blood.  
Oh no! there's nothing, nothing does me good.  
Against Love's force what Salve can Roses make,  
Since even themselves may hid the poisonous Snake?  
And Apples sure can small assistance give,  
In one of them th' Old Serpent did deceive.  
O then! to slacken this tormenting fire,  
The Rose of Sharon only I desire:  
And for an Apple to assuage my grief,  
Give it, oh! give it from the Tree of Life!  
Then strew them gently on my Virgin-bed;  
And as the withering Rose declines its head,  
Composed to Death's long sleep my rest I'll take,  
Dream of my Love, and in his arms awake.   Gislen in Cant. cap. 2. ●t is certainly a good languishment, when the Disease is not to Death, but Life, that God may be glorified by it: when that Heat and Fever does not proceed from a consuming, but rather from an improving fire:   

 depiction of a female figure and an angel with halo and wings sitting on the ground in a garden in front of a villa, crowning each other with garlands My Beloved is mine, and I am his; he feedeth among the Lilies Cant. 2. 16.  

III.  ●y Beloved is mine, and I am his; he feedeth among the Lilies. Cant. 2. 16. 

Blessed souls, whose hearts burn with such equal fire,  
As never, but together, will expire!  
●o your content I would not Crowns prefer,  
●or all heavens blessings are dilated there:  
●nd when with equal flames two Souls engage,  
●hat happy minute is Love's Golden age.  
●uch bliss I wished, when Love at first possessed,  
●nd raised his Standard in my trembling breast.  
●ow oft I prayed, whenever in Love I burn,  
Grant me, great Power, to find a just return!  
The God returned this answer to my prayer,  
●ove first, that Love its breaches may repair.  
● it thy will, Almighty Love (I cried)  
●'inlist a Soldier, in thy Wars untried?  
'Tis true, my fellow-Maids have told me long  
The promised Joys of thy adoring throng:  
But oft my Nurse, acquainted with the cheat,  
Told me, 'twas all delusion and deceit;  
And that the Oracle too true would prove,  
Which thus declared the ill effects of Love:  

numerous as Athos Hares, or Hybla's Swarms,  
Or Olive-berries on the loaden Tree,  
Or as the Shells, or Sands, are Love's alarms,  
Abounding still with fear and misery.   
For still this fear the wretches entertain,  
Lest all their Love should meet unjust Disdain.  
Of happy Lovers no Records can boast;  
Their bliss was counterfeit, or short at most:  
The airy God's unsettled motion shows  
That Love's a Tide that always ebbs and flows.   

Go then and trust those dying flames that will,  
Since Love's a wanderer and uncertain still.  

Than his own feathers he is lighter far,  
And all his promised Faith's an empty air.   
By Oaths and Vows let no one be betrayed,  
Which vanish in the breath with which theyare made.  
His cheeks now with unusual blushes dressed,  
And his quick flight, this mighty truth confessed:  
And now his fraud, his treachery I knew,  
To all his power I bid a last adieu.   

To Thee, thou heaven-born Love, my Soul I'll join,  
Be Thou my Darling, and let me be Thine.  
While day and night successively return,  
Our mutual fires shall never cease to burn.  
O the sweet balm distilling from each kiss!  
How vast's the pleasure, how divine the bliss!  
What new delights thy Love does still disclose,  
She only who enjoys the blessing knows.  
But, oh! to love, or be beloved of Thee,  
Is the great mystery of Felicity:  
And, more t'inhance and recommend the joy,  
'Tis such as time does heighten, not destroy.  
My Love, my Life in Thee all Hybla's Sweets,  
In Thee all Ophir's richest Treasures meet:  
With what repeated Ecstasies possessed,  
We vent our Passions in each others breast!  
O how unspeakable's the bliss to me,  
To lose myself in thoughts of its Eternity!  
This Love is subject to no anxious cares,  
Too blest for troubles, too secure for fears.  
In vast Elysium's of delight it feeds,  
Where whitest Lilies deck th'enameled Meads:  
Among which Emblems of our pure desires,  
We in chaste dalliance quench our mutual fires.   Bernard. in Cant. Serm. 71. Thou who hearest, or readest this, take care to have the Lilies in thee, if thou wouldst have this dweller among the Lilies visit thee.   

 depiction of a female figure holding a compass and an angel with halo and wings standing near a tall plant I am my Beloved's, and his desire is towards me. Cant. 7. 10.  

iv  ● am my Beloved's, and his desire is towards me. Cant. 7. 10. 

THro the thick shades of a cool Cypress Grove,  
Weeping I wandered to bewail my Love;  
● briny torrent rolled along my breast,  
●nd weighty grief my sinking Sp'irits oppressed.  
●y'd to my back an Ivory Lute I bore,  
●y sorrows sure Physician heretofore.  
●ir'd with my grief, on a soft Turf I rest,  
●nd thus unload my overburdened breast:   

Must I my days consume in lonesom grief,  
●nd no kind Lover timely bring relief?  
● let that curse attend my enemies,  
●e they still Strangers to Love's envied Bliss!  

For not to love, is surely not to live,  
Since Life's chief blessings we in Love receive:  
The whole design of living is to love,  
And who loves most, does best his life improve.   
Bodies of Earth down to their centre move,  
And Seeds of Fire ascend to theirs above.  
So our soft hearts to Love are still inclined,  
Urged by a violent impulse of mind.  
Even mine too, kindled by an innate flame,  
Is eager to deserve a Lover's name.  
But where shall I my blooming love impart;  
Where yield the Virgin-fortress of my heart?  
Shall I descend to a low mortal love,  
I, the Companion of ●lest Spirits above?  
Or shall I with inferior Creatures sport,  
Whom their Creator not disdains to court?  
No, no, my Soul, fix thou thy thoughts on high;  
Thou hast no equal match beneath the Sky.  
My Hymen shall no other Torches bear,  
Than what have each been lighted at a Star.  
Angels shall my Epithalamium sing,  
Conducting me in triumph to their King.  
Him, Him alone of all I can approve  
The noblest object of the purest Love.  
His dear-loved Image still salutes my eye,  
Nor can his absence this delight deny.  
No envious distance can prevail to part  
His dear resembling Impress from my heart.  
With him, methinks, in sweet discourse I walk,  
Pleased with the sound of his imagined talk.  
So, by strange sympathy, the faithful Steel  
Does the loved Pole's magnetic influence feel,  
By whose kind conduct the safe Pilot steers  
A steady course, till the wished Port appears.  
So the fond Hyacinth pursues the Sun,  
Pleased at his rise, grieved when his race is done:  
So is He waited on by the pale Moon,  
Who from his beams reflection guilds her own.  
Like these, Almighty Love, to Thee I fly;  
●f thou withdraw'st thy face, I pine, I die.  
O then, since all my joys on that depend,  
Let the blessed Vision never have an end!    

The Same, by another hand.  

A Cypress Grove (whose melancholy shade  
To suit the temper of the sad was made)  
I chose for my retreat, there laid me down,  
Hoping my sorrows in my tears to drown.  
They vainly flowed; and now overwhelmed with grief,  
From Music's charming sounds I sought relief.  
This Song composed, I strike my Lyre, and sing,  
Soft Notes rebounding from each silver string.  
Ah! shall my wasted days no passion crown;  
And must my empty years roll useless on!  
So hard a fate I'd wish my greatest foes;  
He lives not, who the flames of Love ne'er knows▪  
Stupid his Soul lies hid in darkest night,  
Who is not cheered with Love's transpiercing light:  
He bears no Image of the God above,  
Whose icy breast's insensible of Love.  
The ponderous Earth, by'ts proper weight depressed,  
Beneath all other Elements doth rest;  
While pointed Flames do thro' the solid mass  
Force their bright way, and unresisted pass.  
So thro' the solid lump of Man the Soul  
Sends forth those fires that do the frame control;  
And his desires do hurry him away,  
Where'er those flames do guide th'obedient Clay.  
And now I feel an unknown warmth all o'er;  
I burn, I melt, but know not from what Power:  
These sharp quick fires are urged thro' every vein,  
Mingling at once such Pleasure and such Pain.  
Ah! whither will this furious passion drive?  
(In vain against Love's raging force we strive.)  
Shall my aspiring Soul, like vulgar hearts,  
Complain of shameful wounds from Cupid's Darts?  
If I should be embraced by mortal arms,  
They'd fade my Beauties, sully all my Charms:  
My rising mind soars vast degrees above  
Terrestrial Charms, they're much beneath my Love:  
These gross desires my purer Soul disdains;  
She'll be His Spouse who every being frames.  
Agnes, of Rome the wonder and the pride,  
Her Charms to an Ausonian Youth denied,  
And in these terms refused to be his Bride:  

If I have kindled fires within your breast,  
I cannot grant, but pity your request:  
Nor can you justly my refusal blame,  
Since I burn with a much diviner flame;  
For my Creator hath engaged my heart,  
My Soul from such a Spouse can ne'er departed:  
His lovely Image still is in my sight,  
And at this distance He's my sole delight:  
In absence we converse; I speak in Prayers,  
And he in absence charms my listening ears.   
So by the Lodestones unseen wondrous force  
The faithful Needle steers the Seaman's course:  
Towards its loved North it constantly doth rise,  
Helping their way, to their extreme surprise.  
So does the Flower of Phoebus twice a day  
Turn towards her Sun, and her glad leaves display.  
Fair Cynthia thus regards her Brother's beams,  
Renews her Beauty from his borrowed flames.  
I am thy Clytie (Spouse) thou art my Sun,  
I Cynthia, always towards thy light must run.  
My, Spouse, my Helice, with longing I  
(Where'er thou drawest) towards thee in raptures fly.  
What wonder if in mutual Love We burn,  
Since Steel can towards the senseless Loadstone turn?   Bernard. Medit. cap. 9 My heart passes thro' many things, seeking about where it may take its rest; but finds nothing that pleases it, till it returns to God.   

 depiction of a female figure melting under the breath of an angel with halo and wings; they stand on a shore with a lighthouse in the background My Soul melted as my Beloved Spoke, Cant. 5. 6.  

V  My Soul melted as my Beloved spoke, Cant. 5. 6. 

WHat Hills, what Rocks, what Deserts have I trod,  
Only for one short view of Thee, my God  
How for one word from those dear lips of Thine,  
My feet a tiresome Pilgrimage enjoined!  
O'er craggy Rocks of such stupendious height,  
●h'ascent does even the climbing Deer affright:  
●t cannot my unwearied haste delay,  
●● mighty Love conducts me all the way.  
●ho from these heights I all things else descry,  
●he dear-loved Object shuns my longing eye.  
Distracted then, thro' every Den I rave,  
Search each Recess, and visit every Cave.  
In vain (alas!) those devious paths I wear,  
I only find thou art a stranger there.  
Sometimes into the open Plain I rove,  
But there am lost in Error as in Love.  
Towards Heaven I look, and thro' the Fields co●plain,  
But both unkindly answer not again.  
Wand'ring from thence, I find a shady Vale,  
There on my Love (but, oh! in vain) I call.  
Not far from hence a close thick Covert grows,  
Where panting Beasts fly for a cool repose:  
Here, here, said I, my Love is laid to rest;  
But, oh! no sign of Thee was here impressed.  
Then, stung with passion, and o'erwhelmed ● grief,  
I court the shore, and thence expect relief.  
Here a high Tower exalts its lofty head,  
By whose kind light the wand'ring Seaman's led▪  
Here I ascend, and view the Ocean round,  
While my complaints o'er all the shore resound▪  
●ell me, you Shores, you Seas, and tell me true,  
● not my Love concealed in some of You?  
●● to each other you would constant be,  
discover, and be just to Love and me.  
scarce had the shore received the mournful noise,  
●hen it returned a loud redoubled voice:  
●ut that some sporting Echo I believe,  
●●at fools the wretched, and dallies with their grief.  
●gain the shore I rend; the shore does hear,  
●nd the kind voice again salutes my ear:  
● voice, a well-known voice! 'twas Thine, my Life,  
●hose pleasing accents soon dispelled my grief.  
●ow I revived; One such immortal breath  
●d power enough to rescue me from death.  
●y voice, like Lightning, unperceived, unfelt,  
● a strange inffence does th'affections melt.  
● thy Disciples hearts were fired within,  
●en on the way thou didst discourse begin;  
●e secret charms of Thy prevailing voice  
●us'd unaccountable, yet mighty Joys.  
●as the same heavenly sound that answered me,  
●d all dissolved me into Ecstasy.  
That kindled such a fire within my Soul,  
Whose ardent heat an Ocean cannot cool.  
See how my melting passions drop and run,  
Like Virgin-wax before the scorching Sun!  
O might I be so blest to mix with Thee,  
Our Life the same, the same our Love should ●e▪   Aug. Solil. cap. 34. What is this that I feel? what fire is it that warms my heart? what light is it that enlightens it? O thou fire which always burnest, and art never extinguished! do thou inflame me.   

 depiction of a female figure sitting on top of a globe, reaching up toward an angel with halo and wings contained in a heavenly sphere Whom have I in Heaven but thee? and there is none upon Earth that I desire in Comparison of thee. Psal. 73. 24.  

VI  ●hom have I in Heaven but Thee? and there is none upon Earth that I desire in comparison of Thee. Psal. 73. 24. 

WHat shall I seek, great God, in Heaven above,  
The Earth, or Sea, whereon to fix my love?  
●o I should ransack Heaven, the Earth, and Sea,  
●l they can boast, is nothing without Thee.   

I know what mighty Joys in Heaven abound,  
●hat Treasures in the Earth and Sea are found;  
●et without Thee, my Love, t'enrich their store,  
●l, all their glories are but mean and poor.  
● Heaven! O Earth! O vast capacious Main!  
●ree famous Realms where Wealth and Plenty reign!  
●o in one heap your triple pleasures lay,  
●ey were no pleasures, were my Love away.  
My thoughts, I own, have often ranged the Deep,  
Searched Earth and Heaven, and in no bounds wou'● keep;  
But when they rambled the Creation round,  
No equal Object in the Whole they found  
Sometimes I thought to rip the pregnant Earth,  
And give its rich and long-born burden birth;  
Gold, Silver, Brass, seeds of the shining vein,  
And each bright product of the fertile Mine:  
For these we dig and tear our Mother's Womb,  
Till for our boundless Treasures we want room:  
To what advantage? Tho, o'ercharged with Gold▪  
Your bursting Coffers can't their burden hold;  
Yet this can ne'er your troubled mind appease,  
Nor buy your sorrows even a minute's ease.   

Here disappointed, to the Deep I go,  
Whose low recesses the scorched Indians know;  
Pleased with its Gemmy store myself to load,  
I dive, and visit its concealed abode:  
Then the scarce Burret seek, whose bloods rich dy●  
Is the great Ornament of Majesty.  
Then scattered Pearls I gather on the shore  
Where rich Hydaspes casts his shining store.   

Alas! these Jewels brought from several Coasts,  
All that each River, or the Ocean boasts;  
The Saphyr, Jasper, and the Chrysolite,  
Can't quench my thirst, or stay my appetite.  
Then, since the Earth and Sea content deny,  
heavens lofty Fabric I resolve to try.  
With wonder I the vast Machine survey,  
With glorious Stars all studded, bright and gay:  
Amazed their still unalter'd course I view,  
And how their daily motion they renew.  
But among all the Pensile-fires above,  
None warmed my breast, none raised my Soul to love:  
But I beheld at distance from below;  
Then farewell Earth, up to their Orbs I go.  
Now lessening Cities leave my distant sight,  
And now the Earth's whole Globe is vanished quite;  
Above the Sun and Planets I am born,  
And their inferior Influences scorn.  
Now the bright pavement of the Stars I tread,  
Once the high covering of my humble head.  
Now o'er the lofty flaming Wall I fly,  
And heavens bright Court lies open to my eye.  
Now curious Crowds of the winged Choir above  
Towards the new guest with dazzling splendour mov●  
Hymns well composed to Airs Divine they sing,  
New tune their Harps, and screw up every string▪  
Then in brisk Notes triumphant Anthems play,  
While Heaven resounds, as if 'twere Holiday.   

O glorious Mansions filled with shining fires!  
O Courts fit only for your Starry Choirs!  
My ravished Soul's in strange amazement lost;  
Sure no delight is wanting on this Coast.  
Ha!— Said I no delight was wanting here?  
Yes, you want All; alas! you want my Dear.  
Farewell you Stars, and you bright Forms adieu;  
My business here was with my Love, not you.  
There's nothing good below without my Love,  
Nor any thing worth a faint Wish above.   

One World subdued, the conqueror did deplore  
That niggard Fate had not allowed him more.  
My vaster thoughts a thousand Worlds despise,  
Nor lose one wish on such a worthless prize.  
Not all the Universe from Pole to Pole,  
Heaven, Earth, and Sea, can fill my boundless Soul.  
What neither Earth's wide limits can contain,  
Nor the large Empire of the spreading Main;  
Nor Heaven, whose vaster Globe does both enclose;  
●hat's the sole Object my ambition knows.  
●ill now, alas! my Soul at shadows caught,  
●nd always was deceived in what it sought.  
●hou, Lord, alone art Heaven, Earth, Sea, to me:  
●hou, Lord, art All, all nothing without Thee.   Aug. Solil. cap. 20. whatever is contained within the compass of Heaven, is beneath the Soul of Man, which was made to enjoy the chiefest Good above, in whose possession alone it can be happy.   

 depiction of a female figure sitting in a rough shelter over-looking a valley; beside her a pilgrim's hat, staff, and satchel Woe is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech, and to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar. Psal. 120. 4.  

VII.  ●o is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech, and to have my habitation among the tents of Kedar. Psal. 120. 4. 

Till does the Sun with usual motion steer  
The revolutions of the circling Year?  
Gibeons wondrous Solstice is renewed,  
●●en at the mighty Joshua 's beck he stood?  
● sure his motion's become retrograde,  
● ●nce he turned the Hebrew Dial's shade.  
●hy else should I, who now am passed the age  
●ow'd to tread this World's unhappy Stage;  
●y should I be denied an Exit, now  
●e played my part, and have no more to do?  
●here on Earth a Blessing to repair  
● injurious force of my detain●r there?  
●● would I welcome any favouring death,  
●ease me of the burden of my breath!  
By one sure stroke, kind Fate, my soul reprieve;  
For 'tis continual dying here to live.  
Here our chief bliss is an uncertain Joy,  
Which swift vicissitudes of ill destroy.  
Just as the Sun, who rising bright and gay,  
In Clouds and Showers concludes the weeping day.  
So boisterous gusts oft tender Flowers invade,  
By tempting winds too soon abroad betrayed.   

Here, envious of each others settlement,  
All things contend each other to supplant.  
The second minute drives the first away,  
And Night 's impatient to succeed the Day:  
The eager Summer thinks the Spring too long,  
And Autumn frets that Summer is not gone:  
But Autumn 's self to Winter must give way,  
Lest its cold Frosts o'ertake and punish his delay.   

Behold you Sea, how smooth, without a frown!  
See, while I speak, how curled, how rough 'tis grown!  
Look, how serene's the sky, how calm the air!  
Now, hark, it thunders round the Hemisphere!  
This great Inconstancy of human state  
Corrupts each minute of our happy fate.  
But, oh! the worst of ills is still behind,  
The ravenous converse with our beastly kind.  
●●re Nature first in anger did intent  
A plague of Monsters o'er the world to send;  
Then brought forth her most brutish Offspring Men,  
And turned each house into a savage den.  
●● this rapacious species we may find  
All that's destructive in the preying kind;  
Lion, Wolf, Tiger, Bear and Crocodile,  
Strong to devour, and cunning to beguile:  
These Beasts are led to prey by appetite,  
And that once pleased, in no more blood delight;  
But Man, like Hell, has an insatiate thirst,  
And still is keenest, when so full to burst.  
This raises Fraud, makes Treach'ry fine and gay,  
While banished Justice flies disrobed away:  
This fills the world with loud alarms of War,  
And turns the peaceful Ploughshare to a hostile Spear.  
Who would be slave to such a Tyrant-life,  
That still engages him in noise and strife?  
Long since, alas! I did my years complete,  
And served for freedom, still denied by Fate.  
When I compute to what a price amount  
My misspent days, I'm bankrupt in th'account.  
Oh! what strange frenzy does those men possess,  
Who rashly deem long life a happiness?  
They sure are strangers to the Joys above,  
Who more than Home a wretched Exile love.  
But heavens remote, and its far-distant bliss  
Appears minute to our mistaken eyes.  
Ah! why, my Country, art thou placed so far,  
That I am still a tedious wanderer?   

Happier the Exiles of old Heathen Rome,  
Whom only Tiber did divide from home;  
While to remoter banishment designed,  
A vast Abyss 'twixt Heaven and me I find.  
The Hebrew slaves in Harvest were set free;  
My Harvest's come, why not my Liberty?  
The swift forerunner of the welcome Spring  
Finds after Winter's cold a time to sing:  
She who did long in dark recesses lie,  
Now flies abroad and re-salutes the Sky.  
But I still live excluded from above,  
Denied the Object of my Bliss and Love.  
Haste, haste, my God, and take me up to Thee;  
There let me live, where I was made to be.   Aug. Serm. 43. There are two tormentors of the Soul, which do not torture it together, but by turns. Their names are Fear and Grief: When it is well with you, you fear; when ill, you grieve.   

 depiction of a praying figure standing within the ribcage of a large, seated skeleton O wretched man that I am? who shall deliver me from the body of this death? Rom. 7. 24.  

VIII.  O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? Rom. 7. 24. 

WHere are the lost delights for which I grieve,  
But which my sorrows never shall retrieve?  
Such vast delights— but mention not the loss,  
Whose sad remembrance is thy greatest cross:  
And fate is kindest when it robs us so,  
To take away our sense of suffering too.  
On our first Parent's folly we exclaim,  
As if They only were, as first, to blame:  
On Eve and Adam we discharge our rage,  
And thus expose our naked Parentage.  
But I (alas!) condemn not them alone,  
Nor while I mind their fall, forget my own.  
With Eve I was consenting to the cheat  
Imposed on Adam, and helped him to eat.  
Hence I my nakedness and shame derived,  
And skins of Beasts to cover both received:  
And from my forfeit Eden justly driven,  
The curse of Earth, and the contempt of Heaven.  
Nor do I now the general loss bemoan;  
My grief's deficient to bewail my own.  
The tragic story from my Birth I'll take,  
For early grief did my first silence break.  
'Twas Julyes' month, the gratefull'st of the year,  
(Tho all my life December did appear)  
The Twentyseventh: Oh! had it been my last,  
I had not mourned, nor that made too much haste.  
That was the fatal day that gave me breath,  
Which proved almost my teeming Parent's death;  
And still, as then, to her (alas!) I've been  
A true Benoni, not a Benjamin.  
No sooner was I for the Cradle dressed,  
But a strange horror all around possessed;  
Who with one dire prophetic voice presage  
Th' attending miseries of my growing age.  
Why didst thou give me life, more fatal day  
Than that which took th' Egyptian Males away?  
No more be numbered in the Calendar,  
But in thy place let a large blot appear:  
Or if thou must thy annual station keep,  
Let each hour thunder, and each minute weep:  
Let, as on Cain, some mark be fixed on Thee,  
That giving life, didst worse than murder me.  
Now, Friends, I find your fatal Aug'ry true;  
My woes each other, like my hours pursue.  
Hence the large sources of my tears arise,  
And no dry minute wipes my flowing eyes.  
No sooner had I left my childish plays,  
The harmless pastimes of my happy days:  
Now past a child, yet still in Judgement so,  
I studied first what I was not to know.  
And my first grief was to lament my fate,  
And yet 'twas seldom I had time for that.  
My stubborn Soul a long resistance made,  
Impatient thus by Nature to be swayed:  
Oft strove to Heaven to raise its lofty flight,  
As oft suppressed by its gross body's weight:  
But what it could not reach, its eyes pursue;  
Then it cried, Ah God than shed a briny dew:  
Twice more it would repeat the pleasing noise,  
But struggling sighs restrained th'imprisoned voice.  
Such sure were felt in Babel's Monarch's breast,  
When of his Throne and Nature dispossessed.  
But conquered patience yields at last to grief,  
And thus I vent my woe, and beg relief.   

Blessed Author of my life, hear my complaint,  
And free this captive from its loathed restraint:  
Speak but the word, thy Servant shall be free;  
Thou mad'st me thus, o thus unbody me!  
Or if thou wilt not this relief afford,  
Grant some kind Poison, or some friendly Sword.  
Dying I'll hug the Author of my Death,  
And beg his pardon with my-latest breath.  
But to save man the guilt, send some Disease,  
Death in the most affrighting shape will please:  
Were I to act Perillus' scorching Scene,  
I should rejoice to hear myself complain.  
Oh Heaven! my patience is o'ercome by grief!  
Is there above no succour, no relief?  
The mercy Death is all I thee implore:  
Lord, grant it soon, lest I blaspheme thy power.  
When for dispatch tormented wretches pray,  
No cruelty's so barbarous as delay.  
Why am I to this noisome carcase tied,  
Whose stench is death in all its ghastly pride?  
Then speak the word, and I shall soon be free;  
Thou form'dst me thus, o thus unbody me!   Amb. in Psal. 118. How does that Soul live, that is enclosed in a covering of death?   

 depiction of a winged female figure chained to a millstone attempting to fly toward an angel with wings and halo contained in a cloud; in the background a child flies a kite or hawk tied to a perch I am in a strait between two, having a desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ. Philip. 1. 23.  

IX.  ● am in a strait between two, having a desire to be dissolved and to be with Christ. Philip. 1. 23. 

HOw shall I do to fix my doubtful love?  
Shall I remain below, or soar above?  
●ere Earth detains me, and retards my flight,  
●here Heaven invites me to sublime delight:  
heaven calls aloud, and bids me haste away,  
●hile Earth allures, and gently whispers, stay.  
●ut hence thou sly Inchantress of my heart,  
●l break thy fetters, and despise thy art.  
●aste, haste, kind Fate, unlock my Prison door;  
●ere I released, how I aloft would soar!  
●ee, Lord, my struggling arms towards Thee are sent,  
●nd strive to grasp thee in their wide extent.  
●●! had I power to mount above the Pole,  
●● kiss the Centre of my longing Soul!  
But thou above deridest my weak designs,  
And still opposest what thy word enjoins.  
Vainly I beg what thou dost still deny,  
And stretch my hands toreach what's placed too high▪  
Oft to myself false Joys of Thee I feign,  
And think thou kindly comest to break my Chain▪  
Now, now, I cry, my Soul shall soar above!  
But this (alas!) was all dissembled love.  
Sure this belief some pity might obtain;  
Thou shouldst at least for this have broke my Chain▪  
But if I'm still confined, my wings I'll try;  
And if I fail, in high attempts I die.   

But see! He comes, and as he glides along,  
He beckons me, and seems to say come on.  
I'll rise, and fly into his loved embrace,  
And snatch a kiss, a thousand, from his face.  
Now, now he's near, his sacred Robe I touch,  
And I shall grasp him at the next approach:  
But he (alas!) has mocked my vain design,  
And fled these arms, these slighted arms of mine:  
For though the distance ne'er so little be,  
It seems th' Extremes of the vast Globe to me.  
Thus does my Love my longing tantalise,  
And bids me follow, while too fast he flies.  
Thus sportive Love delights in little cheats,  
Which oft are punished with severe deceits.   

The World has an Original in me  
To paint deluded Lovers misery:  
And he who has his easy Fair betrayed,  
Finds all his falsehood with large Interest paid.  
I ne'er suspected thou couldst faithless be,  
But sad experience has instructed me.   

As a chained Mastiff, begging to be lose,  
With restless howl fills the deafened house;  
But if denied, his teeth the Chain engage,  
And vent on that their inoffensive rage:  
So I complain, petition to be freed,  
And humbly prostrate beg the help I need.  
But when you frown, and my request deny,  
Deaf as the Rocks to my repeated cry;  
Then I against my hated Clog exclaim,  
And on my Chain lay all the guilty blame:  
Thus grief pretends, by giving passion vent,  
To ease the pain of my Imprisonment.  
But I unjustly blame my Chain alone,  
And spare the cruel hand that tied it on.  
Well might the barbarous load of Chains I bear  
Become a Renegado slave to wear;  
But why this harsh ill usage, Love, to me,  
Whose whole endeavour is to come to Thee?  
But when my Soul attempts a lofty flight,  
'tis still suppressed by a gross body's weight.  
So far young Birds, by Nature winged in vain,  
Whom sportful Boys with scanty twines restrain;  
When eager to retrieve their native air,  
They rise a little height, and flutter there:  
But having to their utmost limits flown,  
The more they strive to mount, they fall the fast dow●  
Each, though it sleeps in its young Tyrant's breast,  
And is with Banquets from his lips carest;  
Yet prizes more the freedom of the Wood,  
Than all the Dainties of its dear-bought food:  
Can tears dissolve my Chains, O with what ease▪  
●'d weep a Deluge for a quick release?  
But tears are vain, reach, Lord, thy hands to me,  
And in return I'll stretch my Chains to thee.  
Thou canst untie these stubborn bands alone,  
Oh! do thou take them off, because thou putst them on!   Chrysost. hom. 55. ad pop. Antioch. How long shall we be fastened here? we stick to the Earth, as if we should always live there, we wallow in the mire. God gave us bodies of earth, that we should carry them to Heaven, not that we should by them debase our Souls to the Earth.   

 depiction of a female figure locked in a large birdcage, which an angel with halo and wings is unlocking Bring my Soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name. Psal. 142. 9  

X.  Bring my Soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name. Psal. 142. 9 

I Who did once thro' th'airs wide Regions rove,  
Free Denizon of the vast Realm above;  
Now to a narrow Dungeon am confined,  
A hole that darkens and restrains my mind.  
When first my Soul put on its fleshly load,  
It was imprisoned in the dark abode;  
My feet were fetters, my hands manacles,  
My sinews chains, and all confinement else;  
My bones the bars of my loathed Prison-grate;  
My tongue the turnkey, and my mouth the gate.   

Why from my native station am I sent  
A Captive to this narrow tenement?  
How oft would I attempt a shameful flight,  
And in a Halter bid the world good night?  
How oft have I their happy Fate admired,  
Who by the Sword or Poison have expired?  
But to gain Heaven, we must heavens leisure stay,  
Such rash attempters have mistake the way.  
As only Heaven our Being's did bestow,  
'Tis heavens sole right to countermand them too:  
And when to end the lives That gave we strive,  
We impiously encroach on God's Prerogative;  
And on our Souls by this unlawful act,  
In breaking prison we a new guilt contract.  
So that the course we take to set us free,  
Betrays us to a greater slavery.  
Had I some winding labyrinth for my Jail,  
I then might hope for freedom to prevail:  
But while embodied in this Flesh I lie,  
Heaven must be Deliverer, not I  
Let the mistaken wretch his prison accuse,  
Which for his flight did no kind means refuse.  
Would some kind chink one heavenly Ray admit  
To bless my eyes, how would I honour it!  
But while confined to this dark Cell I lie,  
My captive Soul can't reach its native Sky.  
Here, even my will's a slave to passions made,  
Passions which have its liberty betrayed.  
When piously it is inclined to good,  
'Tis by repugnant passions still withstood.  
Thus Israel in th'aegyptian bondage fared,  
While from the service of their God debarred;  
When to his worship they desired to go,  
The Tyrant Phar'oh always answered, No.  
Oh my dear God visit this humble Cell,  
And see in what a narrow prison I dwell.  
But if the Locks and Bars and Grates affright,  
Command them all to open at thy sight.  
Command them, Lord, to set thy Servant free;  
Nor will this deed without example be:  
Angels have left their Thrones and Bliss above,  
To ransom those whom thou wert pleased to love:  
Thus Peter did his opening Prison view,  
Yet scarce believed the Miracle was true.  
But no such favour is indulged to me,  
I want (alas!) such happy liberty:  
Come, come, my God, unlock my Prison-gate,  
And let my Soul towered Heaven expatiate:  
Or lead thy Slave in triumph thro' the Sky,  
I'll bless the Chains that bind me close to Thee.  
Towards Thee my hands thro' the kind Grate I throw;  
O that my other parts could follow too!  
The captive Bird about its Cage will fly,  
And the least way for its escape espy,  
And with its bill gnaws thro' the twiggy grate  
A secret passage to its first free state.  
Canst thou, my God, be deaf to all my cries,  
And more obdurate than my Prison is?  
Not for myself, but Thee do I complain,  
Thy sacred prasse, which I would sing, in vain;  
For here (alas!) I cannot once rejoice,  
Nor touch my strings, nor raise my tuneful voice.  
For Birds confined, to rage convert their Notes,  
Or sullen grown, lock up their silent throats.  
Come then, my God, unlock my Prison-gate,  
And let my Soul towards Heaven expatiate!  
There my loud voice in joyful Notes I'll raise,  
And sing Eternal Anthems in thy praise.  
But if thou wilt not this request allow,  
At thy own Glory thou must envious grow.   Greg. in cap. 7. Job. Man is imprisoned, because by proficiency in virtue he often strives to rise on high, but is kept down by the corruption of his flesh.   

 depiction of a female figure riding a hart or stag toward a fountain in the shape of an angel with halo and wings Like as the Hart desireth the water-brooks, so longeth my Soul after thee O God. Psal. 42. 1  

XI.  Like as the Hart desireth the water-brooks, so longeth my Soul after thee, O God. Psal. 42. 1. 

LOrd, wouldst thou know my breasts consuming fire,  
And how I pine and languish with desire?  
The withering violets no resemblance yield,  
Nor can I take one from the Sunburnt Field;  
Nor by that heat can I express my pain,  
That melts us in the fiery Dog-stars reign.  
The Lybian Sands, where the Sun's warm salute  
With barren drought destroys all hope of fruit;  
Even they, compared with me, are moist and cool,  
Such raging flames have seized my hectic Soul.  
But wouldst thou have an Emblem of my pains,  
Regard then how the wounded Hart complains,  
While in his side th'envenomed Arrow lies,  
His Blood boils over, and his Marrow fries:  
Thus thro' the Woods he takes a nimble flight,  
Till some cool stream salutes his distant sight:  
Then with redoubled speed he pants and brays,  
Till there his thirst and fever he allays.  
Thus, thus transfixed with an Infernal Dart,  
I feel the poison raging in my heart.  
Th'envenomed blood with vi'olent fury burns,  
And to a thousand  tortures turns.  
The Tyrant Lust now thro' my body reigns,  
And now intemperance bursts my glutted veins.  
Now Prides rank poison swells my heaving breast▪  
And cursed Ambition robs me of my rest.  
Oh! from what stream shall I a Medicine find  
To ease these restless torments of my mind!  
Thou, thou, my God, alone canst ease my grief,  
From the pure Conduits of the Well of Life.  
My panting Soul laments and pines for them,  
As the chased Hart for the refreshing stream.   

Shunning the quick-nosed Hounds affrighting cries  
With timorous haste oft to the Toils he flies:  
And when he finds himself too close beset,  
With active speed o're-leaps th'extended Net:  
But hotly by his numerous Foes pursued,  
He seeks the secure of some sheltering Wood;  
And on his neck, lest it retard his speed,  
Casts back the useless Armour of his head:  
Which, since he has not courage to employ,  
Assists his Foes its owner to destroy.  
Sometimes he thinks the deepmouthed foe is near,  
From strong impressions of remaining fear.  
Again he stands and listens for their cries,  
Then, almost spent, thro' the close Thickets flies  
To the clear Springs: And as he pants for them,  
So pines my Soul for the Celestial stream;  
There he renews his strength, and lays his heat,  
And rowls and wantoness in the cool retreat.   

Lord, Hell's great Nimrod holds my Soul in chase,  
To shun whose Hounds I fly from place to place;  
But closely they my weary steps pursue,  
No means of succour or escape I view.  
Tired with my flight, and faint with constant sweat,  
I wish to rest, I wish to lay my heat.  
But where, O where can this refreshment be?  
'Tis no no where, Lord, 'tis no no where but with Thee.  
With Thee an ever-bubbling Fountain flows,  
The remedy of all thy Servants woes:  
Pleasing its taste, its virtue sanative;  
Nor health alone, but endless life they give.  
Then tell not me of Tagus' Golden flood,  
Whose rolling Sands raise a perpetual mud:  
There should I drink insatiate till I burst,  
Each greedy draught would re-inflame my thirst.  
No, to the pleasing Springs above I'll go,  
The Springs that in the heavenly Canaan flow.  
My panting Soul laments and pines for them,  
As the chased Hart for the refreshing stream.   Cyril. in Joan. lib. 3. cap. 10. It is an excellent water that allays the pernicious thirst of this world, and the heat of Vice; that washes off all the stains of sin; that waters and improves the Earth in which our Souls inhabit, and restores the mind of man; that thirsts with an earnest desire to its God.   

 depiction of a female figure standing in front of a curtain, behind which stands an angel with halo and wings When shall I come and appear before the presence of God? Psal. 42. 2.  

XII.  When shall I come and appear before the presence of God? Psal. 42. 2. 

WIth promised Joys my ears thou oft didst fill,  
But they are only Joys of promise still.  
Didst thou not say thou soon wouldst call me home?  
Be just, my Love, and kindly bid me come!  

Expecting Lovers count each hour a day,  
And death to 's less dreadful than delay.   
A tedious train of months and years is gone,  
Since first you bid me hope, yet gave me none.  
Why with delays dost thou abuse my love,  
And fail my vain expectancies above?  
While thus th'insulting Crowd derides my woe,  
Where's now your Love? how well he keeps his Vow?  
Haste then, and home thy longing Lover take;  
If not for mine, yet for thy promise sake.   

When shall I come before thy Throne, and see  
Thy glorious Sceptre kindly stretched to me?  
For Thee I pine, for Thee I am undone,  
As drooping Flowers that want their Parent Sun.  
O cruel tort'rer of my wounded Soul,  
Grant me thy presence, and I shall be whole!  
O when, thou Joy of all admiring eyes,  
When shall I see thee on thy Throne of bliss!   

As when  night gins its sway,  
And throws its sable mantle o'er the day;  
The withering glories of the Garden fade,  
And weeping Groves bewail their lonely shade;  
To melancholy silence men retire,  
And no sweet Note sounds from the feathered Choir:  
But hardly can the dawning morn display  
The welcome Ensigns of th'approaching day,  
But the glad Gardens deck themselves anew,  
And the cheered Groves shake off their heavy Dew:  
To early homage Man himself devotes,  
And Birds in Anthems strain their tuneful throats.  
So without Thee, I grieve, I pine, I mourn;  
So triumph, so revive at Thy return.  
But Thou, unkind, bidst me delight my eyes  
With other Beauties, other Rarities.  
Sometimes thou bidst me mark the flowery Field,  
What various scents and shows its Pastures yield;  
Then to the Stars thou dost direct my sight,  
For they from Thine derive their borrowed light.  
Then sayest, Contemplate Man, in Him thou'lt see  
The great resemblance of thy Love and Me.  
Why wouldst thou thus deceive me with a shade,  
A trifling Image, that will quickly fade?  
My fancy stoops not to a mortal aim;  
Thou, thou hast kindled, and must quench my flame.   

O glorious Face, worthy a Power Divine,  
Where Love and Awe with equal mixture shine!  
Triumphant Majesty of that bright Ray  
Where blushing Angels prostrate homage pay!  
We in thy Works thy fixed impressions trace,  
Yet still but faint reflections of thy Face.  
When this enchanted World's compared with Thee,  
It's boasted BeautiesBeauties all deformity:  
Thy Stars no such transcending glories own  
As Thine, whose light exceeds all theirs in one.  
This truth some one of them can best declare,  
Who on the Mount thy blessed spectators were.  
Who on Thy Glories were allowed to gaze,  
And saw Heaven opened in Thy wondrous Face.   

Nor can we blame thy great Apostle's Zeal,  
To whom thou didst that happy sight reveal,  
That slighting all things heretofore most dear,  
Was all for building Tabernacles there:  
Yet he beheld Thee then within a Veil,  
The kill Rays thou kindly didst conceal:  
He saw a lambent flame thy Face surround,  
Thy Temples with a dazzling Glory crowned:  
How had he wondered at the nobler Light,  
Whose bare Reflection was so heavenly bright!  
But, oh! That's inaccessible to humane sight!  
Then me, oh! me to that blessed state receive,  
Where I may see thee all, and seeing live!  
When will that happy day of Vision be,  
When I shall make a near approach to Thee,  
Be wrapped in Clouds, and lost in Mystery!   

'Tis true, the Sacred Elements impart  
Thy virt'ual presence to my faithful heart,  
But to my sense still unrevealed thou art.  
This, though a great, is an imperfect bliss,  
T'embrace a Cloud for the bright God I wish;  
My Soul a more exalted pitch would sly,  
And view Thee in the heights of Majesty.   

Oh! when shall I behold Thee all serene,  
Without an envious cloudy Veil between!  
When distant Faith shall in near Vision cease,  
And still my Love shall with my Joy increase!  
That happy day dear as these Eyes shall be,  
And more than all the dearest things, but Thee:   Aug. in Psal. 42. ●f thou sindest any thing better than to behold the face of God, haste thee thither. Woe be to that love of thine, if thou dost but imagine any thing more beautiful than He, from whom all Beauty that delights thee is derived.   

 depiction of a winged female figure taking flight at a seashore toward a flying angel with halo and wings O that I had the wings of a Dove! for than I would fly away, and be at rest. Psal. 55. 6.  

XIII.  ● that I had the wings of a Dove! for than I would fly away, and be at rest. Psal. 55. 6. 

Tho', great Creator, I receive from Thee  
All that I am, and all I hope to be;  
●et, might this humble Clay expostulate,  
● would complain of my defective state.   

To Man thoust given the boundless Regency  
Of three vast Realms, the Ocean, Earth, and Sky:  
But, oh! how shall this ample Power be tried,  
When still the means to use it are denied?   

Pardon my hasty censure of thy skill,  
Who think thy mighty Work defective still;  
Nor am I forward to correct thy Art,  
By wishing man a Casement in his heart,  
Whose dark recesses all the world might see;  
That prospect justly is reserved for Thee:  
But the defect I mourn is greater far;  
His want of Wings to bear him thro' the Air.  
Inferior Creatures no perfection want,  
To hinder their enjoyment of Thy grant.  
The scaly Race have nimble Fins allowed,  
With which they range about their native Flood:  
And all the feathered Tenants of the Air,  
Born up on towering Wings, expatiate there.  
Thus every Creature finds a blessed content  
Adapted to its proper Element:  
But Man, for the command of all designed,  
Is still to One injuriously confined;  
While Nature often is extravagant,  
And gives his Subjects more than what they want.  
Some of the watery kind, we know, can fly,  
And visit, when they please, the lofty Sky;  
And, in exchange, some of the aery brood  
Descend, and turn bold Pirates in the Flood:  
While still to Man Heaven does all means deny  
To exercise his vain Authority.  
Even buzzing Infects with light wings are blest,  
●n whose small frame Heaven has much art expressed:  
But Man, the great, the noble Masterpiece,  
Wants a perfection that abounds in these.  
Nay some, the meanest of the feathered kind,  
For neither profit nor delight designed,  
Stretch their Dominions to a vast extent,  
Nor pleased with Two, range a third Element;  
Sometimes on Earth they walk with stately pace,  
And sport and revel on the tender grass;  
Then for the liquid Stream exchange the Shoar,  
And dally there as wanton as before:  
But wearied, thence their moistened wings they rear,  
To take their wild diversion in the Air.  
Sure these to rule the triple World were sent,  
And denizoned of every Element:  
But Man, excluded both the Sea and Air,  
Can make small use of his Dominion there.  
Nor yet repine I that the Earth's alone  
Man's Element, since I desire but One;  
My whole ambition's to exchange my place,  
Tho with the meanest of the feathered Race.  
Grant me but wings that I may upwards soar,  
I'll forfeit them if e'er I covet more.  
Nor canst thou, Lord, my just petition blame,  
When thou regard'st the end of all my aim:  
The Miseries below, and Joys above,  
Recall from hence, and thither point my love.  
The Earth (alas!) ●o settled station knows,  
So fast the deluge of its ruin flows:  
Numberless troubles and calamities  
Increase the Flood, too apt itself to rise.  
Tired with long flight, my weary Soul can meet  
No friendly bough to entertain her feet.  
Here no blessed sign of Peace or Plenty is,  
All lie overwhelmed in the profound Abyss.  
O whither then shall I for safety go?  
I must not hope so great a good below.  
Vainly to Honour or to Wealth I fly,  
These cannot be their own security;  
My sole dependence is the Sacred Ark,  
There, there my Soul in safety may embark:  
Thou sentest her thence, Lord, call her home again,  
And stretch thy favouring hand to take her in.  
But she's (alas!) too weak for such a flight,  
Her flagging wings are baffled by its height.  
Wouldst thou vouchsafe to imp them, she would fly,  
And brave the towering Monarch of the Sky;  
Then she would haste to her eternal Rest,  
And build above the Clouds her lofty Nest;  
There basking in the splendour of thy beams,  
Be all employed on bright Angelic Themes;  
In which th'adulterate World shall have no part,  
That sly Debaucher of my wand'ring heart:  
But in Seraphic Flames for Thee I'll burn,  
And never, never think of a return.   Amb. Hom. 7. Nothing can fly but what is pure, light, and subtle, and whose purity is not corrupted by intemperance, nor its cheerfulness nor swiftness retarded by any weight.   

 depiction of a female figure kneeling looking upward toward a heavenly scene with angels playing musical instruments (harp, lyre, flute, horn) and scattering blossoms before a winged figure sitting on a throne with a crown and sceptre O how amiable are thy Tabernacles, thou Lord of Hosts. Psal. 84. 1.  

XIV.  O how amiable are thy Tabernacles, thou Lord of Hosts! Psal. 84. 1. 

GReat Leader of the Starry Hosts that stand  
In shining order on thy either hand,  
Such bright magnificence adorns Thy Throne,  
That hence my ravished Soul would fain be gone,  
To offer there her low Devotion.  
Hail glorious Palace, which a lofty Mound  
Of shining Jasper closely does surround!  
Where the blue Sapphire and clear Chrysolite.  
At once astonish and affect the sight!  
Where sparkling Topas-thresholds kiss the feet  
Of all who come towards the Almighty's seat!  
●y doors of dazzling Adamant let in,  
Where Golden Roofs on Emerald Pillars shine!  
This lofty Structure, this divine Abode,  
Becomes the Presence of its Founder-God.  
Here purest Airs, fanned in by Angels wings,  
Breathe all the Odours of ten thousand Springs.  
Here no benumbing Frosts dare once be rude,  
Nor piercing Snows within these Courts intrude.  
The torrid Zone is far remote from hence,  
This Climate feels a gentler influence.  
This true Elizium's pleasures ne'er decay,  
Whose time is all but one eternal day.   

Bright Resident of the Celestial Spheres,  
How despicable's Earth, when Heaven appears!  
The very name of grief's a stranger here,  
And nothing can beget a thought of fear.  
Here undisturbed Tranquillity presides,  
And entrance to all jarring Foes forbids.  
Hence every Passion, Frailty, and Disease,  
All that may injure, trouble, or displease,  
All that may discompose th'exalted mind,  
Are to eternal banishment confined.   

Bright Resident of the Celestial Spheres,  
How despicable's Earth, when Heaven appears!  
Hear feasting Souls perpetual Revels keep,  
And never are concerned for food or sleep;  
With indefatigable Zeal they move,  
Born on the wings of Duty and of Love.  
Dissolved in Hymns, here Choirs of Angels lie,  
And with loud hallelujah 's fill the Sky.  
Here new-come Saints with wreaths of light are crowned,  
While Ivory Flutes and Silver Trumpets sound.  
Here blushing Cherubs sacred Hymns begin,  
And smiling Seraphs loud Responses sing,  
While echoing Angels the blessed Airs retort,  
Followed by a loud Chorus of the Universal Court.  
While, to complete the Music of the Choir,  
The Royal Psalmist tunes his Sacred Lyre.   

Such was the mighty Joy, when they caressed  
The Royal CHARLES, their late-ascended Guest.  
Such Songs of Triumph filled heavens space around,  
When they beheld our Godlike Sovereign crowned:  
Him, for whose safety they were oft employed,  
And blest the grateful Orders they obeyed:  
Him, for whose sake they did loud Storms assuage,  
And stilled the more tumultuous People's rage;  
Knowing His Reign such Blessings would dispense,  
To make their pains a glorious recompense:  
And having crowned at last the Royal Heir,  
Applaud the blessed effect of Providences care.  
O that my ravished Soul could mount the Skies,  
To hear the Music of their Psalmodies!  
The meanest seat in this bright Court I'd choose,  
Before the best Preferment Earth bestows;  
For one short days sublime enjoyment here  
Exceeds an Age of the chief Pleasure there.  
Blessed Resident of the Celestial Spheres,  
How despicable's Earth, when Heaven appears!  
Haste then, my Soul, to those those blessed Mansions fly,  
With those bright Objects please thy wondering eye:  
With their sweet Airs fill thy attentive ear,  
Till thou hast learned to chant forth Anthems there:  
Then thou, instructed in the heavenly Art,  
Mayst in their Consort bear an humble part.   Bonavent. Solil. cap. 4. my Soul, what can I say when I behold the Joy to come! I am lost in admiration, because the Joy will be within and without, above and below, about and beside us.   

 depiction of a female figure sitting on the ground near an angel with halo and wings; in the background a hart runs up a hill Make haste my Beloved, and be like the Roe or the young Hart upon the mountains of Spices. Cant. 8. 14.  

XV.  Make haste, my Beloved, and be like the Roe or the young Hart upon the Mountains of Spices. Cant. 8. 14. 

HAste, my bright Sun, haste from my dazzled sight,  
Too tender to endure thy streaming light:  
How does my tongue my lovesick soul betray!  
This bids him fly, whom that would beg to stay.  
For why should I his absence thus engage,  
Which grant will make each tedious hour an Age?  
Yet his too scorching beams forbidden his stay;  
Fly then, my Love, or lay those beams away.  
Hadst thou on me this harsh Injunction laid,  
The kill sound at once had struck me dead.  
But thy own flame, not I, will have it so,  
I should be Ages in pronouncing Go.  
I would not wish what now I do entreat;  
Then stay, and let me not persuade thee yet.  
Stay, stay, my Life, and turn the deafened ear;  
Sure what I would not speak, you should not hear.  
Hence let the wind my feigned Petition bear;  
'Twas fear, not I, that formed the hasty Prayer.  
Yet (oh!) this melting heat forbids your stay;  
Fly, fly, my Love, I burn if you delay.  
O let your haste outstrip the hunted Hind;  
But that's too slow; fly like the nimble Wind:  
Fly till thou leav'st even flagging thought behind.  
Yet in thy flight a longing look bestow,  
A speaking glance, to show thee loath to go.  
But that once cast, renew your speed away:  
Fly, fly, my Love, there's death in your delay.  
Behold those lofty Sky-saluting Hills,  
Where rich Perfume from weeping Trees distils;  
Where Laurels, Cedars, and soft Myrtles grow,  
And all the Spice Arabia does bestow:  
To their high tops direct thy nimble flight,  
Till thou, like them, art vanished from my sight.  
Fly to the heights where the young Seraphs sing,  
And the gay Cherubs exercise their wings.  
Fly till the Stars appear as much below  
Thy station, as they are above it now.  
Those places are inur'd to heat and fire,  
And what I dread, is what they most desire.  
One Spark's sufficient to inflame my Soul;  
Oh! do not then consume me with the whole!  
Then let thy haste the hunted Hind outgo.  
And yet, methinks, thou shouldst not leave me so!  
Yet fly so, that thou mayst look often back,  
Nor from my sight too far a Journey take:  
But keep such distance as the glorious Sun,  
When with most light he guilds the pale-faced Moon.  
Ah! this discovery of my Soul forgive,  
I cannot with thee, nor without thee, live.  
If thou art near, I burn; remote, I frieze;  
And either distance does alike displease.  
Then so approach me, Lord, I thee desire,  
That I may feel thy warmth, but not thy fire.  
Fly then, my Life, fast as the hunted Deer;  
But go no more too far, than stay too near.  
And when thou'rt gone, on reedy Pipes I'll play,  
And sing thy Praises in an amorous Lay;  
And when I've wearied out the tedious night,  
With a new task I will myself delight.  
I'll carve at large on every spreading Tree  
Our Love's Original and History.  
My o're-plus time I'll dedicate to sleep,  
Yet still my waking thoughts loved Object keep.   

But see how while I speak I melt away!  
Haste your ungrateful flight without delay.  
Yet go as though you this departure mourn,  
And all your haste were for a quick return.   Amb. de bono Mortis, cap. 5. The Soul desires that her Beloved would be gone, because now she is able to follow him in his flight.   
FINIS.