A PARADOX Against LIFE. Written By the LORDS in the TOWER. An Heroic Poem. — Beatus Ante Obitum Nemo— LONDON, Printed for James Vade at the Cock and Sugar-Loaf in Fleetstreet, 1681. A Paradox against LIFE. WHen GOD the Mighty Mass of Matter Made, As yet, no Light nor Form, the Chaos had. Darkness sole Monarch was Below, the Mass Looked all Confused, and with an Ethiop's Face. Till the Almighty Fiat called forth Light, From the Black Womb of yet Eternal Night. Light, without which, the World had ne'er been seen, Nor good, could e'er the Six-Days Work, have been. The living Stream was not to Pipes Conveyed, But in the pure Eternal Fountain, stayed. 'Twas near the End of the Creation grown, Before Life (Now th' Unhappy Thing) was known. When God, the Gift First to the Fish, was given, For the Great Whale, was the firstborn of Heaven. Man though the First, in Order was the Last, That from his Maker, did this Bounty Taste. Too Sweet alas, to be a Long Repast! His Short-lived Glory, but forerun his Shame, And Paradise did seem a Vanished Dream. How short a time, Poor Wretch! thy Bliss did last, Thy Brighter Morn, was in its Rise O'ercast. O Fatal Ill! Which Mankind may bemoan, All Eden's Fruits were freely Given, save One. But things Unlawful most Affected be, And Evab Longed for the Forbidden Tree. What Restless Passions Racked the Doubtful Mind▪ Who by to Eat, were quickly pined, And a Plague, worse than Famine, left their Kind. The passive Mind, was by Inflamed Desire, To the New Fabrick's ruin, set on Fire. Vain and insatiate Appetite and Lust, Have brought him Back more Low, than to the Dust. The World's First-Great-Recorder, does Relate, Of Wretched Man, the Miserable State. Who following Sense, 'gainst Reason did Rebel, And Traytor-like, from All his Glories Fell. Whilst in a State of Innocence He stood, No Fear made Beasts seek Shelter in the Wood Nor did the Birds, with hasty Wings take Flight; All Hovered Round, and Wondered at the Sight. But when He Fell, How Visible Sin was, That Birds and Beasts could Read it in His Face? With various haste, th' affrighted Croud's Repair, Some to the Woods, some to remoter Air, Thus when a Prince turns Traitor to the Laws, His Loyal Subjects do decline his Cause. Ah Curiousness! First Cause of all Our Ill, And yet the Plague, which does Infect us still. Now look no more for Rest, for Toil thou must, Till whence First come, thou be'st brought back to Dust. The Breath which Blessed his Heaven-Stampt-Dust, is now, That which the Subject makes him of all Woe, And rowles the troubled Bubble too and fro. What does Man's Life, when most Serene afford? 'Tis but a Worm that gnaws the fairest Gourd. Our Days of Gladness are but short Reliefs, Given to reserve us for enduring Griefs. Poor Span of wretched Earth! If measured by The tedious Reign of Life's Calamity, Though thus Contracted, still thou may'st Complain, That yet too much of Patriarch does remain. If in Long Life, there may a Blessing be, 'Twas only known in the World's Infancy. Man then, a Stag or Raven, could survive, But we can scarce with Bats or Swallows Live. We spend the Summer of Our Days, as They, To rear a pile of Dirt, and so away. The Sap of Life now to the Root is sunk, And the Hydropic Earth the Juice hath drunk. If Life's Meanders to the Spring we trace, It rises Troubled, and in Storms doth pass. Th' impetuous Torrent, swelling we shall find, Like Tides born up, by a strong Western Wind, Mouldering the Banks, in which it is Confined. It dwells in Blood, and is the Tide of Fate, And does in Cares and Sorrows Circulate. In secret Channels, through the grosser Mass, That Small-Red-Sea, pursuing Life doth pass. But no where Rests, no Place affordeth Ease, To this poor Man's uncurable Disease; A breath soon gone, made up of Sighs and Groans, Th' unhappy Ligament of Flesh and Bones. From dull Privation, and lean Emptiness, A Quintessence derived from Nothingness. The false and gaudy Colours of the Bow, May boast as much reality, as Thou: Iris may be thy Rival in each part, Who but the Dream of a faint Shadow art. Sun, Water, Earth, the Elements in One, Do Club alike, for your Production. Both, as the Smoke do vanish, and Our Breath, Serves only to bear up the Wings of Death. A busy noisy thing, that dost Express, But hollow joy, and real Emptiness. Almost each Circumstance of Life declares, How flat Man's Joys are, and how sharp his Cares. A Glowe-worms fainter Light, that shines in vain, Extinguished by the least of Cynthia's Train. Isthmu's of Earth! That dost so proudly rise, And thrust thyself, 'twixt two Eternity's. That dost in pain, the shock of time, sustain, And washed away, art swallowed in the Main. This vast Triangle, this most Huge small thing Which all the World within itself can bring, Life's quaking Centre, still first Quick, last Killed, Like to some vast Abyss can ne'er be filled. It still is pined, and does complain for Rest, By its continual beating in our Breast. Mysterious Riddle, which the Grave does Read, We can't be truly said to Live, till Dead! We to a Foreign Country Natives are, And must by Pain and Travel, enter there, Till once Arrived, where we should daily tend, Cares painful Progress, cannot have an End. Our being from Above, does let us Know, We're in Antipathy to things below. And all our Eyrie Joys do Anguish bring; They want the Honey, but retain the Sting. Yet hug Ourselves, in hopes that Life will grant, Some good, of which we still are Ignorant. This Lesser World, in which we so much Trust, What is it, but a Wind enclosed in Dust? A World in which, War never yet did Cease, For still Intestine Foes disturb its Peace. Unkinder Nature to a State of War, Designs us, though we most Defenceless are. Man's Life's a Warfare, and we're pressed upon A most unequal Combat, Three to One. But the brave Victor reaps a Glorious Crown. The wretched Creature Man's not sooner Born, But with Good-Morrows, we Salute his Morn. Though in a rugged and a narrow way, The Pilgrim's bound to Travel out his Day. But to his Inn, when he does Safe Arrive, Although his Night of Rest be come, We Grieve. With Joy we see him Launch into the Storm, But when he reaches the Calm Port, we Mourn. What a Prepostr'ous Kindness do we show, Paying Our Joy to th' Object of all Woe? By the Reverse, the Spartans' do Express Their Joy and Sorrow in an Apt Dress. Man at his Birth, instructs us for to Cry, Complaining straight of Life's great Injury, And does Himself Weep his own Obsequy. His Births Portentous, and He falls upon, An Ominous Precipitation. The Lump of Earth is Kneaded up of Ill, Swelling and Fainting, though he goes Downhill. What are those Joys, that He can call his own, That make the bitter Draught of Life, go down? Life's the great Hinge, on which uneasy Man, Does turn in Pain and never quiet Hang. Life, which from Worldly Care, Contracts each Day, A Rust, which Eats our Polished joys away. Life is a strange and Fatal Energy, Which does employ Our Sense in Misery. It winds the Curious Clockwork up, and straight, To make it go, hangs on a Heavy Wait. The Crystal Spheres, the Lanterns of Our Sight, (Whether by drawing or dispersing Light) The gen'ral Spies, that every thing do mark, Of all the Lesser World the brightest Spark; Which strait, when closed, does make the Great seem Dark: Did of Chief Pleasures, once the Centre prove, Both from the World Below, and that Above. Suns of the Senses, Mirrors of the Mind, Twin-Orbs of Light, which once so Brightly shined, The Windows of the Man, till Sight doth fail, Clear as the Crystals, and as Crystals frail; Being perverted from their Use, at first, Are turned to Stars of Pride, and Flames of Lust. By These, as Doors, all Mischiefs enter in, The Baits, the Panders and the Gates of Sin. These Living Lab'rynths, entertaining Sounds, Which bring the Stuff, on which the Judgement Grounds. As ready Porters at Attendance sit, And whatsoever strikes, do strait Admit. These oft with Pleasure, smooth Afflicting Care, Whilst some Harmonious Sound does Charm the Ayr. Yet like some Strumpet that's grown Dissolute, Are to the most Obscene, a Prostitute. Whilst strong Desires, faint Goodness do Control, And Circes-like, pour Poison in the Soul. By the strange Charms of a Seducing Tongue, Are Tempted, and Corrupted, unto Wrong. Sin makes Attaques still on the Weaker Parts, And by our Eyes and Ears, does Storm our Hearts. These are the Mines, which first blow up the Mind, To Lust, Ambition, Sins of every kind, Which all our Strength by Treaty do betray, 'Gainst Sense and Reasons Charge, a Guard-less way. I'th' Ear and Eye, Satan in Ambush lay. These Potent-Entries, can hold nothing out, But give each Minute grounds for Fear or Doubt. Impregnable had this Frail-Fort of Dust Been against all the Batteries of Lust, Had not his Senses wrought his overthrow, By holding Correspondence with the Foe. Besiegers quickly may the Castle Winifrid, If they Corrupt the Sentinels Within. Unhappy Man! Whose Lives sublimest Bliss, In the Enjoyment but his Ruin is! Yet Spaniel-natured, though he's Beaten so, The Rod he Kisses, and in Love does grow, With the Enchanting Sirens of his Wo. Go ask the Tortured Wretch upon the Rack, When his strong Joints and Nerv's, with Anguish Crack, How 'tis he Knows he suffers so much Pain? He'll Cry, He Feels it, and of Life complain. Life is by her own Cruelty undone; For Sense no longer Feels, than Life lays on. She Chains the Slave to th' Galley, bids him Row, Which he must do, 'cause Life will have it so. Let us no more against the Turks Exclaim, This prouder Sultan must endure the Blame. She puts us to a Vast Expense, we pay All that we Have, Each Moment, for her Stay. And must at Every Turn, be waited on; For if Neglected, the shy Guest is gone. BEHOLD the greatest Man of all the East, Who was (if Riches make Man so) most Blest! The Dying Swan in a Melodious Strain, For all His Patience, does of Life complain. His Comforters were such, they brought far more Sorrow, than all his Messengers before. From Death alone He does expect His Cure; Death, that's the last of Remedies, and Sure. Death whose Officious Hand, Binds up the Sore, Which with a Pot-sherd he had Probed before. The Friendly Porter, who Unlocks the Gate, And bids the Lazer now, no longer Wait. Death that does Wing him, for's Eternal Home, And bids him Fly, quick as his Thoughts have done. Both by the Separation now will Gain, One, Bliss; the Other, Freedom from All Pain. Then the Souls Knowledge, which before alone, Was at the best but Speculation. Will be reduced to a Certainty, What now She Knows by Hear-say, then She'll See. As Travellers best Know, if Fame speak True, When they in Foreign Lands the Wonder View. She recollects Her Faculties, Diffused Amidst Frail Flesh, no more to be Abused. Then parts in Triumph, freed from Earthly Toils, Yet Stays to''th' last, to gather up Her Spoils. WHY are We holden in this sad Suspense? Death's the great'st Blessing, that You can Dispense. The Cruel Cat thus Dallies with her Prey, Sporting awhile with what she makes Away. Make haste, lest Nature should Anticipate, The Glorious Work that is designed for Fate. We, like to Codrus, would even Death Embrace, If for Our Country's Good, and Public Peace. To th' Innocent, to Die's an Easy Thing, Death does i'th' dread'st Accost, no Terror bring. An Axe no more our Spirits can Command, Than can a Phleghm in the Physician's Hand. Death in its self, is but a Harmless Thing, 'Tis Apprehension Contributes the Sting. And since a Debt to Nature we do own, Better on Scaffolds paid, than Beds of Down. Those Lords of Fortune, sweeten every State, Who can Command Themselves, though not their Fate. Thy Rod, Affliction, is to us most Dear, Who lays it on, will give us Strength to bear. The storms of Fate, we bravely can defy, Whilst on the Rock of Ages we rely. And missing but the false World's Glories, do, Miss all the Ills which do Attend it, Too. Here, from Court-Ryots, we secured are; From Cheats of Marts, and Clamours of the Bar: And from the Pulpit; A Worse Mischief far! What great Perfections can those Parson's Reach, Who far from Practice, only strive to Preach? Who Learn their Science, as an Art to Gain; And wanting Salt, would Season Souls in Vain. Who to Buy Earth, do Sell out shares of Heaven, And drive a Trade, with what is freely Given. Vile Avarice, and Pride! From Heaven Accursed, In all Men Bad, but in a Churchman Worst! That King, who was for Wisdom most Approved, Whose Mind and Fortune in like Measure moved. Reached to those Heights of Bliss, that Earth could Breed, Whilst Wealth and Honour strived, which should Exceed. Even He was Crossed Alive, and Scorned when Dead, By Life's great Happiness, unhappy Made. Of Senseless Honour, we Renounce the Care, The First Man he was Made, the rest Born Bare. These Floating Treasures come and go with Breath, And nothing have to give so good as Death. Honour and Wealth, Ambition's Twins, with Pains Are bred, which Man with Torturing Care, Maintains. Only the Prickles in Possession stay, When these Gay Roses Fade and Fall away. We can without a Paradox, Believe, Though still Confined, we do in Freedom Live. And when the Audit of our Days is come, And all our Items in one Total Sum, The Cheerfulness with which, to Death we'll go, A Dying Proof shall of this Poem show. FINIS.