portrait of John Quarles 

But for this Face, the Work had clearly gone  
For old smooth Qvarles himself, and not his son;  
Who sighing how KINGS fell, and Subjects rose,  
Scorns to misspend one single tear in Prose;  
This Book's his shadow, he's his father's Shade,  
QVARLES is a Poet as well Borne as Made.  To: M:  W. Martial Fecit   


FONS LACHRYMARUM OR A fountain of tears.  
London Printed for Nathaniel Brookes and sold at his shop at the Angel in Cornhill.    

Fons Lachrymarum; OR A FOUNTAIN OF TEARS: From whence doth flow England's Complaint, Jeremiah's Lamentations paraphrased, WITH Divine Meditations; AND AN ELEGY Upon that Son of valour Sir Charles Lucas.  
Written by JOHN QUARLES.  
London, Printed for Nathaniel Brooks, at the Angel in Cornhill. 1649.   

TO THE illustrious Prince Charles, PRINCE of WALES.  
Sir,  
IF the Current of my affections force me against the Rocks of presumption, i humbly crave the assistance of Your gracious pardon: The extent of my ambition is to prostitute at Your highness's feet the first fruits of an Orchard, which i planted in Flaunders, during the time of my banishment, and now have brought them into England to be pressed for growing in a strange Country; i confess, the fruit is green, and sour, and cannot ripen till it feel the sunshine of Your Princely eye; nor sweeten, till Your approbation shall be pleased to afford them a liking, and that liking honour them with a free acceptance. There is nothing that can make me esteem myself unhappy, but that the severity of these times will not permit me to tender Your Highness that service which my heart is ambitious to perform, and my duty binds me to acknowledge: i have nothing that i can style my own but a fidelious heart, which shall always pray for Your prosperity; and that Your successes may (like waves) ride in one upon the back of another; and that at last You may, like the sun, break through the Clouds of Opposition, and once more shine in your proper Hemisphere: Heaven season Your Royal Heart with the Principles of Wisdom, and grant that You may not Hide Your Counsels in the Bosoms of them that honour You with their Lips, when their Hearts are far from You. These are the serious and fervent Prayers of him, that desires to live no longer than he is willing to devote himself to Your highness's Commands, and is  
Your highness's most obliged Servant, JOHN QUARLES.   

TO THE READER.  
Kind Reader,  
I Here present to thy view a Fountain, from which doth flow, Complaints, Lamentations, and Meditations, three Necessaries for these Times. Never were Complaints more frequent, than they are in this age of obduracy and oppression; Nor Lamentations more requisite, then in these Lachrymable Times; Nor Meditations more commendable, then in these days of uncertainty. Reader, I shall desire thee to pass by the errors of the Press, which are now too late to correct: Had not the perverseness of these times debarred me from coming to the Press, the Printers Mistakes had not been so numerous. For my own part, I have nothing to boast of, but this that I am confident the judicious Reader will pardon the weakness of my endeavours, and know, that the tallest Cedars were but twigs at first.  
Reader, farewell.   

TO My dear Friend the author.  
THe Son begins to rise, the Father's set:  
Heaven took away one light, and pleased to let  
Another rise. Quarles, thy Light's divine,  
And it shall teach Darkness itself to shine.  
Each word revives thy father's name, his art  
Is well imprinted in thy noble heart:  
I've read thy pleasing lines, wherein I find  
The rare endeavours of a modest mind.  
Proceed as well as thou hast well begun,  
That we may see the Father by the Son.  
R.L.   

TO My much esteemed Friend the author, On his Book, entitled, Fons Lachrymarum.  
THou provest prophetic in thy doleful Muse,  
Whilst it the Prophets mournful tears renews  
Yet ere thy tears be spent, may England stand  
In her first glory, raised by Charles his hand.  
Then may each drop (to add unto her grace)  
Turn solid pearl, and beautify her face:  
There whilst in native brightness fixed they be,  
Their radiant lustre shall reflect on thee.  
Rich. Quiney.   

England's Complaint.  
EXperience tells us, those that are in pain  
Need neither Act nor Ord'naence to complain:  
Griefs have their privilege, whose passions break  
All Laws, and Losers claim a power to speak.  
If passion be too rude (Reader) excuse;  
Grief knows no manners, sorrow needs no Muse:  
But stay my hasty quill, forbear, I know  
Thou art too young, too tender yet to go  
Without a guide, a guide that may direct  
Thy staggering feet; A guide that may protect  
Thy Infant years. Do not too much endeavour;  
A fall at first will make thee lame for ever.  
Invoke the Nine, and if they do deny  
To give thee aid, complain to Mercury:  
Tell him, thou art a babe, and dost desire  
To warm thy genius by the muse's fire:  
Where are Apollo's offsprings? are they tied  
In sorrows chains, e'er since Maecenas died?  
Or are their Helleconian waters spent?  
Or do they stay t'expect a compliment?  
I wonder what they mean, to be thus slow,  
In former times they'd run, they'll now scarce go:  
My heedless Muse, dost thou not understand  
They're all distracted and dispersed the Land?  
Only Melpomene, who now appears  
Like Nioby, a monument of tears.  
Know'st thou not this (rash Muse) than how canst thou  
Implore a help from them that know not how  
To help themselves? Nay Pegasus is made  
A poor Dragoon; his friends are all betrayed:  
Though all distracted, and thus routed be,  
Yet, helpless Muse, there's heaven to succour thee:  
Then hear me Heaven, O hear me, now I sue,  
Th' art my Apollo, be Maecenas too,  
And great Conductor of my Soul, inspire  
My frozen heart with thy celestial fire:  
Light thou my Candle, O than I shall see,  
By thy own light, how to discover thee;  
Inflame my frozen senses with thy Spirit,  
That I may learn to live, and live t'inherit  
The glory of thy Kingdom, and to rest  
Where joys are greater than can be expressed:  
And so go on; but stay, rash quill, and know  
What 'tis to be engaged, before you go  
Too far; Be careful these bad times, unless  
Your rash adventure want a good success:  
Be wary what you do; these are no times  
To please fond fancies with lascivious Rhymes.  
Be circumspect; Let every word you write  
Be Truth, and then let every word invite  
A tear; each tear, a sigh; that every Eye,  
That reads, may melt into an elegy.  
And cursed be that dull eye, that will not lend  
A tear, or two, to see poor England spend  
Weeks, months, & years, in sighs, in sobs, in groans,  
In tears, in prayers, and wilt not move the stones?  
Volleys of tears, discharged from her eyes,  
Shake Heaven and Earth, and penetrate the skies  
With sad cōplain●? heaven mourns at her condition  
And weeps down showers of tears at her Peti●ion:  
Then rouse, ye Britains, from your flattering sleep,  
Hear England's groans, thus she begins to weep;  
No Peace, no ease, no pleasure; is all gone,  
Pursued with envy and rebellion?  
Whither, oh whither, are my glories sent?  
Banished my breast by Act of Parliament?  
virtue is fled, and scared into a trance  
By the ill shape of Bughear ignorance  
What mists are these that thus eclipse the light  
Of splend●nt truths? From whence proceeds this night  
Of darkening Errors? how am I beguled  
Of all my joys? Nay, how am I defiled  
With leprous humours? On how grief transports  
My frighted sense! what envy's this resorts  
Unto my swelling breast? Is there no mean,  
No pleasing music to divide my scene?  
Were I an Atlas, I could not sustain  
This Firmament of grief: who can refrain  
From falling, that's so much oppressed as I  
With such a burden of Malignity.  
Where shall I run, to whom shall I address  
My burdened self, or how shall I express  
My uncontrolled sorrows, or relate  
Th' unhappy discord of my factious State?  
Where shall I fly? Is there no Ark above  
To hide me from these waves? Is there no Dove  
To bring me tidings that the Land is clear,  
And that the hills of Peace do reappear?  
But must I perish? shall the waves of pride  
Dash me in pieces? still a flowing tide,  
Still flow, and never ebb! Is there no bliss?  
Wonder sad Soul! O what an Ocean's this  
Ambitious winds, why rage ye more and more,  
And make the Seas thus envy at the shore?  
Is there no Peter can pray heaven to please.  
To check the winds, and qualify the Seas?  
Am I the worst of all? Is my condition  
So bad, that there is no Petition  
Can have an audience? Ah my conscience saith,  
I've Peter's fears, but yet want Peter's faith.  
Here let us stop a little, and advise  
With flesh and blood; Can greater wants arise,  
To damage Souls, than faith, whose want procures  
All these extremes, which my poor heart endures?  
Oh no, there cannot: he that wants the hand  
Of Soul-supporting Faith, forgets to stand:  
This is my want, and till I find relief,  
I'll lie and tumble in the shades of grief,  
And glut the air with sighs; my hideous cries  
Shall roar like thunder in the troubled skies:  
O that my eyes were Oceans, that I may  
Drown all my sorrows in one stormy day;  
Or would pleased Heaven, enable me to strain,  
To gulp up Seas, and weep them out again,  
Then should my briny streams gush forth so fast,  
That every tear should strive to be the last;  
So the swift current of my swelling eyes  
Should overflow my heaped up miseries.  
I have offended Heaven, and now I see  
My sins are walls betwixt my God and me,  
Which stop the passage of my fervent prayers,  
That there is no prevailing but by tears,  
To batter down the wall that thus prevents  
My cries, my vows, and hinders my intents  
To heaven, that heaven can send me no relief,  
Nor take me from this labyrinth of grief.  
Gone are my golden, my forgotten days,  
When every bird could whistle forth my praise.  
Gone are those days when this consuming Earth  
Was stuffed with pleasure, & perfumed with mirth:  
Though all be gone, yet will I strive t'endure;  
He that hath made the wound, can make the cure:  
For now I'm wounded, and my wounds do smart  
Beyond my patience; and my tender heart,  
Swelled up with sorrow, doth predestinate  
What woe must happen to my bleeding State:  
My head, my head's tormented; and my eyes  
Are dim with gazing after vanities:  
My members swell like Oceans, and from thence  
Proceeds so great, so large a confluence  
Of noisome humours, and they run so thick,  
That they surcharge, and make my stomach sick:  
I ave purged alr●ady, and that will not do,  
I fear, I fear, that I must vomit too:  
I doubt 'tis too much action that hath bred  
These ill diseases that disturb my ●ead;  
Oh I am sick to death, my bowels yearn!  
I fre●z ay fr●●z▪ and whilst I fre●z, I burn;  
I burn, I melt, my soul is parched within.  
(How hot's the furnace of tormenting sin?)  
And Ah! how soon is feebled nature lamed  
With joint contracting cold; if not inflamed  
By heaven's enlivening fire? how hot's my blood  
To what is bad, and Ah, how cold to good!  
Oh grief! how two extremes perplex one heart,  
So linked together, that they cannot part!  
Thus am I tossed, and doubtfully oppressed  
Beneath the burden of a dubious breast?  
Nothing but Wars, and Tumults do arise;  
Thrice happy ay▪ had I known how to prize  
My happiness? Alas I ne'er did know  
The good of peace, till heaven was pleased to show:  
War makes me know, what joy it was before  
To live in peace and plenty, now the more.  
To live in peace and plenty, now I know by this,  
This want of peace, what a combining bliss  
It was to live united, and to praise  
That God of Peace, that blessed my peaceful days  
With large increase; Oh misery to think,  
Loaded with too much pleasure, how I sink!  
I that was wont to boast my heaps of treasure,  
Now swim in sorrow, and now sink in pleasure:  
I that the world did envy, now am brought  
To be not worth the enu'ing, worse than nought,  
Reviled by all; see how the hand of Fate  
hath pleased to make me thus unfortunate:  
What shall I do? what physic can procure  
A little ease? I cannot long endure.  
Where are my grave Divines to give advice  
To a relapsing Soul? are they grown nice  
Of late? Are their conspiring hearts agreed  
T'absent themselves in this my time of need?  
What do they mean? Oh whither are they fled?  
Sure, sure, they're silenced all, or else all death:  
Do they not see me falling? Do they stand  
Amazed, not daring to afford a hand  
To help me up? Methinks I hear them cry,  
That they are falling to, as well as I.  
Where is Religion, that was wont to be  
The Governor of Peace, the branched Tree  
That ever flourished? see, now every Clown  
Being authorised presumes to cut her down.  
Will they still strive with swords, with guns, with clubs,  
To pickle my Religion up in tubs?  
Have they no Reason? hath their greedy zeal  
Swallowed up all their Senses at one meal?  
Have they agreed that Piety and Reason  
Shall be condemned, and voted into Treason?  
Or hath their hell-bred thoughts found out a way  
To turn our Zion to a Golgotha?  
Hath the Tartarian counsellor invented  
Such thriving Plots which cannot be prevented?  
Leave off base Acts mechanics, and begin  
To deal uprightly, and reform within;  
Bury your aged crimes, and then go call  
Your straggling senses to the Funeral:  
Adjourn your thoughts, which now are quite contrary  
To Peace, and think a peace is necessary.  
Honour your higher Powers, and do not mock  
And vilify them as your laughing stock.  
There are a brainsick multitude, a rabble  
Of all Religions, that do daily squabble  
About vain shades, and let the substance pass,  
Hating good manners as they hate the Mass:  
'Tis such as these which thus my woes advance,  
Whose very Souls are starved with ignorance:  
'Tis such as these who daily strive to smother  
The truth with flattering zeal, & call him brother,  
Nay holy brother; though his faith be small,  
If he can rail, and reverently bawl  
Against grave Bishops, and their pious King,  
Oh this is holy, nay a zealous thing:  
And those are holy that can pray by chance  
According to the spirit's influence,  
And teach their prick-eared brethren to deny  
The Common Prayer, but know no reason why;  
And those whose great humility can be  
Content to make a Pulpit in a tree,  
Or in some Barn, there by the Spirit pray  
Five or six hours, not caring what they say;  
Or if a blacksmith or a Tinker can  
Hammer out Treason, he's a zealous man  
Or if a learned cobbler will be sure  
To stitch it close, oh he's a Christian pure!  
Oh these are holy, yea and learned Teachers,  
These are Divines, and only these are Preachers:  
They'll cry all learned prelates out of season,  
They must not preach, for fear they should speak reason.  
Oh these are they, whose ruder tongues can cry,  
Advance mechanics, down with Majesty:  
These, these are they, whose dunghill thoughts could never  
Attain perfection, but they still endeavour  
To banish wisdom, that at last they may  
Make all the world as ignorant as they.  
See how the'ave turned my joy to griping sadness,  
Plenty to want, and peace to downright madness;  
virtue to vice, and chastity to vainness,  
Learning to scorn, Religion to profaneness,  
flattery to zeal, and nonsense unto Reason,  
honour to shame, and Loyalty to Treason,  
Pity to murder, Truth to feigned lies,  
Prayers to curses, plundering to a prize:  
Thus, thus they gripe my Soul, and go about  
To change my shape, and turn my inside out.  
Unhuman Actions; Ah who can behold  
Such Tyrannies, and not his blood grow cold!  
Break, break, ye floodgates of my brimfiled eyes,  
And let my tears have passage to surprise  
This Fort of sorrow, and tumultuous cares,  
And drench the mountains in a Sea of tears.  
Forbear, ye lowering skies; there is no need  
Ye should disburse a shower: I have agreed  
With sorrow, and his powers still to remain  
Clouded with grief, and f●ll the Earth with rain;  
Oh horrid, dismal, heaven provoking times,  
Surpassing Sodom's; nay Gomorrah's crimes  
Were ne'er so bad; Oh Hell-invent●d fate,  
Worse than the worst that I can nominate.  
Are these my people, for whose sakes I lie  
Involved with torments, wrapped in Tyranny?  
Are these my Sons, whose sorrows now I weep?  
Are these my children that are luled asleep?  
See how secure they rest, and never fear  
Approaching woe; mine eyes, can ye forbear  
To vent ten thousand tears? Oh never let  
Your lids conceal you, till y''ave paid the debt  
Ye owe to sorrow, for those sins which thirst  
For greater plenty, then can be disbursed:  
Oh sigh, sad Soul, until thy heart be sore,  
Then sigh, because thou canst not sigh no more.  
Oh that my voice, like thunderclaps could tear,  
And split the portals of each deafened ear;  
That so my cries might ravish every brain,  
And filled with horror, make them deaf again.  
And this I wish because my Sons are all  
So deaf, they will not hear me when I call:  
Did they not flourish in a peaceful state,  
Enjoying store of all things, till of late  
They grew thus factious? and have I not been,  
In former times, the world's admired Queen?  
Have not all Nations formerly been proud  
To do me service? Have they not allowed  
A due respect unto me everywhere,  
And honoured me, if not for love, for fear?  
And must I now by your, your means incut  
As many plagues as mischief can infer?  
Must I now pine away, that have been strong?  
Must I now stoop, that have stood up so long?  
Must I be now subordinate to those  
That never dated subscribe themselves my foes?  
Must I be now divided, that was never  
Divided yet? Must I be lost forever?  
Must I be now consumed and thrown down?  
And must they scoff me now, that dared not frown  
In former times? Must I be now confounded?  
Must I be now reviled, and called a Roundhead?  
Must I be now nicknamed? Must frighted fame  
Sound a Retreat, and scorn to own my name?  
Must I be now dispersed? Must my own hand  
Destroy the bounty of my fruitful Land?  
Oh grief transcending thought, shall England's glory  
Be thus abstracted, and thus made a story  
To after ages? Would not this perplex  
A Soul, that never knew what 'twas to vex?  
What grief can equalise my grief? What pain  
Can be equivalent? Would any gain  
Experience? If they would, may they incline  
Themselves to this experienced grief of mine:  
Ah grief of days; what marble eye can read  
Of such extremes as mine, and never bleed?  
'Twould dull the sharpest brain to meditate  
Upon my grief; nay, make them desperate.  
Had Nero lived in this tempestuous age,  
He might have blushed to see his boiling rage  
Out-vied by yours; nay, Corah and his crew  
Never pursued their Moses, as ye do,  
With such untutored violence; 'tis strange,  
Oh whither will your headlong fury range?  
Advise by times, and know there is a God  
That overlooks you: Know, that Moses Rod  
May turn a greedy Serpent, and devour,  
As well the greater, as the smaller power.  
Go, go, ye sad contrivers of these times,  
Consult with sorrow: think on all those crimes  
Ye have committed; and than think what you  
Have done, and after what ye have to do.  
Advise with care, for your condition's such,  
y''ave much to do, because y''ave done too much.  
Too much; Alas too much in my sad state  
Is done already; and I fear too late  
For remedy: And secret danger lies  
In dull delay: 'tis wisdom to advise  
Betimes; for true and timely care prevents  
Untimely ruin, hindering the intents  
Of studied malice; industry prepares  
A balm for that which negligence impairs.  
Those that by dreaming sloth, sustain a loss,  
Obtain least pity, and the greatest cross.  
Consider what a grief 'twill be to see  
The sad distraction of this monarchy,  
Wrought by your slothful negligence, when all  
My lofty structures by your hands must fall:  
Nay, worse than this, when famine shall devour  
What fire and sword hath left; when every hour  
The Bells shall toul, with such a feeble sound,  
As if that they themselves a want had found.  
Will it not melt a stone to hear the cries  
Of hungry children, and the sad replies  
Of their dejected friends? who can forbear  
To think on this, and never shed a tear?  
How children cry for bread, and fain would rest,  
Seeking protections in their mother's breast?  
Alas poor Orphans, how are they beguiled,  
When the sad mother's forced to eat the child  
For want of food, & make their blood their drink!  
Oh what a wounding sorrow 'tis to think  
How all will be destroyed, both young and old,  
How warm blood will be mingled with the cold!  
How you will roar and cry for want of bread,  
Some on the ground, some dying, and some dead;  
Some gnaw their flesh, and some fight who shall eat  
Each other; O uncomfortable meat!  
And then the ravening Wolves seek up and down  
To find a prey, in every starved Town,  
Shall eat deaths relics; having spent that store,  
Shall ransack up and down, and howl for more.  
All beasts and fowls shall then amazed stand,  
To see the Sea is turned into a Land:  
The Land into a Sea, a Red Sea, where  
Nothing but bones in stead of fishes are.  
Where nothing's heard, but cries, and shrieks, and groans,  
Where nothing's seen, except consuming bones.  
Oh had you but the power to apprehend  
These sad destructive dangers, how they tend  
Da●ly towards us, with all the power that they  
Can make, as if they'd rout us in one day:  
Dull sons of men, have ye forgot to rise,  
And draw the Curtains of your slumbering eyes?  
Methinks this hot Alarum should affright  
Your Souls for ever from your fond delight!  
What do ye mean? ye cannot choose but hear  
Heaven's thundering judgements rattling in your ear  
What, have ye sworn Allegiance to the Prince  
Of utter darkness? Will no words convince  
Your Stubborn Souls? Has a perpetual vow  
Been lately past betwixt hell's Prince and you?  
Why do ye thus delight to overthrow  
Yourselves, and lose a Kingdom at one blow?  
Oh where are my grand Rulers to correct  
These their enormous humours, that infect  
The world with Errors? To what fatal place  
Are all my Senators retired?  

You my Triennial Powers, come and dispose  
Your ears to my discourse; and I'll disclose  
My grief to you, whose judgements can prescribe  
A timely remedy without a bribe.  
Then hark!   
THe climbing power of my disease is grown  
To such a height, that I can hardly own  
A minute's rest; my body politic  
You apprehend (I know) is very sick:  
Then let the depth of understanding move  
The depth of pity, that ye may remove  
These growing inconveniences, that moan  
For your assistance: Can a Kingdom groan,  
And not be heard? Can a disease remain  
within my body, and not I complain  
O● what I suffer? That were tyranny  
Not to be paralleled: O pity me,  
And let the fervour of my language turn  
Your thoughts to tears, to quench those flames that burn  
My wasting entrails: Let your hearts relent  
With meditating on my discontent:  
Open your willing ears, and hear me call;  
O do not fall a slumbering whilst I fall:  
O hear me soon, that now complain too late:  
Let my complaints make you compassionate;  
Dissolve into a Sea of tears. Involve  
Yourselves with sackcloth. Let your minds revolve  
Upon your native soil; resolve to spend  
Your greatest skills, to consummate the end  
Of my distractions; and let mercy join  
With justice; so shall endless love combine  
Your Souls: That like Ezekiel's wheels ye may  
Run one within another, and not stray:  
But like Isaiah's Seraphims may cry,  
O holy, holy, holy God on high.  
But stay; nor can I end, my griefs must fly  
A little further; Mountains that are high  
Must be discovered: Molehills often times  
Lie out of sight, like undiscovered crimes.  
A public sorrow oftentimes admits  
A cure from them, whose more concreted wits  
Do daily study with more active arts  
More public mischief with more private hearts.  
Doth not the fawning Crocodile obtain  
By public sorrow her more private gain?  
Doth not the crafty Lapwing cry the least,  
When she is nearest to her close-made nest?  
Are there not those in this conniving age,  
Whose outward meekness is but inward rage?  
Are there not those in these contentious times,  
That live by nothing but their private crimes?  
Oh grief to speak it: Are there not a sort  
Of wilful people that can make a sport  
At others ruins, whose pretended zeal  
Hath bred much mischief in this Common-weal?  
Are there not those that would pretend to be  
Reformers, yet deform a monarchy?  
Are there not those, whose upstart honours crave  
Perpetual durance, only to enslave  
The Sons of honour? Thus they play the thief,  
And joy in nothing, but in others grief.  
Are there not those, who in one breath can cry  
Against a liar, yet can forge a lie  
for their advantage, and abjure the Laws?  
Lyes are no lies, if they advance their Cause.  
Are there not those that persecute the Arts,  
And yet retain monopolising hearts?  
Are there not those that daily take delight  
To twist themselves into another's right?  
Do not all these, which I have named, pretend  
To do all this, to a religious end?  
And ah Religion! how art thou betrayed  
By those, whose worthless industry have laid  
Thine honour in the dust; nay, and have thrown  
Dirt in their faces, that shall dare to own  
Thy very name? these are a sort of people  
That love no Church, because they hate the steeple.  
I dare affirm, that Proteus ne'er could be  
So much transformed, as they have transformed thee:  
Nor can I yet conclude; I must deplore  
My greater sorrows, yet a little more:  
Let no man take exceptions, for I speak  
Unto myself; sorrow must find a leak.  
I cannot hold; and O that I were able  
To make my feeble tongue infatigable,  
That by my full expressions I may prove  
How much the Serpent overrules the Dove.  
There was a time (not long since) when my fits  
Had found as expiation, if those wits  
(Which proved too serpentine) had not delayed  
Their too-soon violated vows, and played  
A double game: I even blush to name  
What odds they had, and how they lost the game▪  
The world (though sad) is not so melancholy,  
But that it smiles at, and records that folly:  
The breach of vows cracks honour, and the loss  
Of opportunity deserves a cross  
●n honour's book; and he that shall neglect  
A public good, shall find a bad respect  
In private hearts, and ruin must attend  
A public Actor, for a private end.  
Are there not those hate Rome, and yet make roo●  
For Catiline, and labour to entomb  
His vile prescriptions in their Romish thoughts,  
And yet excuse themselves, and him, from faults  
Do I not see them how they run his paths  
With headlong force, and prosecute his Laws?  
Do I not see their Agents, how they strive  
To ruin others, and to keep alive  
Themselves, that lived not, till this greedy age  
Raked them from dunghills, to adorn the Stage  
Of hellbred Tyranny? Do I not see  
How much they're honoured for their Tyranny?  
The Salamander, when he's crowned with ●i●  
Is in his Kingdom; if his Crown expire,  
His life concludes: Tell me what then remains  
Except the relics of consuming flames?  
Even so the Salamanders of these days  
(Whose hearts are made of flames) at last will blaz  
And smother into ashes: Thus declined,  
What can they leave (except a stink) behind?  
Each thing must live within its element;  
Discretion tells us, fishes must content  
Themselves with water; and all things must live  
Content with that which heaven was pleased to giv●  
'Tis only man that surfeits with desire:  
The earth, the air, the water, quickening fire,  
And all was made for man, and man was made  
Of all these things: O let it not be said,  
That fire predominates, and breeds contest  
Within my bowels, and destroys the rest▪  
O strive, now your unruly flames arise,  
To quench your hearts with water from your eyes:  
Strive not with Catiline, that lavish creature,  
To stop great mischiefs, by enacting greater.  
But tell me now, how can your thoughts reflect  
Upon a Peace, when as ye disrespect  
The principle? 'tis an uncertain way  
To gain a Peace by Arms; for every day  
Will breed new tumults, which will in conclusion  
environ you with Armies of confusion:  
Peace cannot swim in blood, blood cannot stand  
Like pools of water in a peaceful Land.  
Delight not thus in contraries; forsake  
Your former ways, let not your hearts partake  
Of blood, and rain, heaven will never own  
A blood-bedab'led Soul: 'Tis not unknown  
How ye have belched out oaths, & vowed to bring  
Peace to your Country, honour to your King:  
Now where's your country's peace? now where's the glory  
Your King was promised? O nefandous story!  
Can peace and strife cohabitate? Can fame  
And glory be imprisoned? 'Tis your shame,  
Not his dishonour, that ye perpetrate  
Such horrid acts: I tremble to relate  
What I have suffered: Is't not you that have  
Exploded all my comforts? You that crave  
(Like greedy Cormorants) still more and more,  
Pretending charity, yet starve the poor?  
Was it not you, whose active hands provided  
To pull down Crosses, that have thus divided  
My yielding people? Can ye now pull down  
These Crosses ye have builded? You that crown  
Your hearts with malice, will you always stand  
In opposition? will you still command  
In spite of Fortune? will ye always be  
Majestic too, in spite of majesty?  
I may affirm, that never Nation had  
So good a King, whose Subjects are so bad.  
Do ye not see how heaven hath pleased to smile  
Upon his Soul, and bless him all this while  
With long-continued patience? It is he  
Whose life hath given life to piety.  
He is a second Job, whose patience can  
Outvie the base indignities of man:  
Go ransack Europe, see if you can find  
A more composed Prince, whose noble mind  
Can entertain a grief, and never vent  
(But turn) his passion into blessed content;  
Whole volumes of his grief may be expressed;  
And since I dare not speak, I'll weep the rest.  
O stop my tears, or else my eyes will flow  
Into a deluge; for my sorrows know  
No mean at all; extremes of tears must fall  
For such extremes of grief: Attend me all,  
Whose hearts are not too flinty; I'll declare  
Your sovereign's suffering, with your sovereign's care  
How many widowed night has his sad heart  
Worn out with sorrow, having none t'impart  
His thoughts unto, except he please to spend  
His language on the ears of such a friend  
As Haman was; whose unrestrained power  
Punished his own offence in half an hour.  
Judge you, whose hearts have vowed a double life,  
What are th' endearments of a tender wife.  
Judge you (what 'tis) whom bounteous heaven hath blessed  
With numerous offsprings, to be dispossessed  
Of those increasing comforts, which descry  
No real joy, but in their parent's eye.  
And if th' enjoyment of these blessings yield  
Such large content, needs must the want unshield  
The Soul of comfort: O unhappy fate!  
Who'd be a father at so dear a rate?  
A wife, unhappy, happy word; a wife  
Happy ofttimes to an unhappy life:  
A wife, that word importeth joys  
Unparalleled; that very word destroys  
Armies of grief, and oftentimes it brings  
A heavenly sorrow to the hearts of Kings;  
And cursed be they, heaven gives me leave to speak,  
That shall presume to separate, or break  
Conjugal bands; How many in this Land  
Lie subject to this curse? how many stand  
Amazed, almost distracted, that have been  
Actors? Heaven bless my King, protect my Queen;  
How many false aspersions have you cast  
Upon their heads? Did ye not strive to blast  
Their spotless honours? What was spoke of late,  
I hate to think, much more to nominate:  
Admit it had been truth, then had ye not  
Proved much unjust, to leave so large a blot  
Within this Kingdom: Thus you can descry  
Inferior molehills, but let mountains lie.  
But tell me then, is this the only way  
To make a glorious King? Heaven grant he may  
Want such obnoxious honour, till he crave  
honour from you, to whom he honours gave:  
Consider well, and ye will find it true,  
'Twas heaven that made him glorious, & not you:  
'Twas he that filled his Soul with true renown,  
And crowned his Cross as you have crossed his crown  
Heaven breaks no Covenants, he never fails,  
He never unvotes what he votes, or rails  
Against his enemies, but grieves to see  
Their Souls run headlong to their destiny.  
Abused Peace perverts into a Curse:  
What can be better, or what may be worse  
Than Peace, whose presence (like the Sun) display  
Its golden Ensigns; whose refulgent rays  
Adorns the Earth, and fills the gazing eye  
With glorious light, and peaceful Majesty?  
But when rude Boreas summons all his power,  
And argues with the Seas; In half an hour  
You may behold a change: they which before  
Were wrapped in silence, now begin to roar  
Into a fury; contradictions bring  
Endless disputes: Shall Boreas be a King,  
And rule th' unruly w●wes? (when surges meet  
How rudely do they part, how rudely great!)  
Whilst peaceful Zephyrus must be denied  
To breathe upon the floods? Can storms abide  
For ever? No: rash Boreas must at last  
Submit to Zephyrus; whose milder blast  
Proclaims a sudden Peace, and strives to grace  
The simp'ring Ocean with a smother face.  
But whither am I hurried? slack my sails,  
I fly beyond my Port; I find the gales  
Of grief are too robustuous, and I doubt  
I cannot anchor here, but tack about.  
Seven years are now completed since my grief  
Had its initiation, yet relief  
Stands at a distance; Peace is in a doubt  
Whether to come within, or stay without.  
Your rash proceedings and your great disgraces  
Make Peace even blush to look you in the faces:  
O miserable men that live to know  
Such Times, such a reduplicating woe▪  
Is there no art remains? Is there no way  
To set you right, that thus have gone astray?  
Is there no faithful Lot to pray for Peace,  
And stop the cause, that so th' effect may cease?  
Is there no Jonah dare proclaim, and cry  
Unto the sons of men, Destruction's nigh?  
But are they all asleep, now sorrows swarm?  
(O how can they repose in such a storm!)  
Rouse slumbering Souls, and lift your heads above  
The decks of negligence; The God of Love  
Will be too angry, if you sleep too long:  
Advance your thoughts, and let your prayers be strong  
For me, who am thus weak, and must decay,  
Except this grief-encreasing Remora  
Be wiped away; O may I not offend  
The Auditor of heaven, if I shall spend  
Some words to this effect; I must confess  
Dear God, I am corrupted, I address  
Myself to thee; O let thy healing hand  
Prescribe a Balsam for this bleeding Land:  
I have been too progressive, grant I may  
Be retrograded to my former way:  
Spoil not the path because I stepped aside,  
Correct my feet, and let the path abide.  
What though the path be something rough and small,  
Better's a rough path than no path at all;  
For now I ramble up and down, and see  
No certainty, except of misery.  
Is it discretion to pull down a fair  
Cathedral Church because one spider's there?  
Is it discretion to condemn the Sun  
Because the dial's false? the Times must run  
Their revolutions; set the Dial right,  
Then you'll not want a truth till Sol wants light.  
Let all things move within their orbs; suppose  
Th' inferior lights should labour to depose  
The Prince of light, and drive him from his throne,  
And by an usurpation make't their own:  
What strange aspects would this produce t'affright  
Supine Astronomers, to see that light,  
Which was at distance, now approach so near,  
And blaze in an improper hemisphere!  
Consider then, would not the Stars let fall  
Too great an influence, the Sun too small,  
On human bodies? O may they remain  
In their own Region, then would Sol again  
Enjoy his just prerogatives, and feed  
The world with such a lustre, as I need:  
Peace is the light I want, could I obtain  
But Peace, how soon should I survive again!  
Peace is the best Physician, I require  
Nothing but Peace to quench my hot desire.  
A good Physician will be sure to see,  
Ere he prescribes, where lies the malady;  
Then he'll begin to study, and to try  
What may be best; whether Phlebotomy  
Be good, and if it be, opens a vein,  
And so restores his patient's ease again:  
Thus, thus, grand authors of my woes, should you  
Have done at first, if ye had been but true  
To me; but when at first my griefs you saw  
Ye thought it good to purge me with your Law:  
And having purged me, ye began to see  
How weak I was, and what a low degree  
Y''ve brought me to, and then ye fell at strife,  
By killing me, how to preserve my life.  
You brought strange Doctors to me, whose advice  
I'm sure was purchased by too high a price:  
They bid me lift my arms up to my head,  
And stir my Body; for diseases bred  
For want of exercise: they bid me play  
A game or two at Irish every day.  
I took th' advice, than I begun to find  
A sudden alteration, and my mind  
Was so transported, that methoughts the ground  
Began to dance, and I myself turned round:  
I fell into a trance, with this presumption,  
And ever since I've lived in a Consumption.  
Let this example all the world assure,  
An English Grief will have no Scottish Cure.  

And so farewell, if these be your conditions,  
Henceforth you may prove— But not Physicians   

England's Petition to Heaven.  
AH me! Ah me! can nothing but Ah me  
Fly from my barren heart (dear God) to thee?  
Ah me! and why will not that word import  
Ten thousand prayers, that so I may resort  
Unto thy ears by Troops? then would I run  
Division on ah me, till Time were done.  
Weak as I am, distracted, and defiled,  
I prostitute myself, not as a child  
Of Sin, but as a Parent that has had  
A numerous offspring; Now my heart is sad,  
O grant that my unfeigned grief may grow  
Upon a real graft, that I may show  
The fruit of perfect sorrow, and declare  
How great my sins, how great thy mercies are:  
Storm thou my sins, and force them to retreat,  
And make my craving breast thy mercy's seat:  
Strike thou my flinty Soul, that my desires  
May, from a spark, increase to flames; Thy fires  
Must thaw my Icy Soul, or else I shall  
Remain for ever a congealed Gall:  
I am composed of steel, and cannot bow,  
Except thy dear instructions teach me how:  
Attract me by the loadstone of thy grace,  
That through thy mercies I may see thy face;  
And having viewed it, I may never more  
Return to what I idolised before;  
I have a Lydia's heart, in mercy please  
To open it, thy mercies are the keys:  
Ravish my Soul, that I may fall in love  
With thee, my God, with thee, that art a Dove  
Of innocency: Let my raptures mount  
As high as heaven, that there I may recount  
Thy never failing love, and sing thy praise  
With David's heart, until the last of days:  
Tune thou my stupid Soul, and then it shall  
Be truly sweet, and heavenly musical:  
Convert my swords to sighs, that I my fight  
With my own crimes, and hate to take delight  
To lacerate myself. O tie the hands  
Of fury! make me stoop to thy commands.  
Convert my tides of blood to streams of tears,  
My lies to truths, my horrid oaths to prayers:  
Make me to apprehend how thou hast wept  
Of late for me, whilst I securely slept.  
Let not thy tears destroy me, but let me  
Dissolve to tears (dear God) and weep to thee:  
Is it the heat of my offences make  
The heavens' to melt, (O heaven some pity take!)  
Or has thy great discretion thought it good  
To send these showers to wash away that blood  
Which I have lost; I know thy purer eyes  
Cannot endure a bloody sacrifice.  
O stop thy bottle, pity my sad times,  
And grant to me more tears or fewer crimes!  
Be pleased to view me with a gracious eye,  
And let the lustre of thy Majesty  
Reflect upon me, let thy glorious light  
Create a day of mercy, that the night  
Of sin may be expeled; O hear my prayers  
Ushered unto thee with a tide of tears.  
To me, O let thy mercies be expressed,  
And fill the concave of a sinful breast;  
Sinful, ah sinful, more than I am able  
With language to express, intolerable:  
Behold my festered Soul, whose wounds proceed  
From sin, and being dressed with sin, they bleed;  
They bleed (dear heaven) they bleed, O what a flood  
A flood they make! and I am bathed in blood:  
O stop this current that does still begin,  
Or I shall drown a Kingdom in my sin:  
O look upon me, and in mercy please  
To send me salve to palliate my disease:  

Begin to hear (O GOD) begin to send,  
That so my sorrows may begin to end.     

THE LAMENTATIONS OF JEREMIAH.  

CHAP. I.  
Contents.  
1 The miserable estate of Jerusalem by reason of her sins, 12 She complaineth of her grief, 18 and confesseth God's judgements to be righteous.  
HOw doth the City, that was blessed of late  
With store of people, now lament her state?  
How like a poor distressed widow she  
Deplores her sorrows, that was wont to be  
Great among Nations? greater far than any;  
How tributary is she now to many?  
She drowns her blushing cheeks with midnight tears,  
And from her lovers can obtain no prayers:  
Her friends, armed all with treachery, arise  
And show themselves her public enemies:  
Spu●●'d with affliction, Judah's forced to fly,  
And throw herself into Captivity;  
B●cause of sense consuming servitude  
She dwells amongst the Heathen multitude:  
Her Foes o'ertook her when she was distressed;  
Well might she wish for, but could take no rest.  
Zion is with redoubled grief surprised,  
Because her feasts by none are solemnised:  
Her Gates are filled with desolation, and  
Her Virgins tortured with afflictions hand:  
Her Priests with sighs, heart-breaking sighs, express  
Their grief: Ah Zion's filled with bitterness!  
Her chiefest people are her chiefest foes;  
Just heaven with these innumerable woes  
Plagues her transgressions; and the enemy  
Drives her dear Children to Captivity.  
And that rare beauty, which adorned and graced  
zions dear daughter, is of late defaced:  
Her Princes fly, and ransack all about,  
Like hungry hearts, to find a pasture out:  
They all are fled, and flying, can procure  
No strength t'oppose the merciless pursuer.  
But when Jerusalem was thus confined  
T'afflictions lawless bounds, she called to mind  
Her by past pleasures, and those days which she  
For now her crying sins are grown so great,  
That heaven hath thrown her from his mercy's seat:  
All those that loved her, yea and highly prized her,  
Seeing her shameful nakedness, despised her:  
She sighs & turns her back, as though she'd borrow  
A private breath t'express a public sorrow:  
For being filled with wickedness, Her end  
She never thought of, neither had she friend  
To comfort her: O Lord my God, behold  
My great afflictions: Ah my foe grows bold,  
And magnifies himself: His stretched-out hand  
Hath spoilt the pleasures of my fruitful Land:  
The very Heathen, whom thou didst deny  
Thy Congregation, do contemn, defy  
Thy just commands; and with unseemly paces  
enforce an entrance to thy holy places.  
Her bread-desiring people, filled with grief,  
Give their chief treasures for a small relief:  
Behold, O Lord, consider my distress,  
For I am vile, and filled with wickedness.  
Oh stop your hasty feet, ye that pass by,  
And look upon my new-bred misery;  
Sum up the totals of all grief, then borrow  
A million more; 'Tis nothing to that sorrow  
Which I support, wherewith the angry power  
Hath pleased t'afflict me in His wrathful hour:  
For he from his all-ruling throne hath sent  
Into my bones a fiery Government:  
Yea, and his ever-active hand hath set,  
And I am desolate, and fainting lie;  
Being turned from him, am turned to misery.  
Fast to my servile neck He hath bound on  
The wreathed yoke of my transgression;  
Impaired my strength, and by His just commands  
I'm thrown into my persecutors hands,  
Where I, remorseless I, must still remain,  
Void of all hope to be enlarged again.  
His unresisted strength hath broke the bones,  
And made a footstool of my Mighty Ones:  
A great Assembly He hath called that may  
Punish my young men that will not obey;  
And Judah's fairest Virgin Daughter's trod  
As in a winepress by th' Almighty God.  
And O these sorrows, O these miseries  
Stir up a tempest in my clouded eyes!  
Mine eyes, mine eyes, run o'er, I daily spend  
More tears than any brain can apprehend:  
My foes prevail, my children all are led  
Into Captivity, my hopes are fled.  
Zion spreads forth her feeble arms t'express  
She seeks for comfort, but is comfortless.  
The Lord of hosts commands that Jacob's eyes  
Shall round about him see his enemies;  
And poor despised, distressed Jerusalem  
Is as a menstruous woman amongst them.  
My God is just, yet I, rebellious I,  
Transgressed against his glorious Majesty:  
O hear my people, let your ears but borrow  
A minute's time, from Time, to hear my sorrow!  
My Virgins and my young men all are fled  
Into Captivity; my Priests are dead:  
My Friends refuse to hear me when I call;  
For want of food my hungry Elders fall.  
O Lord, behold, see how I am oppressed,  
My heart thumps at the portals of my breast:  
Oh I have sinned, and my sins indite me;  
Abroad the Sword, at home grim Death affrights me.  
My friends have heard my groaning, and my grief  
Is known to them; But I know no relief:  
My foes with clamorous voices fill the Earth,  
And make my grief the subject of their mirth:  
But heaven hath named a day when these my foes  
Shall be copartners in my mocked at woes.  
O God, let not their faults be hid from thee,  
But deal with them as thou hast dealt with me:  

My heart is faint, my struggling sighs are many,  
My griefs too great to be expressed by any.   

Meditatio in Capitulum.  
IF thou wouldst know, my Soul, what har●s attend  
A sinner's progress to his journey's end;  
Here, here thou mayst, if with impartial eyes  
Thou wilt observe the unsatiate miseries  
Of poor Jerusalem, whose tedious groans,  
Whose sighs, and sobs, and tears, the world bemoans.  
Observe her heedless steps, and thou shalt know  
Sin was the Author of her self-willed Wo.  
'Twas sweet at first, but sour in th' event,  
That little word assumes a large extent:  
Where Sin predominates, there we may find  
The inconvenience of a troubled mind:  
For when the mind's perplexed, than we begin  
Either to fall to, or to fall from Sin:  
For like the restless Sea she's active still,  
And always agitating good or ill;  
If well employed, she builds a wall about  
The Soul, to keep approaching dangers out:  
But if she spends her thriftless hours in Evil,  
She makes a banquet to invite the Devil,  
Who with his subtle and misguiding force  
Will reinvite her to a second course:  
And then let Christians judge how much disquiet  
That Soul sustains that loves the devil's diet.  
Ah than my Soul, if thou desir'st to be  
Exempted from the lot of misery,  
Make heaven thy refuge; there thou mayst be sure  
To find contentment, and repose secure:  
Thou needst not fear, there is no poisonous thing  
Can wound that Soul that truly loves his King:  
Nor all the malice mortals can invent,  
Shall add to thee one mite of discontent:  
There is no sorrow, no calamity  
T'oppress thy thoughts; No wry-looked enemy  
T'upbraid thy actions: then my Soul advise  
How much it profits to be heavenly wise.  
Ah had Jerusalem (whose grief no pen  
Can e'er engrave into the hearts of men)  
Been wisely wary, she had never known  
Those late reaped sorrows, which her sins had sown:  
Had she but searched her bosom, and contrived  
Her actions well, her glory had survived:  
Had she with David's tears in time repented,  
Those uncorrected sins her heart lamented,  
She had not felt those judgements which did wait  
Upon the ruins of her falling State:  
But whilst her eyes were muffled and deluded,  
Folly came in, where Reason was excluded.  

Needs must that Kingdom unto ruin run,  
Where Folly sets and rises with the Sun.   
Like as the body that's oppressed with grief.  
Can neither hope for, nor obtain relief,  
Till the disease be known; there's none can tell  
The rage of sickness that was always well.  
Even so Jerusalem, because that she  
Judged not the Reason of her misery  
Till she was past recovery, could never  
Have health restored her, but was sick for ever▪  

Alas! alas! that Kingdom needs must fall,  
That has a grief so Epidemical.   
Had she but like the Ninevites in time  
Stopped those distemp'ring humours which did climb  
Above her strength, her grief had quickly ended,  
And heaven revoked those judgements he intended.  
medicines are vain things when applied too late,  
And through delay a grief grows desperate.  
He that is in-sick is in bad condition,  
Except heaven please to be his soul's Physician:  
And if God once deny his Patient bliss,  
Whose must the fault be, when the fault's not his?  
Alas! alas! 'tis but in vain for any  
To strive to cure one grief, that had so many  
As sad Jerusalem had; her plagues were more  
Than all the world could reckon up before:  
She had a Monop'ly, she need not borrow,  
She was the hieroglyphic of all sorrow.  
Yet if in time she'd made repentant moan,  
Heaven could have cured them all as well as one.  
There is no Sin, let it be great or small,  
But heaven can find a balsam for them all.  
My Soul, thou art my Monarch, therefore I  
May boldly look into thy Monarchy.  
First praise thou heaven, then learn to be content  
With what he sends thee; let thy government  
Be still Monarchical, and fenced about  
With fervent prayers, to keep Sedition out.  
Let watch and ward be kept, lest traitor Sin  
Betray thee; Let not Faction come within  
Thy lists: And still be careful to surprise  
Rebellious thoughts, as soon as they arise:  
For if they once appear within thy borders,  
They'll breed confusion, and confused disorders.  
Learn to be wisely politic, and be  
Ready to let Religion counsel thee.  
Let Reason be thy guide, and let thy Laws  
Be truly executed; Let thy Cause  
Be just and real: then my Soul, be sure  
To let thy fundamental Laws endure,  

Till he that sits on the refulgent Throne  
Shall take thee hence, and keep thee for his own.     

CHAP. II.  
Contents.  
1 Jeremiah lamenteth the misery of Jerusalem. 20 He complaineth thereof to God.  
BEhold! heaven's Metropolitan hath spread  
His gloomy clouds of anger on the head  
Of sad Jerusalem: He hath destroyed  
Those bounteous treasures Israel enjoyed;  
And from his memory hath his footstool thrown,  
When he with floods of anger was o'erflown.  
And Jacob's habitations he unframed,  
And wrathfully consumed them: Thus inflamed  
The strongest Castles Judah's Daughter had,  
He tumbled down, and made her people sad:  
And he, to show what his grand power could do,  
Defiled the Kingdom and the Princes too.  
His two-edged passion hath cut off the horn  
And Chief of Israel, made him a scorn  
To his deriding Foes, and also stayed,  
Yea and withdrawn his right hand from his aid:  
His fury like an all consuming flame  
Burned against Jacob, and devoured his name.  
His wrestless arm hath bent his yielding bow;  
He stood resolved like a dauntless foe:  
And in the Tabernacle he hath flew  
The eyes delight, like fire his anger flew.  
He threw down Israel's strongest situations,  
And filled Jerusalem with lamentations.  
And like a fruitless garden hath laid void  
Th' infected Tabernacle▪ and destroyed  
Th' Assemblies structures; and an angry wind  
Hath blown their Feasts and Sabbaths from his mind;  
Both Kings & Priests in anger he forgot,  
And looked on them as if he saw them not.  
His holy places, and his Altar he  
Abhorred; and gave unto the enemy  
Her fairest Palaces: their ill-tuned voices,  
As on a feast-day, filled the Church with noises.  
His hand stretched forth a line, when he intended  
To ruin Zion that so much offended:  
He hath resolved destruction; therefore all  
The rampart languished with the gliding wall.  
He hath destroyed, and battered down her grates,  
The gaping Earth imboweled all her Gates  
Her King and Princes dwell with Gentiles; and  
Her Laws are banished from her lawless Land  
Her Prophets gaze about; the frowning skies▪  
Do represent no vision to their eyes.  
Her mournful Elders on the ground repose,  
And silently consent unto their woes:  
They clothed themselves with sackcloth, and they crowned  
Their heads with dust they borrowed from the ground:  
No joys were pleasing to the eyes of them  
That were the Virgins of Jerusalem.  
My bowels yearn, my tear-distilling eyes  
Are sore with gazing on the miseries  
Of frail Jerusalem: Alas, the feet  
Of her dear sucklings stagger in the street!  
And like the wounded in the City, send  
Their sighs for food unto their dearest friend:  
And whilst they slumbered on their mother's breast,  
They poured their Souls into eternal rest.  
What shall I witness for thee, O thou Gem,  
Thou pining Daughter of Jerusalem?  
To what shall I compare thee? What can be,  
O zions Daughter, equal unto thee?  
Let all the world recure thee, if they can;  
For Ah, thy breach is like the Ocean!  
Alas, thy purblind Prophets all have been  
Hoodwinked with folly, & vain things have seen:  
But ne'er discovered thine iniquity,  
Which was the cause of thy captivity.  
Their misinformed senses were content  
To see false Reasons for thy Banishment.  
All that past by, and saw thee thus decaying,  
Clapped their rude hands, yea hist at thee, thus saying;  
Is this the City that the worldlings call  
beauty's perfection? This the joy of all?  
Thy foes revile thee, and as they pass by  
They gnash their teeth against thee; thus they cry,  
This is the day we looked for, now we know  
She is destroyed, we see her overthrow.  
That which the King of heaven devised, now  
He hath enacted and fulfilled his vow:  
He hath thrown down without remorse, O see,  
Thy adversaries triumph over thee.  
This hath th' Almighty done for them, at length  
He made them strong, yea & advanced their strength.  
They moved the Lord with their uncessant cries;  
O wall of zions daughter, let thine eyes  
Run down like rivers, give thyself no sleep;  
Forget to smile, and practise how to weep.  
Arise, and in the silent night bemoan  
Thy grief; O cry unto th' Almighty One:  
In the beginning of the watch implore  
Thy growing sorrows; make a flood before  
Th' Eternals face: O crave that he would please  
To sent thy young, faint, hungry children ease.  
Consider Lord, to whom thou've done this great, lie  
This unrepented ill: Shall women eat  
Their span-long children? Shall thy slain Priests  
Tombed with thy Prophet in thy sanctuary?  
The young and old have shared in equal harms,  
They lie and tumble in each others arms:  
Upon the flinty streets my Virgins fall,  
With my young men; the sword dislived them all:  
Thus in thine anger hast thou struck them dead,  
Thus hast thou killed, and never pitied.  
As in a solemn day, my terrors round  
About thou've called, so that none was found  
In the Lord's day of anger to remain:  
Those that I swaddled and brought up, in vain  
I brought them up; the enemy infumed  
Envied this offspring, and their days consumed.  

Meditatio in Capitulum.  
SEe, see, my Soul, what heaven hath done! O see  
What 'tis t'offend a powerful majesty!  
Go, go, and quickly tell the sons of men  
What 'tis to rouse a Lion from his Den:  
Bid them keep peace and quietness in Zion;  
Bid them turn Lambs, or heaven will turn a Lion.  
Bid them take notice, she that was the stem  
Of honour, now is poor Jerusalem.  
Alas! alas! experience made her know  
Griefs abstract, and the quintessence of woe.  
And ah my Soul! who knows the course of sorrow?  
There 'tis to day, it may be here to morrow.  
Then have a care, let thy well tutored grief  
Know rather how to purchase a relief,  
Then plagues and torments; Let thy sober will  
Be swayed by reason; let thy reason still  
Lead thee to meditation: then begin  
To search thyself, and cipher up thy sin.  
Having thus done, thou quickly wilt descry  
Thy grief, and where th' imperious humours lie;  
And having found them out, let no delay  
Damage thy Soul, but quickly haste away;  
And from the bottom of thy heart confess  
Thy greatest sins; so heaven may make them less.  
O kiss the Son; for if his anger be,  
Yea but a little kindled, blessed is he  
Whose groping Soul his sealed up mercies found,  
And cast his anchor in so firm a ground.  
Heaven smiles on them whose oft-repeated prayer  
Expands their sins, & makes their God their care.  
But when revolting negligence shall call  
Confounding ruin from th' imperial hall  
Of heavens' high-seated Palace, and invite  
A dreadful vengeance, to eclipse the light  
Of a resplendent happiness; and double  
The labouring Soul with interposing trouble:  
Ah, than our pleasures shall be turned to toys,  
And sudden grief shall expiate our joys!  
And like Jerusalem, confused shall we  
Wander and languish in obscurity:  
Then, than our downcast spirits shall lament,  
And moan their just deserved punishment:  
Then shall our Peace be drawn unto an end,  
Then shall we look for, but shall find no friend:  
Then shall our sad ambassadors prepare,  
And mount to heaven, but find no audience there:  
Then shall our blubbered eyes in vain let slide  
Innumerable tears: then shall the tide  
Of heavens' high-flowing anger rage and roar,  
And dash against our sin-polluted shore:  
Then shall we run, and in our running, meet  
Th' obvious sword in the blood-streaming street:  
Then shall our hasty trembling feet retire  
To our sad houses; there shall Death require  
Th' arrears of sorrow▪ lingering Famine shall  
Like to a lean-cheeked Fury grasp us all:  
And from our strutting veins shall squeeze a flood,  
A lukewarm deluge of diffused blood.  
Then shall our children with their midnight cries  
Lament for food; Then shall their mother's eyes  
Bedew their bosoms with the falling showers  
Of dribbling tears: Then shall their loathed hours  
Haste to an end; And having thus expressed  
Their woes, shall creep into Eternal rest.  
Then shall the early melancholy Bells  
Sound mournful peals for their sad last farewells.  
Ah now my Soul! Can any griefs outvie.  
Such griefs as these? Can any heart deny  
The justness of these judgements? If they do,  
May they feel Sodom's and Gomorrah's too.  
Heaven cannot be unjust; No, no, 'tis we  
Provoking sinners are unjust, not he.  
Shall we offend, and shall we every day  
Hale down his judgements on our backs, than lay  
The burden of our faults on him, and cry,  
Like traitor Judas, Master is it I?  
No, no, we must not; but let every one  
Vnbosom all his actions, and make known  
His misdemeanours; then if any can  
Plead himself guiltless, he's a happy man.  
Find out but ten good men, and for their sake  
Heaven will deduct a thousand plagues, and sha●●  
Ten thousand more from his incensed breast,  
And for their sakes will give ten thousand rest.  
Sodom can witness heaven brooks no denial,  
He had saved all, had ten been found but loyal.  

Oh blind and foolish is that City, when  
Ten thousand doubled cannot number ten.     

CHAP. III.  
Contents.  
1 The faithful bewail their calamities. 22 By the mercies of God they nourish their hopes▪ 37 They acknowledge God's Justice. 55 They pray for deliverance, 64 and vengeance on their enemies.  
'TIs I have seen affliction by the rod,  
Th' impetuous anger of the wrathful God.  
He with a pitchy darkness masked my sight,  
And hath not clothed me with the robes of light.  
He turned his hand against me all the day;  
He broke my bones, and made my flesh decay.  
His labouring fury hath built up a wall  
Against me, and surrounded me with gall.  
In dungeon places he me set, like those  
Which in their graves have had a long repose.  
And he hath made my toilsome chains to be  
Heavy; He hedged me from my liberty.  
And when I shout and cry he will not hear,  
But makes my prayer a stranger to his ear.  
He hath enclosed me with stones that stay  
My hasty steps, he hath incurved my way.  
And as a lurking Bear observes my paces,  
Or as a Lion in the secret places.  
He turned me from my ways, disturbed my state,  
Pulled me in pieces, made me desolate.  
He bent his Bow, and made my trembling heart  
The aimed-at object of his fatal dart.  
He caused his quivered guests t'inforce my veins,  
And take a large possession in my reins.  
I was my people's laughing stock, their song  
Was tuned to my mischief all day long.  
He filled me full of bitterness and woe,  
And made me drunk with nauseous wormwood too.  
He broke my teeth with gravel stones, and he  
With heaps of ashes hath involved me.  
Banished my Soul from Peace, Prosperity  
Is quite relapsed from my memory.  
I said, my strength, my very hope is even  
Wasted and perished from the Lord of heaven.  
Ponder my woes, and my afflictions all,  
Remember both the honey and the gall.  
These things do still in my remembrance rest,  
And ah, my Soul is humbled in my breast!  
This I recall to my swift-roving mind,  
Therefore I hope, and hoping, hope to find.  
It is the mercy of the Lord we sail  
So safe; for his compassions never fail.  
They're every morning new; thy faithfulness  
Is great, and greater than I can express.  
The Lord's my portion, saith my Soul; and I  
Will therefore hope unto Eternity.  
And that just Soul, which daily shall attend  
Upon the Lord, shall never want a friend.  
'Tis good that man should hope and wait upon  
Th' almighty's pleasure and salvation.  
'Tis good for man to exercise the truth,  
And bear the yoke of his offending youth.  
He sits alone, and silently makes known,  
He bears no other burden than his own.  
His humbled mouth salutes the dusty ground,  
As if some hopes of mercy may be found.  
He's filled with shame, he willingly invites  
T'a second stroke the hand of him that smites.  
For they that strive, and really endeavour,  
God will not leave, nor cast them off for ever.  
He will have pity, though he sends a grief;  
In multitudes of mercy lies relief.  
He doth not punish, nor augment the smart  
Of sinners children with a willing heart.  
His feet take no delight to crush to death  
Th' offending prisoners of th' inferior earth.  
To turn away man's right (his heart abhors)  
Before the face of their superiors.  
And to subvert a man in his just cause,  
The Lord approveth not, 'tis not his Laws.  
And who is he whose spendthrift tongue dare say,  
This thing shall come to pass, when heaven says nay?  
Out of the mouth of him that's God indeed  
There doth not evil, but known good proceed.  
Why doth a living man with grumbling thoughts  
Complain as one that's punished for his faults?  
Let's search, let's try our ways, let's turn again  
To God, and he will turn away our pain.  
And let our hands b'extended with our Souls  
To heavens' Star-chamber, where our God controls.  
We have rebelliously transgressed, and thou,  
Thou hast not pardoned with a cheerful brow.  
Thine anger hath o'reshadowed us, thou hast  
Slain without pity, we thy anger taste.  
Th''ve veiled thyself with clouds, which will not let  
Our prayers pass thorough to discharge our debt.  
And as th' offscouring thou, O Lord, hast made us  
Amongst those factious people that betrayed us.  
Our greedy enemies have oped wide  
Their mouths against us, and our pains deride.  
Fear, like a snare, encloses us about,  
And desolation will not keep without.  
Mine eyes run down like hasty floods of water,  
For the destruction of my people's Daughter.  
Mine eyes are full, and tears do stream upon  
My cheeks without an intermission:  
Till heaven looked down on my enrivered face,  
And viewed my weeping from his holy place.  
Mine eyes affect my pining heart with pity,  
Because of all the Daughters of my City.  
And causeless (like a frighted bird that flies)  
I still am chased by my enemies.  
They have destroyed me in the dungeon, nay  
They cast a stone upon me where I lay.  
Th' imperious waves mounted above my head,  
And then I cried, Alas, alas, I'm dead.  
I called upon thy Name (O Lord;) my voice  
Out of the dungeon made a dreadful noise.  
Th''ve heard my cries, Oh let thy ears not lie  
Hid from the breathing of my doleful cry.  
And in that day when I on thee did call,  
Thou cam'st, and bid me never fear at all.  
And when my Soul (O Lord) was filled with strife,  
Thou didst both plead my cause, and save my life,  
And thou hast plainly seen my wronged estate;  
Judge thou my cause, be thou my Advocate.  
For thou hast seen their vengeance, thou dost see  
Their deep imaginations against me.  
Thou their reproach hast heard, and apprehended  
What against me their busy thoughts intended.  
Thou know'st the very lips of them that rose  
Against me, and the malice of my foes.  
Behold their sitting and their rising, I  
Am all their music, and their melody.  
Render to them a recompense, O God,  
And let them feel thy handiwork, thy rod.  
O give them grief of heart; O let them burst  
With dregs of sorrow, let them be accursed.  
And let thy angry persecuting hand  
Destroy, confound, and sweep them from the Land.  

Meditatio in Capitulum.  
COme, come, my Soul, do not obnubilate  
Thyself with smoky pleasures, nor create  
More vain delights to please thy toyish mind:  
Be serious now; let pleasures be confined.  
Th' Almighty's angry, and his angry Breath  
Expresses nothing but resolved Death.  
His wrath is kindled, and his furious hand  
Threatens a ruin to a sinful Land.  
His bow is bent; behold he stands prepared,  
'tis he, 'tis he, that will not be out-dared:  
And should his roving messenger impart  
A secret sorrow to a private heart;  
What then? Can all the balsams may be found  
●ecure so great, so terrible a wound?  
No, no: O then let thy discerning eye  
●e truly watchful; for discovery  
●ft-times prevents a mischief: he's a stranger  
●o heaven's high Court, that thinks t'outbrave a danger  
●ehold (my soul) thou art environed round  
●ith troops of adversaries; hark, they sound  
Their vilifying trumpets: hark, they mock,  
And make thy sorrows but their laughing stock.  
Dost thou not hear them, how they shout and cry▪  
As though they'd cleave th' unseparable sky?  
O be not deaf; rouse up thyself, advance  
Thy backward thoughts, sleep not in ignorance.  
Provoke not heaven too much: O do not still  
Urge more and more his most unwilling will.  
Observe but how unpleasantly his arm  
Draws up his bow, as one that's loath to harm.  
Methinks I hear him say, O can ye tell!  
Why will ye die, ye house of Israel?  
Methinks I hear his never-ending breath  
Breathe a disdain against a sinner's death.  
Methinks I hear his grieved spirit say,  
Ye that are weary, come, O come away,  
And lay your burdens on my back, and I  
Will bear them all; I'll bear them willingly;  
Why will ye die? why will ye shut your eyes,  
And thus run headlong after vanities?  
Open your Adder ears, come and rejoice  
With me and mine; let my harmonious voice  
Invite you: Ah, what pleasures can accrue,  
From shadows, to such substances as you?  
Cast off the works of darkness, let true light  
Expel those mists: O come when I invite.  
What do ye mean? O tell me, tell me why  
Ye love to tumble in impurity?  
Ah now my Soul! let admiration prove  
That heaven's composed of nothing but of Love▪  
O Love beyond expression! My deserts  
(Rather then Mercy) claim a thousand darts.  
Call home thy wandering thoughts, and let them all  
(Like servants) be obedient to thy Call.  
Examine them; the very best will show,  
Thy best deserts are but an overthrow.  
Review thy actions; see if they can yield  
One grain of comfort: see if they can shield  
Thy threatened state: The more men strive to smother  
Their sins, the more one sin begets another.  
Then fly, dull soul, to heaven's high Court, & there  
Melt, melt, into an everlasting tear.  
Atone thy God, let not thy tongue deny  
The truth to him, when he shall ask thee, why,  
Why hast thou done this wickedness? Confess,  
'Tis thou hast sinned, 'tis he that must depress  
That head-increasing Hydra: Then shalt thou  
●ehold with what a voluntary brow  
He'll entertain thee, and those joys impart  
To thee, which wait upon a contrite heart.  
He will have pity, though he sends a grief:  
In multitudes of mercy lies relief.  
The God of Love did never take delight  
●o mantle sinners with the clouds of night.  
●e's an indulgent Father, and his care  
● infinite, as all his mercies are.  

Compose thy numerous thoughts, my Soul, and run:  
O tell that Father, thou wilt be his Son.     

CHAP. IV.  
Contents.  
1 Zion bewaileth her pitiful estate: 13 She confesseth her sins. 21 Edom is threatened. 22 Zion is comforted.  
HOw is the gold grown dim! how is the fine  
The purest changed, that was wont to shine  
The stones that paved the sanctuary are thrown  
Into the streets, for beasts to trample on.  
The sons of Zion, which I could compare  
To finest gold, behold, see now they are  
Esteemed as earthen pitchers, which the hands  
Of the industrious Potter still commands.  
The ill-shaped monsters, which the Ocean owns  
As proper guests, nourish their little ones:  
But ah, my Daughters are grown pitiless,  
Like Ostriches within the wilderness.  
The wordless tongues of thirsty children cleave  
To their unliquid mouths; they never leave  
Their integrating cries: Poor hearts in vain  
They cry for food, but can no food obtain.  
And they that fed upon delicious sweets,  
Are desolate in the unquiet streets:  
They that were brought up in a scarlet dress,  
Embrace a dunghill as their happiness.  
For ah, my people's Daughter suffers more  
For her great sins, than Sodom did before.  
Her beautified Nazarites could show  
A purer white than milk, whiter than snow;  
Their bodies then the rubies were more red,  
With shining sapphire were they polished.  
But now their changed visages excel  
The coal in blackness; they that knew them well,  
Now know them not: their flesh adheres & sticks:  
Unto their bones, they are like withered sticks:  
Those that are ravished of their fading breath  
By the encountering sword, enjoy a death  
Transcending theirs, whose lingering souls are pined  
For want of food: Ah Famine's never kind!  
The woeful women boil their young, they have  
Turned their own fruitful bellies to a grave.  
The Lord hath now accomplished his ire,  
Poured out his streaming anger, caused a fire  
To flame in Zion, which devoured and laid  
Those buildings waste, which their own hands had made,  
The wisest Kings, nor the world's copious Nations  
Did ever think to see these great invasions  
Of the unbridled foe, whose headlong courses  
Divides her gates with their divided forces.  
The Priests & Prophets crimeless blood have shed;  
Their sins drew down this mischief on their head.  
Like those they wander, whose benighted eyes  
Attract no light from the all-lightning skies:  
They have themselves polluted, so that none.  
Can touch their clothes; they are with blood o'erflown.  
The people cry, depart, what do ye mean?  
Depart, depart, touch not, it is unclean:  
The Heathen, as they fled together, cried,  
With us they shall not sojourn, nor abide.  
God's anger hath divided them; he never  
Will love them more, but cast them off for ever:  
They disrespected Priests, and they forgot  
The gravest Elders, whom they pitied not.  
But as for us, our help-beguiled eyes  
Failed us as yet, no comfort would arise  
To us; we watched for Nations, but their power  
Could not protect us from so great a shower.  
They hunt our steps, our oft-extended feet  
Cannot divide their paces in the street:  
Our end is near, and our days total sum  
Is now fulfilled, for now our end is come.  
Our persecutors, our tormentors are  
Swifter than Eagles that enforce the air:  
Upon the mountains they pursued us; They,  
To trap our feet, in ambushcado lay.  
Those pits, which they for ruin have appointed,  
Enclosed our soul's delight, the Lord's Anointed;  
Under whose shadow we shall live, we said,  
Amongst the Heathens; thus are we dismayed.  
O Edom's daughter, now stretch out thy voice,  
Be glad; and for a time in us rejoice:  
This cup shall pass along to thee, thou shalt  
Be drunk and naked, 'cause thou didst revolt.  
Thy plagues expire, O zions daughters! he  
No more will lead thee to captivity:  
But Edom, O lament, lift up thine eyes,  
For heaven will visit thy iniquities.  

Meditatio in Capitulum.  
DIstracted Zion, having spent her days  
In supine negligence, stands in a maze,  
Not knowing what to do: her wonted joys  
Yield torment, not contentment, seeming toys,  
And childish trifles, which perplex her more,  
Then thousand pleasures pleasured her before.  
And now her alienated mind begins  
To ruminate upon her former sins:  
Her studious thoughts recount what precious time  
She spent in folly; weighing every crime  
In equal balance, posing them aright,  
Finds them too heavy, and herself too light.  
And like a frighted bird, her winged mind  
Flies up and down, thinking some rest to find  
In sorrows wilderness: But ah, who can  
find a lost Jewel in the Ocean!  
Now we may see how her embraced folly  
Is quite dissolved into melancholy.  
And those lascivious hours, which she hath spent,  
Seem like grim Marshals giving punishment  
To an offending wretch: As in a dream,  
The fancy makes each object seem extreme;  
And why? b●cause the judgement which should guide  
Th' unruly fancy, sleep's laid aside:  
The senses once locked up, the fancy may  
Not only claim a privilege to play,  
But to delude, and represent those things  
To meanest Subjects, which belong to Kings;  
Which makes the flattered Senses even dance,  
And leap for joy, and striving to advance  
Themselves, awake; and finding all's but vain,  
Reason steps in, and makes them poor again.  
Even thus was poor Jerus'lem lulled asleep  
With fancy-pleasing pleasure, which did keep  
A rendezvouz within her, lest that doubt  
Should interpose, and put the fancy out  
Of frame; And by a more diviner art  
Should breed a Meditation in her heart.  
For when the wak'ned Senses once have gained  
The upper hand, the fancy is restrained,  
And curbed by judgement; Reason too survives  
Again, and claims her own Prerogatives:  
The apprehension with her new-got power  
Begins to taste and apprehend how sour  
Her sweets are grown: Ah than she cries! I see  
I'm turned to nothing, being turned from thee,  
My great Redeemer, I have quite exiled  
Thy mercies from my bosom, and reviled  
Thy just commands, presuming oftentimes  
To urge, with my reiterated crimes,  
Thy long-continued patience; and expressed  
No grief at all from my obdurate breast.  
My eyes were still laborious to discover  
New vanities; and like a heedless lover,  
Whose beauty-dazled eyes do only view  
The Superficies, seeking not how true  
The heart remaineth, but can fondly be  
Content with beauties bare epitome.  
And thus my rash adventuring Soul went on,  
(Pleasures admit no intermission  
To them, whose hearts are envious to obtain  
A present pleasure, but a future pain:)  
And ah, how quickly's yielding flesh and blood  
Surprised and conquered by a seeming good!  
A Good that's good for nothing but t'invite  
Fond Souls to ruin, and o'revail the light  
Of real Truth: and with enforced delusions  
Makes them take pleasure in their own confusions.  
Since then, my Soul, no pleasures can be found  
In this base centre; let thy thoughts rebound  
From this fastidious Orb; learn to advance  
Thyself above the frowns, the reach of chance:  
And let th' extent of thy ambition be  
Only to purchase an eternity  
Of happiness, which shall perpetuate,  
And make thee glorious in a glorious state.  
Divorce thyself from thy unsummed-up faults,  
Protract no ●ime, but clarify thy thoughts.  
Command thyself, and thou shalt be reputed  
A most deserving Victor: not confuted  
By any, though their noble acts may claim  
A true inheritance to a lasting Fame.  

For he that gives himself an overthrow,  
Conquers a Kingdom, and subdues a foe.   
Then arm thyself, my Soul, and strive t'out-dare  
Satan's attempts; be studious to prepare  
Thyself, and let thy adversary see  
When he is strongest, th' art as strong as he.  
Let not his vain delusions interpose  
twixt thee and heaven: O do not thou expose  
Thyself to wilful danger, but endeavour  
T'accost his actions; but believe him never.  
Thou seest how poor Jerusalem bewails  
Her sad disasters; how she stoops, and fails  
Beneath the burden of her grief, and cries,  
O boundless grief! O vainest vanities!  
O dream thou not of transitory things,  
Which are unconstant, having secret wings  
To fly away; and flying will confound  
Thy better parts, and give thy Soul a wound.  
Be wary then, and let thy thought concur  
With heavens' commands, and so will he tranfer  

His Kingdom to thee, full of lasting treasure,  
Where nothing's greater than the smallest pleasure.     

CHAP. V.  
REmember, Lord, what's come upon us; see,  
Ponder the greatness of our infamy.  
Strangers inherit that which is our due,  
Our habitation's turned to aliens too.  
For we are Orphans, and all fatherless,  
Our Mothers are as Widows in distress.  
We buy our water, (O unhappy fate!)  
And purchase fuel at too dear a rate.  
Our necks are persecuted and unblessed,  
And still we labour, but obtain no rest.  
Unto the Egyptians we our hand have spread,  
Desiring to be satisfied with bread.  
Our buried fathers sinned in former times,  
And we have born the burden of their crimes  
Servants have ruled us, and there's none that will  
Deliver us, but let them rule us still.  
With peril of our lives we have obtained  
Our bread, because the sword was unrestrained.  
Our skins are black, like to an oven, and dry,  
Because the Famine caused a Tyranny.  
Zion and Judah's daughter have been led  
Away, and violently ravished.  
Princes are hanged up by the hands; the faces  
Of Elders have no honour but disgraces.  
They made the young men grind; the children blood  
Fainted beneath the burden of their wood.  
The Elders at their gates did not abide,  
The young men's music too is laid aside.  
The joy is ceased which was our heart's relief,  
Our active dance's turned to passive grief.  
The crown is fallen from our heads; and woe,  
Woe be to us that have offended so.  
Our hearts are faint, and our suffused eyes  
Are dim, because of these calamities.  
Because that zions mountain's desolate,  
The foxes walk thereon to recreate  
Themselves: But thou, O Lord, shalt sit on high  
Upon thy Throne, unto Eternity.  
Wherefore dost thou forsake us, and demure  
Thyself so long from us, that seem secure:  
Turn thou, and we are turned; Lord we implore  
Renew our days, as thou hast done before.  
But thou hast quite rejected us, and thou  
beholdest thy servants with an angry brow.  

Meditatio in Capitulum.  

COmplaining, what is that? will that relieve  
Imprisoned souls, or teach them how to grieve▪  
Tell me, sad Soul, can greater wants converse  
With flesh and blood? nay, what more lasting curse  
Can be entailed on man, then to complain  
To such an ear as will not once retain  
The least expression of a grief, but cry,  
Let woe attend him to Eternity?  
O dismal sentence! and if this be all,  
'Twould grieve a man that e'er he grieved at all,  
To be thus harshly answered, and excluded  
From hopes of mercy; Be not thus deluded  
Despairing Soul.   

Jerusalem, 'tis true, she did complain;  
And was that all? O no, her tongue did chain  
A prayer to her Petition, and her eyes  
Were daily trickling for her miseries.  
Where is that man, that if he chance to be  
Deprived of his goods by robbery,  
Will sit complaining by himself, and try  
No lawful means for a recovery  
Of what he lost? should we not deem him mad,  
To lose that good, which might be easily had,  
If sought? This Proverb calls it to my mind,  
He that will spare to seek, must spare to find.  
Even so, if Satan, whose depriving power  
Shall take a watched advantage, and devour  
The Manna of our Souls, shall we then say,  
'Tis gone, 'tis gone, Satan has stolen't away?  
And ah, can these, these naked words recall  
A lost estate? O no, 'twill but enthrall  
Our happiness the more, and make our grief  
The more extreme, admitting no relief.  
My Soul, if Satan e'er shall make attempt  
Upon thy weakness, labouring to exempt  
And win thee from thyself; go and make known  
Thy cause to heaven's judge-advocate: bemoan  
Thyself with tears; complain, confess, and pray:  
God loves confession, but abhors delay.  
Run, run unto him, that thou mayst prevent  
The wrath and censure of his Parliament.  
Go, go, for there thou shalt be sure to find  
Abundance linked together in one mind.  
There is no faction, no divisions there,  
But all are settled in one hemisphere  
Of true Opinion: There is none t'expect  
A bribe; or else without a bribe neglect  
To agitate thy business, or exact  
Upon thy guiltless conscience, or enact  
Their several humours: There is none to bring  
Thy Soul in danger, 'cause th''ve loved thy King,  
Thy heavenly King, by whom thou shalt possess  
A true and no excised happiness.  
O endless joy! a joy that far transcends  
The deepest thoughts; a joy that never ends.  
Be ravished, 0 my Soul! and meditate  
Upon Jerusalem: Let her sad state  
Be as a caveat to thee; let her fall  
Teach thee to stand: let her detested gall  
Prove honey to thee; so mayst thou derive  
Thy welfare from her sorrows, and survive  
In everlasting bliss: Peace beyond measure  
Shall crown thee with vicissitude of Pleasure.   

Play well thy game, and so will heaven extend  
His liberal grace, and bless thee in the End.      

DIVINE MEDITATIONS.  
MEditation we may fitly call  
The soul's arithmetician, summing all  
Our sins together; Nay, and every day  
Ciphers them up, and teaches us to pray;  
Then let us meditate, and strive to do  
What our arithmetician leads us too.  

He that will true examples learn to give,  
First let him learn to die, and then to live:  
Prefer the surest first; for you and I  
Uncertain are to live, but sure to die.   

MEDITAT. I.  
PElion is fallen upon Ossa's back,  
The more I cry for help, the more I lack.  
There's none will look upon me, how I lie  
In the Charybdis of perplexity.  
Escaping Scylla, O I thought I'd been  
Past danger, but Charybdis was not seen.   

MEDITAT. 2.  
I'm now benighted, and obscured from light,  
My day of pleasure's turned into a night  
Of clouded sorrow; Grief comes sailing on,  
Steered by the hand of my Rebellion.  
Heaven stop his passage, may he never rest  
Within the harbour of my tender breast.   

MEDITAT. 3.  
What have I done? or what have I deserved,  
That I am thus imprisoned, and reserved  
For death and sad destruction? Nay, but why,  
Why do I ask, what I have done? To die,  
To die, 'tis too too little, could a worse,  
A worse succeed, I have deserved the curse.   

MEDITAT. 4.  
I have displeased heaven, where shall I fly  
To hide myself from his offended eye?  
If rocks, or caves, could hide me from my sin,  
There, there I'd go, and hide myself within  
The bowels of the Earth, till heaven should say,  
The night of sin is gone, and now 'tis day.   

MEDITAT. 5.  
What if I stormed heavens' Paradise with prayers,  
●nd so besieged it with an host of tears?  
What if I undermined and laid a train  
● blow it up with sighs? 'twere but in vain:  
●storm, besiege, all is but labour spent,  
Except I could, as David did, Repent.   

MEDITAT. 6.  
●●pent: O what a sound that word imports!  
〈◊〉 how it penetrates! How many sorts  
●f echoes answer it! Repent of all;  
●e that leaves one, repents of none at all.  
●e that will learn how to repent, and when,  
First let him strive to be a David, then.   

MEDITAT. 7.  
●nd art thou still disquieted, my Soul?  
●●ust thou in God; in God, that doth control  
●●th heaven and Earth: 'tis he that must and shall  
〈◊〉 feared and honoured, yea and loved withal.  
●is he can send Jobs torments, and his woe;  
'Tis we must pray to have his patience too.   

MEDITAT. 8.  
Fain would I come before my angry God,  
But that my sinful years still fear the Rod  
Of his Correction, yet appear I must;  
Sure, sure he's merciful, as well as just:  
Cheer up dejected Soul, and thou shalt see  
His mercy's greater than thy sins can be.   

MEDITAT. 9  
Can heaven forget himself, or can he say  
That thing o'er night, he cannot do next day?  
Can friends forget their children, or deny  
Their dearest blood? or can a mountain fly?  
heaven says, he'll be a Father till the end:  
Then he's a fool that doubts so true a friend.   

MEDITAT. 10.  
A friend indeed, but how can I expect  
To purchase friendship by my own neglect?  
For ah, how often hath heaven pleased to say,  
Ye that are heavy loaden, come away,  
And I will give you ease? Alas! but I  
Thought sin no burden, neither thought to die   

MEDITAT. 11.  
But now I see the frailty of my mind;  
I thought I was imprisoned, when confined  
Only one hour to goodness; nay, that hour  
I thought a year, until I had the power  
To free myself; when freed, I had forgot  
What goodness was, as though I'd heard it not.   

MEDITAT. 12.  
And should I strive to reckon up my sins,  
How can he make an end, that still begins?  
The sands upon the Seas, nay, and the hair  
Upon my head, are ciphers in compare  
Of my excessive sins, yet heaven can call  
Me, as he did the spendthrift Prodigal.   

MEDITAT. 13.  
I know my sins are great, and do increase  
Within my Zion, and disturb my Peace:  
O what am I (dear heaven?) I am thy creature,  
My sins are great, but yet thy mercy's greater.  
Pardon (blessed heaven,) forgive what I have done;  
Thou art my Father, own me as thy Son.   

MEDITAT. 14.  
It is a happiness to scorn the mirth  
Of this confused transitory Earth:  
And he who is ambitious to create  
A happiness, must make the world his hate:  
Then if self-love appear, we know for what;  
We love ourselves in truly hating that.   

MEDITAT. 15.  
Life is the life's preparative, and Death  
The deprivation of unconstant breath.  
A well directed life shall always find  
Society in Death; a glorious mind  
Shall have a glorious, a celestial friend  
To guard his glory to a glorious end.   

MEDITAT. 16.  
But can a mind, enammeled with the glory  
Of heaven, have end? or else is Death a story?  
Death is the end of Life, and yet we see  
Life is derived from death's sovereignty.  
'Tis quickly known, the Death of Sin must give  
The para'ned Soul a privilege to live.   

MEDITAT. 17.  
heaven is the seat of Happiness, and Hell  
The place of fury, where the Furies dwell.  
Then mount my Soul upon the spreading wings  
Of lofty Faith; fly towards the King of Kings:  
Whilst here thou shalt inhabit, learn to know,  
That heaven's too high for them that fly too low.   

MEDITAT. 18.  
I am but sordid earth, that's daily ploughed  
With grief and care; and sorrows hourly crowd  
Into my weak dominions, and remain  
Like greedy Tenants, thirsting after gain.  
My eyes are always open to behold  
New woes, for I am formed in sorrows mould.   

MEDITAT. 19  
I am a reeling Pinnace, and I sail  
From Port to Port; sometimes a humble gale  
Salutes my spreading sails, and by and by  
The waves, contemning my prosperity,  
Spit in my face, being hurried by their tides,  
They seem to crawl into my sweating sides.   

MEDITAT. 20.  
I am a clouded day, I promise rain:  
Sometimes I'm stormy, and then clear again;  
Sometimes the Sun of Pence begins t'appear,  
But cannot shine in sorrows Hemisphere:  
Saddest of thoughts; needs must he be distressed  
That finds unconstant weather in his breast.   

MEDITAT. 21.  
I am a vapour, having not the power  
T'endure the fervour of one shining hour:  
vapours cannot withstand a mid-days heat;  
Afflictions must be hot, where sins are great:  
'Tis not unlike, a misty morning may  
ofttimes prove usher to a glorious day.   

MEDITAT. 22.  
I am a trembling reed, and every day  
The wind and I are subject to a fray:  
I'm bruised, and shall be broken, if some hand  
Sustain me not, I shall forget to stand▪  
But stay my Soul, and hear Jehovah speak,  
I vow, the bruised reed I will not break.   

MEDITAT. 23.  
I am but earth, corrupted with my deeds,  
Which are but like unprofitable weeds;  
My soil is rank and barren, and it bears  
No grain at all, no not so much as tears:  
Wouldst thou increase (my Soul,) I'll teach thee how,  
Sow but the seeds of Faith, God speeds the plow.   

MEDITAT. 24.  
Despair not, when affliction ploughs the ground,  
Doubt not increases, if the seed be found:  
Heaven loves a fruitful harvest, and his hand  
Is always active to manure the Land;  
He takes the chiefest care, the greatest pains,  
He crowns the work, 'tis we that reap the gains.   

MEDITAT. 25.  
Man's like a house, whose outward beauty may  
Yield pleasure to the eye; If we survey  
The inward rooms, there we may find enough  
Of untrimed natures sluttish householdstuff.  
Wouldst thou be fair within (O man,) and neat,  
Turn but thy inside out, thou'lt be complete.   

MEDITAT. 26.  
Do greedy raven's hunger? do they cry  
For food? and are they fed? and must not I?  
I beg, I crave, and yet am hungry still;  
I pine, I starve, and Ravens have their fill.  
I know (great God) I have offended thee,  
Because thou seedest the Ravens, and not me.   

MEDITAT. 27.  
Do lilies flourish? do they still remain  
Neatly adorned? and yet they take no pain;  
They neither spin nor card, they take no care,  
And yet they're clothed, and I, poor I, go bare.  
I know (great God) I have offended thee,  
Because thou cloth'st the lilies, and not me.   

MEDITAT. 28.  
Why am I thus tormented with the Rod  
Of my afflictions? Hath my angry God  
Forgot his creature? Shall I never have  
A little ease, but be affliction's slave?  
Forbear, my grumbling Soul, cheer up, and be  
Mindful of him, and he'll remember thee.   

MEDITAT. 29.  
And why does heaven afflict me, but because  
He'll make me know myself, and learn his Laws.  
Then why am I disquieted? If he  
Intends my good, shall I prove enemy  
Unto myself? My Soul, take care, be still,  
unless he turns that good into an ill.   

MEDITAT. 30.  
Then learn, my soul, when heaven afflicts, to know  
'Tis for thy sins he does it, and to show  
The greatness of his mercy, and to make  
Thee love affliction for the Afflictors sake.  
Be wise and provident, and thou shalt see,  
'Twas good for David, 'twill be good for thee.   

MEDITAT. 31.  
If thou wilt learn, my Soul, how to endure,  
With patience, thy afflictions, be thou sure,  
That when the hand of angry heaven shall smite,  
Thou dost not grumble like the Israelite.  
Strive thou for patience, heaven will teach thee how  
To bear affliction with a cheerful brow.   

MEDITAT. 32.  
What though the waves of thy afflictions rise,  
And rage abundantly? lift up thy eyes,  
And cry to heaven, let patience calm thy mind,  
And know that purest gold must be refined,  
And when affliction brings thee to the brink  
Of death, remember Peter did not sink.   

MEDITAT. 33.  
When I consider how I have offended  
My Souls dread sovereign, and vilipended  
His gracious promises, I much admire  
He casts me not into eternal fire:  
But he in mercy makes me kiss his Rod,  
Tells me, I am a creature, he a God.   

MEDITAT. 34.  
Consider well, my Soul, why hast thou breath,  
Since that the wages of thy Sins are death?  
Thou hast deserved ten thousand times to die,  
But that thy GOD, whose mercy doth deny  
A Sinners death, reprieves thee for a time,  
To make thee know the greatness of thy crime.   

MEDITAT. 35.  
O meditate, my Soul, what heaven hath done  
For thee, that art his most rebellious Son;  
He hath prolonged thy days, and strived to win  
And draw thee from the loathsomeness of sin.  
Admired patience! O indulgent care!  
Mercy of Mercies! how can heaven forbear!   

MEDITAT. 36.  
Have I offended? and shall I despair?  
Oh no, I dare not: Ah my Soul, forbear  
To harbour such a wickedness; but know,  
When thy sins ebb, God's mercies overflow:  
His mercy is an Ocean, and thy prayer  
Is th' only wind can raise a tempest there.   

MEDITAT. 37.  
Then pray my Soul, and let thy prayers reveal  
Thy bosom sins; O think not to conceal  
A crime from him, that is the God of Truth,  
And knows the sins of thy offending youth:  
Ah know my Soul, the more thou strivest to smother  
Thy sins, the more one sin begets another.   

MEDITAT. 38.  
Can Sin, the Souls consuming Viper, lie,  
And lurk secure, from heavens' all seeing eye?  
O no, 'tis vain to think so; though that we  
Are muffled up with sin, yet heaven can see.  
O then confess my Soul, and thou shalt tread,  
And trample on the viper's poys'ny head.   

MEDITAT. 39  
But can Confession in itself obtain  
An absolute forgiveness? Can we gain  
heaven by a sigh? O no, my Soul express  
A perfect sorrow, when thou dost confess,  
Then let resolved Constancy endure,  
And thou, my Soul, shalt truly rest secure.   

MEDITAT. 40.  
Dost thou, my Soul, desire to be partaker  
Of those celestial joys, wherewith thy Maker  
Crowns those endeavouring Souls, which study still  
To be obedient to his sacred Will?  
Examine well the Scriptures, they will show  
The ready way; then practise how to go.   

MEDITAT. 41.  
Let thy innocuous Meditations be  
Serious and fervent, let integrity  
Still wait upon them, which will still defend  
And guard thy actions to a prosperous end:  
Then shall thy labours have a peaceful rest;  
Then daily labour to be daily blessed.   

MEDITAT. 42.  
But have a care (my Soul) left malice chance  
To interpose it self, and so advance  
Above thy patience, and disturb that peace  
Which might have blessed thee with a large increase.  
O have a care this be no fault of thine!  
Remember who hath said, Vengeance is mine.   

MEDITAT. 43.  
Dost thou desire, my Soul, that heaven should say,  
Thy pardon's sealed, and I will blot away  
Thy numerous sins; nay, and I will no more  
Remember them, as I have done before?  
Then learn, my Soul, to know, whilst thou dost live,  
He that will be forgiven, must forgive.   

MEDITAT. 44.  
If thou wouldst go to heaven, my Soul, go on,  
(Not as the sluggard of wise Solomon,)  
Be not so timorous as he, to say,  
There is a Lion lurking in the way:  
Go on with courage, let the way delight thee,  
Then shall the Lion grumble, and not bite thee.   

MEDITAT. 45.  
The wise man saith, that sluggards shall be clothed  
With rags, and all his actions shall be loathed;  
And he that's willing to obtain a prize,  
Must be laborious, and have watchful eyes;  
(My drowsy Soul) make heaven thy prize, then strain  
T'out-run thy sins, and so thou shalt obtain.   

MEDITAT. 46.  
When on the ladder Jacob did descry  
The Angels in his dream, he saw them fly  
upwards and downwards, which was to express  
How much they scorned and hated Idleness:  
Then learn, my Soul, how to ascend apace  
From sin, to the perfection of grace.   

MEDITAT. 47.  
What was the reason Peter wept? Nay, why  
Did he go out and weep so bitterly?  
Could he not weep within? Did he not dare  
Before the wicked to disburse a tear?  
By this example Peter makes it known,  
Who truly grieves, desires to grieve alone.   

MEDITAT. 48.  
Hast thou my Soul, with persecuting Paul,  
Envied the Church? Hast thou conspired her fall?  
Why then my Soul wilt thou despair? 'Tis true,  
The crime is great, and GOD is gracious too.  
A light may shine from heaven, and thou shalt be,  
With Paul, converted from thy tyranny.   

MEDITAT. 49.  
Hast thou, with thrice-denying Peter, cried,  
I know him not, but stubbornly denied  
The Lord of Life? what then? the Cock may crow,  
God may look back upon thee, and bestow  
His liberal blessings: Then my Soul deny  
Thy sins, with Peter, and weep bitterly.   

MEDITAT. 50.  
But was it not, my Soul, a sad disaster,  
That Peter should so soon deny his Master,  
For whose dear sake led lose his life? O what  
A sudden change is this, I know him not!  
Nay more, as if he thought this would not do,  
He binds it with an oath, forswears him too.   

MEDITAT. 51.  
What was the reason that the Lions, when  
They entertained Daniel in their Den,  
Did rather fear, than hunger? Nay, how can  
Destroying Lions fawn upon a man?  
My Soul, there was a Lamb that tamed the Lion  
And made the Den prove Daniels safest Zion.   

MEDITAT. 52.  
Advise my Soul, and how could Daniel live,  
Imprisoned in the Den, and none to give  
Him daily food? How could he rest at quiet,  
Without th' enjoyment of some slender diet?  
When heaven commands his Angels, they shall fe●  
A Soul; (my Soul) that Soul can never nee●   

MEDITAT. 53.  
'Twas Faith that guarded Daniel from the paws  
Of dauntless Lions, whose imperious jaws  
Were tied by heaven's appointment, so that they  
Forgot their Tyranny, and learned to play.  
(My Soul) with Daniel, truly think upon  
Thy God, and Faith shall be thy Champion.   

MEDITAT. 54.  
Did great Goliath fall? Could he not stand,  
That was so strong, against so weak a hand?  
Could not his armour, nor his storming power  
Maintain so mean a combat half an hour?  
Here, here (my Soul) observe, and thou shalt find  
An armed body, but a naked mind.   

MEDITAT. 55.  
But how did stripling David dare to show  
His childish face before so great a foe?  
He had no armour on, nor sword to shield  
His body, yet he fought, and won the field.  
Here, here (my Soul) observe, and thou shalt fin●  
A naked body, but an armed mind.   

MEDITAT. 56.  
Be sure (my Soul) when e'er thou shalt begin  
To war with the Goliath of thy sin,  
Take David's armour, and thou shalt or'ethrow  
Thy sin with a most advantageous blow.  
Boast not too much, but with bold courage fight;  
The pebble-stones of Faith fly always right.   

MEDITAT. 57  
Faith is the arm of safety, which defends  
The Soul from all approaching harm, and lends  
A sword to fight with Satan, who may venture  
To make a thrust or two, but cannot enter.  
Gain thou this arm of Faith (my Soul,) and then  
Thou mayst outdare a Lion in his Den.   

MEDITAT. 58.  
Learn how to prize thy Faith (my Soul,) and know  
She is thy only safety here below:  
She is a trusty buckler to protect thee  
From showers of evil, and to good direct thee.  
Then rouse my Soul, and be not quite cast down,  
Repentance brings in Faith, and Faith a Crown.   

MEDITAT. 59  
A Crown, that's only fitting to adorn  
A Prince's brow; and Subjects that are born  
To an inferior fortune, must content  
Themselves with that, which fortune freely lent.  
But ah my Soul! be wise, and understand,  
A heavenly Crown's not made by human hand.   

MEDITAT. 60.  
A glorious Crown of Glory shall attend  
Attentive hearts; my Soul, I recommend  
This Crown to thee: consider but the price  
It cost, and then remember Paradise:  
Remember whose dear blood did trickle down,  
Like tedious showers, to purchase thee this Crown.   

MEDITAT. 61.  
O boundless Love! would such a Lamb as he  
Die for such wolf-like sycophants as we?  
His willing Soul did even joy t'express  
This introduction to our happiness.  
His blood gushed out to wash us clean within:  
He shed it for our sins, and yet we sin.   

MEDITAT. 62.  
Rouse up my Soul, and let thy Eagle-eyes  
Behold that Sun in whom thy safety lies:  
Look well upon him and thou shalt discover  
A lamblike Patience, and a constant Lover.  
Admire with how much dovelike innocence  
He suffered death for us that gave th'offence.   

MEDITAT. 63.  
Art thou not ravished yet, my Soul? then hear,  
And I will recommend unto thy ear  
The willing Passion of that Lamb, which cried  
Eloi, Elois, Elois, and so died:  
And by the virtue of his dying deed,  
Our blood was stopped, when he began to bleed.   

MEDITAT. 64.  

Man, the unhappy offspring of that man  
Of Sin, at whose beginning we began  
To fall from our first principles, and stray  
From good to bad, digressing from the way  
Of our assured Salvation, and exchange  
A world of pleasure for a world of pains;  
And by that Heaven-forbidden taste, reversed  
The stroke of mercy, made us all accurst,  
And hourly subject to his wrath, whose power  
Created us, and made us little lower  
Then heaven-bred Angels; till the sad inventions  
Of Satan's malice quickened the intentions  
Of greedy Eve, whose hand soon recommended  
That fruit, which by the Serpent was extended,  
To her beguiled husband, whose neglect  
Of heavens' Commands purchased a dull aspect  
From his revengeful brow, which shined more bright  
Then glorious Cynthia in her greatest light.  
But ah, the cloud of Adam's sin had made  
A great eclipse: Poor Adam is betrayed  
By his own folly, and condemned to crawl  
Upon his belly, and gulp up the gall  
Of his transgressions; Having thus offended,  
He's thrown from Paradise, and vilipended  
By heaven: But all this while the Serpent sits  
Ravished with laughter, tut'ring still his wits  
To further mischief; having found success  
In his first enterprise, doubts nothing less  
Than what he hopes for; having thus o'erthrown  
The first man Adam, thinks that all's his own:  
But that our God, whose all-commanding power  
Can mortify, and quicken in one hour,  
Was filled with pity, pitied man whose state  
He saw was miserably desperate;  
Begun to view him with a gracious eye,  
And invocates his sacred Trinity:  
And thus proceeds.—  
— Have I made man? have I  
Made wretched man, man made to glorify  
My name, and given to his thriftless hand  
Preeminency both by Sea and Land?  
And shall I not be honoured? Am I not  
A mindful God? And shall I be forgot  
By slothful man? Have I not gave him light  
In spite of darkness, and shall he requite  
My favours thus? Nay more, have I not framed  
And stamped him with my Image, and proclaimed  
A lasting greatness to him? And shall they  
Be thus obdurate now, that were but clay  
Before I gave them breath? and shall that breath  
Contemn, defy, and scorn me to the death?  
Is this the honour which I did expect  
From them? Is this the duty? this th' effect  
Of all my labours? Speak my dearest Son,  
What shall we do with man that hath undone  
His wretched self? My fury burns to be  
Revenged on man for his iniquity.  
Break forth my restless fury, and devour  
That loathed thing called man, give him no power  
To call me Father; whilst abused I  
Will stop my ears, and scorn to hear him cry:  
Begone, enact my pleasure.   

The Son replied; Oh stop! Oh stay, my dear,  
My dearest Father! Let thy sacred ear  
Stand open but one minute, that poor man  
May strive to plead, and utter what he can  
For his own self. Alas my Son, I know  
The more he strives to speak, the more he'll show  
His guilt; And ah! what answer can he make  
To angry I, that am resolved to take  
Speedy revenge? The more he strives to clear  
Himself, the more he'll make his guilt appear.  
Begone my fury, run till thou art spent;  
Away, away, and give my passion vent,  
Vent it on man. My angry Father, stay  
A little longer, hear what I will say  
In man's behalf: Oh, is not man thy creature?  
His sins are not so great, but thou art greater  
In mercy: Oh be merciful, and let  
(If nothing will) my blood discharge the debt:  
I'll freely give it, may this Blood of mine  
Extinguish quite those angry flames of thine.  
Oh be appeased, and give me leave to strive  
Against the power of Satan, and deprive  
Him of his man-deluding power: I'll charm  
His ravening malice, and withhold his arm  
From hurting man: Nay, and I'll undergo  
As many sorrows, as the world can show,  
For man thy Image: Say the word, and I  
Will go, nay run, for joy, that I must die  
For man's Redemption. Dearest Son, then go,  
Redeem relapsed man, that he may owe  
An endless debt. But say, my Son, should he,  
For whom thou diest, revile, dishonour thee,  
And trample in thy precious blood, and make  
That blood prove poison to him, that should take  
The venom of his sins away? I'll strive,  
The Holy Ghost replied, to make man thrive,  
And grow in grace; I'll teach him to express  
No feigned, but a real thankfulness.  
O Soul-transporting Joy! O truest Love  
Without a period! O innoxious Dove!  
Couldst thou, thou Lamb of God, be thus content  
To step from heaven, and take that punishment  
Upon thy patient self, which appertained  
To Heaven provoking man, man that was stained  
And blured with sin, whose spots could never be  
Washed out (blessed Lamb) by any but by thee?  
Hadst thou not interposed, our Souls had been  
Imboweled in the Ocean of our Sin:  
And hadst thou not sustained us, we had fell,  
And sweltered in the restless flames of Hell.  
Hadst thou not looked upon our sad condition,  
And pitied us, to see what expedition  
We made to our own ruins, we had lost  
The hopes of our Salvation, which cost  
An unknown price: 'Twas not a swelling flood  
Of heaped up gold redeemed us, but thy blood,  
Thy precious blood, which flowed like hasty tides  
In great abundance, from thy wounded sides.  
Start from the bed of Sin (my Soul,) and run  
To view the splendour of this glorious Sun:  
See how he wrestles with the gloomy clouds  
Of our transgressions; See how he unshrouds  
Himself: On see what pains he undergoes,  
To prove himself our friend, that were his foes.  
Methinks I hear a throng of people cry,  
Let Barabbas be freed, let's crucify  
This Jewish King; let's lead him to his death,  
'Tis pity he should draw a minute's breath.  
Methinks I see how his weak hands are bound  
With twisted cords: Methinks I see him crowned  
with sharpened thorns: Methinks I see them, how  
They worship him with a dissembled bow.  
Methinks I see the gazing people run  
To see the glorious setting of this Sun.  
Methinks I see his gentle feet divide  
Their measured paces, to be crucified.  
Methinks I see how his delightful face  
Seems to receive an honour by disgrace.  
Methinks I see how his heau'n-fixed eyes  
Do overlook his raging enemies.  
Methinks I see his spear-inviting breast  
Willingly ready to receive the rest  
Of their intended malice; How his palms  
(Like one that gives, and not receives an alms)  
Are spread abroad, which truly verifies  
With what a cheerful willingness he dies.  
Methinks I see how his connexed feet  
Salute the Cross, as if they joyed to meet  
With so, so fast a friend. Methinks I see  
With what a heau'n-infused reluctancy  
He entertains their blows, as if he found  
A lively comfort in each deadly wound.  
Methinks I see his bubbling veins, how they  
Swell up a little, and then shrink away,  
And hide themselves, as if they had expressed  
(For the departure of so warm a guest)  
A secret grief; till conquering death exiled  
Life from the body of that Lamb, that Child,  
That Son of God, in whom true joys reside;  
Who lives by dying, and by living dy'd.    

Quis miserior quàm qui suam nescit miseriam?  

DO I not daily see that nothing can  
Be so unstable as the state of man?  
Do I not see how fortune can correct  
Misfortune; and as suddenly neglect  
Poor helpless man? Sometimes his thoughts are crowned  
With golden joys, and sometimes kiss the ground:  
Sometimes he's filled with laughter, somtims weeps;  
Sometimes he walks in state, and sometimes creeps.  

A morning joy proves sometimes grief at night,  
For fortunes dial goes not always right.   
'Tis vain, 'tis vain; and ah that I could weep  
Myself into a deluge, and so steep  
My cheeks in tears: Oh that I could embark  
My naked Soul, and swim like Noah's Ark  
In that grand Ocean, which my flowing eyes  
Have made, and overlook my miseries!  
Distempered thoughts, why do you thus torment  
My yielding Soul? why does my Soul relent?  
Why am I thus afflicted? why doth sorrow  
Take an advantage of my Soul, and borrow  
Quotidian plagues, and study how to make  
My heart its theatre? How shall I shake  
These coupling fetters from my captived heart?  
How shall I bid adieu to grief, and part?  
Where shall I run, and labour to unsnare  
My breasts inhabitant? Oh how, or where  
Shall I retire myself! In what sad place  
Shall I deplore my miserable case?  
Could I but find a place where I might dwell,  
And only see the Sun, I'd bid farewell  
To all false pleasures.   

For now my Soul still hovers to and fro  
From places to place: sometimes it flies too low;  
Sometimes, with more aspiring wings, it flies,  
And envies at impossibilities:  
Then back again, and with a seeming mirth  
Surveys the centre of this flattering Earth.  
And thus my Soul, being left in this sad being,  
Agrees in nothing else but disagreeing:  
My ways are paved with thorns; I take my diet  
From sorrows table, furnished with disquiet:  
I am the principle of grief; my eyes,  
Like windows, open to all miseries:  
My head's a fountain, and from thence doth flow  
The headlong rivers of unbridled woe.  
My sighs, like sudden storms, disturb my rest,  
As if I had a Boreas in my breast.  
Needs must I be molested in my dreams,  
My heart's the receptacle of all streams:  
Then blame me not, if sorrow makes me cry;  
Sum all misfortune up, and that am I.  
But stay my thoughts; post not away too fast:  
extremes are dangerous, and cannot last.  
A sudden thought hath made me to confess,  
I may be happy in unhappiness.  
And what's a thought? 'tis but a sudden puff;  
Yet many may confound, when one's enough.  
Come let's repose, and make a little stay,  
Our Sun's sufficient to adorn a day.  
Why should I wander in the darksome shades  
Of my own errors, whilst a grief invades  
My naked senses? 'Tis in vain to strive  
Against the power of God, who can contrive  
What pleases him: Why shall I then repine  
At what he sends? Can wretched I confine  
His will to mine? Oh no; He suffers well,  
Whose sufferings tell him there's no other Hell  
But in this world: Who would not then endure  
Terrestrial torment, that he may procure  
Celestial pleasures? Sorrow brings no loss  
To him whose patience can sustain a cross.  
Hereafter I will labour to prevent  
A little Sorrow by a great Content.    

Surgit post nubila Phoebus.  
WHen gloomy clouds surround the lofty sky  
It is an argument a storm is nigh:  
But when the Sun's eclipsed from our sight,  
We must not judge an everlasting night  
Will then ensue: 'Tis danger to distrust  
A God that is so merciful, so just.  
The greatest sin that Satan can declare  
Against a guilty Soul, is sad despair.  
What though the clouds of Earth shall interpose  
Betwixt a Soul and Heaven? the wind blows  
Not always in one place; one happy hour  
May breed a calm, and qualify a shower.  
Some greedy Lawyers, when their clients stoek  
Is almost spent, rewards him with a mock:  
The Counsellor of heaven gives more content  
To a poor sinner, when his breath is spent:  
Accepts the will, although his tongue be mute;  
He seldom keeps him seven years in a suit:  
He's free in mercy, and he takes delight  
To end a suit, when sorrow makes it right:  
God is not like to them that take a pride  
In others griefs: when tears begin to slide,  
His mercy falls; he cannot brook delay,  
But meets a sinner's language half the way.  
His ears are always open to let in  
A sinner's prayers, when he lets out his sin.  
What though I have transgressed, what tho my crime  
Appear like mountains? mountains oftentimes  
Sink lower; nay, and God can pardon all  
As well as one: for be they great or small,  
They all are sins: shrubs grow as well as trees;  
God's mercy will admit of no degrees.  
He that distrusts his God shall always find  
A clouded conscience, and a stormy mind.  
Seven days had run, before God had attired  
The World with order, yet he was not tired:  
And shall we then expect to climb so high  
As heaven, in half an hour, or else deny  
So blessed a labour? No, perhaps to day  
We keep the road, to morrow lose the way.   

Contenta vita est summa foelicitas.  
WHat is this world? A looking-glass, wherein  
We see the body, nay the face of Sin.  
What's Wealth? what's honour! Transitory toys.  
What's Mirth? what's Pleasure? Melancholy joys.  
honour is Envy's object; Riches, they  
Are but the subjects of a frowning day.  
Beauty's a slave to Time, and fond delight  
Teaches the morning how to fool the night.  
Were I a Midus, could my towers of wealth  
Protect my person, or preserve my health?  
Were I a Cesar, could wy honours save  
My crazy carcase from the gaping grave?  
Were I as fair as Venus, could my beauty  
Acquit me from that necessary duty  
I owe to change? If so, I'd honour pleasure,  
And hug my honour, and rejoice in treasure.  
If I had riches, they might make me fly  
Upon the wings of prodigality.  
If I had honour, that might make me dance  
Ambition a coranto, and advance  
Myself above myself: If beauty were  
At my command, than might I chance t'ensnare  
The wantons of the world; nay, and entice  
virtue to change itself into a vice.  
Now tell me Earth, where are those smooth delights  
Thou often boasts of? are thy golden nights  
Changed into leaden days? Oh tell me then!  
Why dost thou so befool the sons of men?  
Who, following thee, consume their precious time,  
And are at last rewarded with a crime.  
Content, that well-advised word imports  
A Crown of Happiness: All joy resorts  
Into the palace of a blessed content,  
And there resides.  
Content is golden eyed, and can behold  
A dunghill with as much respect as gold.  
contents a Jewel; but here lies the art,  
Which way to hang it in a restless heart.  
Much have I heard of that rich stone, which all  
Are pleased t'entitle, Philosophical;  
And Fame reports, that many wits have tried,  
T'obtain it, and before obtained it, died,  
And lost their eager hopes; nay, what is worse,  
Left a rich study, but a poorer purse:  
And to conclude, experience made it known,  
Had they not lost Content, they'd found the Stone.   

Pax una triumpha est.  
PEace is the life of Happiness, and Strife  
A living Death unto a dying Life:  
Envy's the child of Srife, and pregnant Peace  
Is an indulgent Mother, whose increase  
Adorns the Earth: Peace is a Turtle Dove,  
Composed of nothing but the purest Love.  
What's martial triumph▪ but a little blaze,  
Which now aspires, and by and by decays?  
What triumph is't, to see the shivered bones  
Of breathless men, and hear th' impetuous groans  
Of those whose feeble tongues invite a death  
To dispossess them of their loathed breath?  
Sad are th' effects of War, and yet this age  
Esteems not Peace, but lets Contention rage  
Into a madness: Oh unhappy State,  
Where Strife's desired too soon, & Peace too late  
Soul-calming Peace, and heart-corroding Strife  
Live here like Factors, both for death and life.  
It is a sacred Jubilee, to hear  
Soft-breathing Peace, chanting in every ear  
Rare strains of heaven-bred raptures, which express  
Full Diapasons of our happiness:  
But 'tis a dying life to see, that bliss  
Should, by a hellish metamorphosis,  
Be thus transhaped to Strife: There's no prevention,  
Abused Peace perverts into contention.  
And can the Diamond of Amity,  
If once dissevered in pieces, be  
Composed again? Experience makes us find,  
'Tis quickly broken, but not quickly joined.  
Oh Peace! Can we expect thy blessed return,  
If we, whose flaming envies daily burn  
Thy name within the Aetna's of our breasts,  
Do make thee subject to our vile detests?  
'Tis often seen, Cantharides do dwell  
Upon the fairest Rose, whose pleasing smell  
Delights the sense: It may be truly said,  
Envy, that base Cantharides, hath laid  
Itself upon the Roses of our Peace,  
And robbed us of a liberal increase.  
Have not our eyes in former times beheld  
The fruits of Peace? have not our Souls been filled  
With heavenly pleasures, and our grasping hands  
Gathered the plenty of our peaceful Lands?  
Did not the painful husbandman bestow  
His labours with a cheerful brow, and sow  
The often-furrowed earth? But now, ah now,  
Intruding Mars molests the active plough!  
And have not we by sad experience found  
Contentious Mars ploughs bodies, & not ground?  
O miserable tillage! This will bring  
A bloody Harvest, and as bad a Spring.  
See smiling Bacchus, with his brim-filled bowls,  
Would tempt us to carouse away our Souls.  
Mars with a palled look proclaims an end  
To all our pastimes: Sorrow knows no friend.  
Mars thunders, Bacchus smiles, and Cupid cries,  
Envy survives, Truth pines, and Friendship dies.  
Peace flies her Country, and with discontent  
Bemoans our sorrows, and her banishment.  
And thus we tumble in our own confusion;  
A bad beginning finds a bad conclusion.    

A DISCOURSE between the soldier and WORLD.  Wo. 
HOw now sad Soul; from whence proceeds those clouds  
Which still eclipse my fancy thus, & shrouds  
Thy splendent glory? what contentious Fate  
Hath bred disturbance in thy quiet State?  
Tell me, come tell me, that my studious care  
May be employed to serve thee: Why, or where  
Art thou oppressed? Come, never fear to tell  
Thy grief to me, thou know'st I love thee well.  So. 
Oh I am sick, canst thou be my Physician?  Wo. 
I can, sick Soul: Come tell me thy condition.  So. 
Draw nearer then, for ah my spirits fail;  
I'm sick because I know not what I ail.  Wo. 
If thou art sick, and canst not find thy grief,  
How canst thou be a suitor to relief?  So. 
Were it a single sorrow that oppressed  
My wearied mind, 'twere easily expressed;  
But when pluralities shall circumvent  
A troubled mind, how can that mind have vent▪  Wo. 
Come, leave these vain exordiums, let my ear  
Be heir to thy discourse, I long to hear;  
Conceal not that, which if revealed may bring  
A remedy: Come, tell me what's the thing  
That thus corrodes thy breast; 'tis I alone  
Must give thy heart refreshment, or else none.  So. 
Alas, fond World! how justly may I style  
Thy help a hindrance, thy treasures vile!  
What answer shall I now retort, that may  
Expressly satisfy? I cannot say  
What I desire; for when I strive to speak,  
My passion grows too strong, my tongue too weak;  
My numerous pains infatuate my wit.  Wo. 
Pish, this is but a melancholy fit:  
Clear up thy clouded thoughts, such fits as these  
Are incident to all; learn to appease  
Thy instigating passion, and advise  
With me; I'll make thee well, I'll make thee wise:  
My bounteous treasure shall increase thy store  
With great abundance: Come, let's have no more  
Of these thy petulant discourses, be  
Prescribed by none (dear Soul) except by me;  
I'll cure thy pain. Sou: Fond World, forbear  
To urge my resolution, or ensnare  
My yielding spirits; let thy language be  
Reserved for them that will be fooled by thee:  
Thy elevating joys, which did before  
Enrich my vacant senses, make them poor:  
And now I find the greatest plague that can  
Concomitate poor miserable man,  
Is to be happy. Wor: That's a paradox,  
Is happiness a crime?  So. 
Mistake me not, rash fool, for my pretence  
Is good, if not corrupted by the sense  
You take it in: For tell me, what canst thou  
Insinuating wretch vouchsafe t'allow,  
That will perpetuate? hast thou the power  
T'assure a happiness for one half hour?  
If so, I will obsequiously confine  
Myself to thy directions, and be thine.  Wo. 
I tell thee Soul, thy fancy thus disturbed  
Will ruinate thy senses, if not curbed.  
Convince thyself, and be not thus averse  
To Reason; after folly comes a curse.  So. 
But what is this to my demands? I see  
Thou lov'st to hear thyself declare, not me.  
Answer to my objections, then I'll rest,  
A quiet Soul, in a resolved breast.  Wo. 
On that I were so blessed to know the state  
Of thy condition. Sou: Wilt thou still deviate,  
And ramble from thy text? Wor: Believe't dear soul  
There is no friend more strongly can condole  
Thy weakness, than myself; I sympathize,  
And truly grieve for thy infirmities:  
Witness these falling tears; Oh, may't be known,  
Sick Soul, I weep thy sorrows, not mine own:  
Sorrow forbids my gentle lips to smile;  
For ah I am: Soul: A woeful crocodile:  
I, I, a woeful Exile. Wor: For thy sake  
I'll suffer thousand griefs, and undertake  
Ten thousand more, that I at last may prove  
How much I've merited thy truest love.  So. 
What voice is this that penetrates my ear?  
What do I hear, or do I seem to hear?  
Or is't a dream? Wor: No, no, (Blessed Soul) 'tis true,  
'Tis I that suffer these extremes for you.  So. 
Reserve thy tears: Alas! I did but try  
Thy love, and now I find th' art Constancy  
Itself: But tell me World, wilt thou content  
My greedy mind with wealth? when that is spent  
Will't give me more? and when that more is gone  
Wilt thou be sure to heap one bag upon  
Another? Wilt thou make me to outvie  
The sons of men in prodigality?  
Dost hear me World? Wor: I do, and I am sore  
Oppressed, because thou canst not ask no more:  
Honour, Wealth, Dignities, and all shall stand,  
Like subjects proud, to kiss their Prince's hand.  
I'll hug thee in mine arms, and thou shalt sleep  
In gold surrounded beds: whilst others weep  
At fortunes gates, upon their bended knees,  
Thou, thou shalt sit and read sad Elegies,  
Imprinted on their meager cheeks; I, I,  
These are true symptoms of Eternity.  
What, melancholy yet? cannot these charms  
Induce thee to my Soul-inviting arms?  
Speak Soul, are these not joys? are these not pleasures  
To be embraced? speak, are not these rare tresures?  So. 
Base World, th' art truly base; now I perceive  
Thy labouring policy is to deceive.  
What, didst thou think my heart begun to dote,  
When I, to make a concord, changed my note?  
Oh no, vile varlet; no, I did but try  
Thy craft, by learning what thou wouldst reply  
To my demands: Divinest language could  
Move no reply, when baser language would:  
But now thou nothing, made of nothing, know,  
Th''ve lost a friend by me, and found a foe.  
Here I declare myself, and do protest  
Before just heaven, that whilst I live possessed  
Of vital breath, I will employ my heart  
T'oppose thy flattering folly; for thou art  
A perjured traitor to the Souls divine  
And sacred Majesty, and wilt incline  
Thy ears to nothing but to antic tricks,  
And call'st divine thoughts, melancholy fits.  
And so farewell, false traitor; now 'tis known,  
The more we are thine, the less we are our own.  Wo. 
And is this all? Sou: 'Tis all. Wor: Then Soul adieu.  So. 
Oh may I ne'er prove false, till thou provest true.   

A DISCOURSE between the soldier and FAITH.  So. 
FAith, can thy hand protect me? can thy art  
Prescribe a cordial for a fainting heart?  
Hast thou the skill to settle my belief,  
And arm my Soul against the darts of grief?  Fa. 
I have the Art (sad Soul) hadst thou the power  
T'embrace belief, to bring thee to the Bower,  
The fragrant Bower of pleasure, which shall be  
Perfumed and decked with blessed eternity.  So. 
I do believe, and my belief torments  
My mind with millions of sad discontents.  
I do believe what ever heaven devised,  
Then judge, oh judge, how I am tantalized!  Fa. 
Oh know (mistaking Soul) such faith we call  
By the sad name of Diabolical.  So. 
Oh strange, oh sad, oh miserable case!  
Has Faith robbed Janus of his double face?  
Doth not the sacred volume end this strife,  
And bids believe, and have eternal life?  Fa. 
Th' eternal tenants of th' infernal lake,  
Believe and tremble too, but can partake  
Of nothing but their torments, and obtain  
Nothing, except th' enlargement of their pain.  So. 
How comes it then to pass, if they believe,  
They're not rewarded, but must always grieve  
In utter darkness? Is their faith so strong  
T'acknowledg God, & yet they know him wrong?  Fa. 
They acknowledge God in Justice, but have run  
Beyond his mercy, and despised his Son:  
Their faith prevails but only to enthrall  
Their Souls, because 'tis not salvifical.  So. 
But tell me Faith, how many I learn to know,  
Whether thou art salvifical or no?  Fa. 
Examine well thyself, then go and pry  
Into the sacred Scriptures; let thine eye  
Peruse with diligence, and let thy prayers  
Sail towards the port of heaven in swelling tears  
Than thou wilt find, how dearly God will own  
A Soul that sings a penitential tone.  So. 
But when I strive and struggle to express  
Myself in prayer, I find a dubiousness.  Fa. 

It is a happiness ofttimes to doubt  
A happiness:—   

How oft did David (God's delight) cry out,  
My God, my glorious God, oh why, oh why,  
Hast thou forsaken me, and dost deny  
The spreading splendour which was wont to shine  
And glimmer on this doubtful Soul of mine?  
Be serious, Soul, and let thy thoughts reflect  
On God's indulgency, and thy neglect.  
How often hath he with his dewy locks  
Attended thee, and with redoubled knocks  
Desired, nay begged an entrance, to impart  
Love-sick expressions to thy wilful heart?  
And ah! how willingly hath he delated  
His dear affections to thee, and not hated  
To call thee his own Image, nay his Dove?  
(Oh streaming Fountain of Eternal Love!)  
How hath he labered, with a watchful eye?  
To woo thee to his blessed Eternity?   So. 
But tell me then, if I am thus, thus dear  
Unto my GOD, why will my GOD not hear  
My morning sorrows, and my midnight moans,  
And stop the revolutions of my groans;  
But let my poor Astraea fly in vain  
To his high Altar, and return again  
Unanswered? Ah, what overawing Rod  
Smarts like the silence of an angry GOD?  Fai. 
(Distempered Soul) oh do not thou become  
(Because thy GOD seems deaf unto thee) dumb;  
Reverberate the portals of his ears  
With thy complaints, and let thy vocal tears  
Invite an audience; urge him by the force  
Of his own language, heaven cannot divorce  
Himself from his own words; oh, let him know  
Thou hast his sacred Promises to show  
For what thou dost: Tell him, that heaven and Earth  
Shall pass away, but the delightful birth  
Of his pathetical expressions shall  
Be heirs unto Eternity; go call  
Himself to witness for himself; be bold  
To tell him to his face, thou hast laid hold  
Upon his promises; tell him thou art  
A whole, a broken, and a contrite heart:  
Tell him th' art heavy loaden, and oppressed,  
And cravest th' enjoyment of a happy rest:  
What though thy querelous desires at first  
Seem to be frivolous, and slightly nursed?  
Detract not thou, but be progressive still,  
And not too retrograte, but let thy will  
Attend his pleasure; is't not fit that he  
Should be attended, that attended thee?  
What if he still denies? thou art but paid  
With that dull Coin which thine own sins have made.  
Hath he not waited at the brazen walls  
Of thy regardless breast, used many calls,  
Nay many thousands, and hath daily knocked,  
And found the nurs'ry of thy ears still locked,  
And barred against him? 'Twas enough to turn  
Patience into an ecstasy, and burn  
The strongest Resolution, and incite  
Vengeance to make an everlasting night.  
Oh think on this (blessed Soul) and be content,  
Good actions seldom want a good event.   

Another discourse Between the soldier and FAITH.  So. 
I'M full, and yet seem empty; I have store  
Of earth's delectables▪ and yet I'm poor;  
I have what e'er my ravenous thoughts require,  
And yet I want in having my desire;  
I eat delicious food, drink sparkling wine,  
Enjoy my self, and yet I am not mine;  
I am the world's delight, I am the child  
Of pregnant fortune, yet I am reviled:  
And what external happiness can be  
Thought worth embracement, is embraced by me.  
Since all these Joys are heaped upon my back,  
I fain would know what 'tis I seem to lack.  Fa. 
Thy wants are soon expressed (dull Soul) I know  
Who wants my helpful hand, wants power to go.  
Oh what an easy matter 'tis to find  
A stuffd-up body, and an empty mind!  
Grief rests within the centre of that breast,  
That knows not what is worst, nor what is best;  
But still looks downwards on this dunghill earth,  
That alienates the Soul, and breeds a dearth  
Within that sacred Essence, that divine  
And glorious Monarchy: Who can define  
Th' enchanting Raptures, and th' imperious Joys  
Of sublimated heaven, that toils for toys?  
Thou sayst th' art full, yet empty; thou hast store  
Of earth's delectables, and yet art poor:  
'Tis true, th' art full; but tell me whence proceeds  
That fullness, say, what charitable deeds  
Hast thou performed; oh learn (frail Soul) t'express,  
Too great a fullness breeds an emptiness.  
Experience tells thee, there is nothing worse  
Then slighted mercy turned into a curse.  
Thou sayst, th' enjoyest what e'er thy mind requires  
And yet thou want'st in having thy desires;  
Thou eatest, thou drinkst, and hast the world's consent  
To be her darling, yet art not content.  
'Tis true, he wants, whose fullness wants desire  
To want that fullness which his wants require.  
What though the world accumulates increase?  
There's no content, when heaven denies a Peace.  
If heaven's blessed mouth proclaimed no peace should be  So. 
unto the wicked; what's become of me,  
Who always lived to sin, and sinned to die!  
Oh miserable, miserable I!  Fa. 
'Tis true, GOD will not suffer Peace t'arise  
Unto the wicked, yet that GOD denies  
A Sinners death, and by a free consent  
Promised a pardon, with this word, Repen●:  
'Tis a persisting Sinner must expect  
A sad reward, for a performed neglect.  So. 
Then what must I expect? have I not run  
(Even from the rising, to the setting Sun)  
In paths of negligence, and still persisted,  
And rather backed a sinner, then resisted  
The power of sin? Oh how can I obtain,  
Or thoughts, or hopes to be reclaimed again?  Fa. 
The mouth of heaven did never yet divide  
His language thus: My Soul shall not abide  
A penitent offendor; no, his breath  
Speaks better things, than the lamented death  
Of those, who though they have in former times  
Been permanent in their unbosomed crimes;  
Yet when the sense of their transgression brings  
Abundant sorrow, than Jehovah sings  
Rare strains of mercy to their Souls, and pours  
His endless mercy down in liberal showers.  So. 
And is our GOD so merciful, so just  
To leprous Souls? and shall not my Soul trust  
In such a never-failing GOD? Shall I  
Retort a no, when he proclaims an I?  
Oh no, I'll take what he shall give, and then  
When heaven proclaims, my tongue shall say Amen.  
For 'tis thy Christ, thy Love, thy Son must ease us.  Fa. 
Follow me Soul, I'll lead thee to thy Jesus.   

Penetrant Suspiria Coelum.  

ARe sighs so prevalent, that they can be  
Admitted to the ears of majesty?  
Is heaven so weak, or sighs so strong, that they  
Can make an onset, and enforce their way  
Unto the ears of GOD? Can sighs persuade  
That Lamb to mercy, that our sins betrayed?  
Can roaring Lions meet, and can they part  
Without a combat? Can a leprous heart  
Meet God, and think t'out-brave him in his Zion?  
(Our sins are Lions, yet our God's a Lion.)  
And what's a sigh? 'tis but a blast of wind  
Blown from the centre of a stormy mind:  
And can the air of one poor sigh aspire  
So high as Heaven?—   

— Ah, sighs can never tire  
In such a progress; though they be but air,  
Yet they condense within the sacred ear  
Of nursing Majesty, who hears the sound  
Of well-spent groans, and takes them at the bound.  
Sighs are like morning Larks; sometimes they fly  
And chatter praises to the blushing sky,  
Then wearied with their flights, dart down amain,  
Longing to repossess the earth again.  
So sighs (the Souls best oratory) fly  
To the Interpreter of groans, who'll not deny  
To hear the heart's embassage, but delights  
To see souls (Winged with sighs) to take such flights  
But, when our hearts are loaded with the cares  
Of this vile earth, and sigh themselves to tears,  
Oh than he stops his ears, and makes them know  
Their sighs are earthly, and they fly too low;  
Nor can they reach the suburbs of his ear,  
Unless they mount into a higher sphere.  
Then let thy well-directed sighs, my Soul,  
Mount upwards still, that there they may condole  
Thy evening sorrow, and thy morning grief:  
Then they'll (like Doves) return, and bring reli●f  
Unto thy floating heart, and thou shalt find  
The operations of a sigh; thy mind  
Shall purge itself; thrice happy's thy condition,  
Sighs are good physic, when heaven is Physician.    

Roganti dabitur.  
WHo would not be a beggar, that may crave  
Upon such easy terms, but ask, and have?  
Here's swelling bounty, and sure this must be  
No human, but a divine charity:  
Here well-instructed Poverty may live,  
He that gives power to ask, hath power to give.  
The greatest gift that ever yet was known,  
Was freely given, being asked by none.  
And he that gave't hath many gifts in store;  
(Many give once, because they'll give no more.)  
But he who gave that gift, will not refrain  
(If wisely asked) to give us gifts again.  
And if a heart-recording gift we make  
Of this, his giving teaches us to take.  
Be it ordained, that begging be an art,  
heaven loves a giving hand, a begging heart.  
But let us rest a little; here's the task,  
heaven knows to give, we know not how to ask.  
Methinks I hear some multiloquious fool  
Make this reply, What, must I go to school,  
And learn to beg? I'm skilful to require,  
If heaven would suit his gifts to my desire.  
Let fools delight in folly, let them think  
That men are blind, because they see them wink.  
Others methinks reply, Have we not cried  
To heaven for blessings, and have been denied?  
Have not our early voices been extended  
To heaven, and yet our labours vilipended?  
Is this th' effect of prayer? are these the gains  
That we were largely promised for our pains?  
Go silly Souls, and do not thus contest  
With him that knows what's worst, and what is best.  
Ye know not what ye ask; your fond desires,  
If granted to, may breed such flaming fires  
Within your greedy breasts, and so torment  
Your hearts with millions of sad discontent:  
Then may ye know that true discretion lies  
As well in asking, as in giving wise.  
And solid hearts will labour first to know  
What's fit for their desires, and then they'll sow  
Their prayers in such a soil as shall increase  
Their stock of Grace, and everlasting Peace.   

Pulsanti aperietur.  
KNock, and it shall be opened; here's an art  
Requires the labours of a studious heart:  
It is an easi action, some suppose,  
Because it commonly consists of blows.  
Here's a mysterious knock; 'tis not the hand  
O●●l●sh and blood can knock, or tongue command  
The gates to move; 'tis not Saint Peter's keys  
Can turn the lock, except the Landlord please.  
Heaven's a well-ordered family, whose gate  
Opens not soon to them that knock too late:  
But those, whose early labours shall implore  
To have admittance at that sacred door,  
Must well instruct their hearts, and have a care,  
First learning how to knock, and after, where.  
How happy's he, that really can say,  
Go take thy rest (my Soul) th''ve knocked to day?  
H●'s happy, that can speak such words as these,  
Open the door (my Soul) thou hast the keys.  
How happy's he, that by a faithful knock  
Can make the yielding Gates of heaven unlock?  
prayers are the keys of heaven, the melting door  
Is mercy, that lets in and out the store.  
Faith is the golden key, which gives us all  
A speedy entrance to the spacious Hall:  
But we must open (or else not come there)  
The gate of Mercy with the key of prayer:  
Go then, my Soul, into some private place,  
Unlock thy heart, and when unlocked, abase  
Thyself before the Throne of heaven, and fly  
Unto the Temple of Divinity.  
Go knock thy heart out; if that will not do,  
Say, Heaven's grown deaf, or else thy heart's not true.  
Cast off the threadbare garments of thy sin,  
Thy prayers will melt the gates, and let thee in:  
The Governor of heaven will not refuse  
To give an audience to such welcome news;  
Nor can he be ungrateful, or neglect  
To crown thy labours with a true respect:  
Then tune thy heart, and teach it to express  
Full Diapasons of true thankfulness:  
And grant (dear God) when my poor Soul shall knock,  
That my unworthy key may fit thy lock.   

AN elegy Upon that Son of valour Sir Charles Lucas; Who was shot to Death by the Command of the Counsel of War, before COLCHESTER.  

To all those that love the memory of Sir Charles Lucas. Reader,  
WHen my serious thoughts reflected upon the Death of so worthy a person, I could not but privately deplore so public a loss; and being importuned by his virtues, and my own sorrow, I gave my pen the privilege (assisting it with the uttermost of my power) to compose this Elegious Poem upon his Death, which I cannot expect will be consonant to all humours, but only to them that love Loyalty. (Reader) I shall desire thee to let the strength of thy goodness pardon the weakness of him that is  
His Kings, his Countries, and Thine, JOHN QUARLES.   

AN ELEGY.  
I Cannot hold, the Laws of Nature break  
The Laws of Reason, and my Cisterns leak.  
Pardon my tears (oh heaven) and let thy power  
Subdue my grief, and mitigate this shower:  
Restore me to myself, and let my Quill  
Weep for me; let it weep until it fill  
Whole volumes with sad tears, tears that may flow  
From age to age, that all the world may know  
It weeps for him, whose never-dying name  
Gives golden feathers to the wings of fame.  
But is it requisite that I alone  
Should storm so great a work as this, and none  
Invoked t'assist me? Sorrow hates delay;  
Oh hear my hasty call, and come away,  
Ye grief-supporting Muses, here is that  
Will sublimate your senses; ask not what  
It is, for fear, lest melancholy I,  
Ravished with what I speak, should faint and die.  
Times full-mouthed herald will exactly tell  
How Death hath rambled from his m●sty Cell,  
And with presumptuous violence hath shot  
A Star, whose fall will never be forgot.  
Then rouse your downcast spirits, now, or never,  
Shake off your slumbers, or repose for ever:  
Lucas has conquered Death, he's gone to keep  
An everlasting Sabbath, and to sleep  
In Abraham's bosom: Ah, methinks this breath  
Should reinvite you from the shades of Death  
To weep his obsequies; but if there's none  
Will be invoked, my Muse shall walk alone  
Into the Wilderness of grief, and there  
Condole this loss, till sorrow wants a tear.  
Have I betrayed myself? Am I o'ertaken  
With folly? Or has Reason quite forsaken  
The kingdom of my mind? If he be blessed,  
How dare my tears thus interrupt his rest?  
Oh Times! Oh Manners! Is the world grown mad?  
Some I behold rejoicing; others sad  
As grief can make them: Sure we have forgot  
To sympathize, or else why weep we not,  
Or smile together? Has Death got the power  
To make us weep, and smile within an hour?  
Smile they that please, mine eyes cannot forbear,  
For every smile of theirs, to shed a tear.  
Come real-hearted Mourners, and incline  
Your ear to my sad story, and confine  
Yourselves to sorrow, sorrow that shall need  
No definition: if your hearts can bleed,  
Now, now, they shall; and may that barren eye  
That will not weep, prove blind, or always dry:  
And they that can, and will not now let fall  
Some tears, have hard hearts, or no hearts at all.  
Lucas (rare Soul) oh that my tongue might dwell  
Upon thy name; 'twas thou that didst excel  
The world in Martial valour: He that can  
Forget thy name, forgets to be a Man.  
'Tis death to say th' art dead; Thou canst not die:  
If thou art dead, there's no Eternity.  
Thou liv'st in spite of Death, yet I condole  
Thy murdered body; but I'm sure thy Soul  
Lives above envy, where it shall be blessed  
In spite of those, whose wisdoms thought it best  
To put a period to thy days, and bring  
Joy to themselves, and sorrow to their King.  

Discreetly done, and sure this Act must be  
Recorded in the rolls of infamy,  
That after Ages, when they do behold,  
May blush, what noble Deeds were done of old.   
Say Tyrants, say, was't not a shameful strife  
To send a Death, after a promised Life?  
If this be Mercy, heaven protect us all  
From such a Mercy, so tyrannical.  
If this be Justice, may such Justice have  
A Hell to act in, or at least a Cave.  
What had he acted that could contradict  
The Laws of Justice? Search, and be as strict  
As policy can make you, all ye can  
Impute, was this, he was a valiant man,  
Who loved his King, and undertook to play  
A noble Game, wherein his honour lay  
At stake; what would you have a Gamester do?  
Should he surrender up a game to you  
Without contending? Such a highbred shame  
Had left a blur within his spotless name?  
I tremble at my thoughts, I cannot hold,  
My quill must run, ye can but term me bold,  
As ye are tyrannous: In former times,  
Boldness in truths were pardonable crimes.  
How could ye choose but tremble when ye named  
His death, whom honour and the world had famed?  
Such deeds as these we needs must discommend,  
y''ave murdered your own honours, and our friend.  
How could ye choose but blush to see him stand  
Undaunted at your tragical command?  
How could ye choose but fly, when he was fled,  
T'embrace his death, and die when he was dead?  
How could your will-obeying slaves let fly  
A bullet at his breast, and they not die?  
Why died they not, when as they went about  
To make those holes, whereat his Soul flew out?  
Mars frowned when he observed what ye had done,  
And perpetrated on his dearest Son:  
And thus declares; If any mortal shall  
Dare to entitle, or presume to call  
Such Rabshecha's his Sons, that they shall be  
All voted traitors to his majesty:  
The Muses, they complain, and are agreed  
To vindicate his death, and ever feed  
Upon his virtues, and will never more  
Smile on your actions, but will still deplore  
Their lost-love Lucas; and the Earth shall ring  
With echoes of his praise, that loved his King.  
Apollo weeps, and says, ye have forgot  
To cherish virtue, or ye love it not:  
And to the world he'll fully make it known  
In his destruction, ye have overthrown  
Your homebred honours: Now my Muse retire  
And gather breath; 'tis wisdom to inquire  
Which way to take our progress; we must know  
Whither to go, as well as how to go:  
The paths of death are darksome, and we may  
Plead an excuse, if we have gone astray:  
Errors in grief are incident to all  
That truly solemnize a funeral.  
But stay my quill, 'tis not my task to crave  
Excuses, but to treat upon a grave,  
A grave within whose sullen bosom lies  
A gem, contemned by those that could not prize  
So rare a piece, within whom was reposed  
Virtue and honour, for he was composed  
Of both: (Kind Reader) know, that Lucas had  
A magazine of worth; his Soul was clad  
With robes of innocency, and his heart  
So sworn to honour, that it could not start  
From noble Exercises, though attended  
With troops of dangers, dangers that portended  
A thousand deaths: his wisdom could descry  
Both life and death with a contented eye:  
Life was his Jewel, yet he did not prize  
That life at such a rate, as to despise  
A noble Death; he laboured to express  
To both a very equal willingness.  
He knew his life was lent him to maintain  
The rights of Majesty, and to regain  
Those just prerogatives, which do belong  
To Charles, who patiently sustains the wrong.  
His Soul was undivided, and could never  
Ramble from Loyalty; his whole endeavour  
Was to advance that Cause wherein he stood  
Engaged, and died it with his crimson blood.  
Since thus he lived, since thus he died, oh then  
Let's imitate so good a life; and when  
We hear the sad relation of his Death,  
Let's learn to die: Let them that live by breath  
Examine his brave actions, and they'll find  
He had a rare militia in his mind.  
But stoutest Lions are at last o'erthrown  
By nature's Laws; for Nature needs must own  
Her principles: our earthen vessels must  
At last dissolve, and turn themselves to dust.  
Live we a thousand years, we do but run  
In debt to Nature; and when those days are done,  
We are but mortal, subject to decay,  
And youth and age must go the selfsame way.  
Reader, as often as report shall send  
Unto thy ears the death of any friend,  
Wonder not that he's dead, that's too much wrong,  
But rather wonder that he lived so long:  
For Life's but like a Can●le, every wind  
May puff it out, and leave a snuff behind.  
But whither runs my pen; Does sorrow mean  
To make of this an everlasting scene?  
Lucas made Sorrow lovely, Death a pleasure,  
And Life a trifle, Misery a treasure:  
And now let no audacious tongue deny  
That he taught Death to live, and Life to die.  
Now gentle Soul, go take thy sweet repose  
In heavens' eternal bed, where none but those  
Shall sleep, that in their lifetimes studied how  
To die: there rest (dear Soul) I'll leave thee now.  
My heart begins to quake, that word has bred  
A palsy in my hand, and grief has spread  
A veil upon my Senses; and Confusion  
Steps in, and leads me to a sad Conclusion.  
Shall I begin, or end, I know not whether;  
Oh that I could begin and end together!  
Begin, what's that, but to renew a grief?  
To end, what's that, but to implore relief?  
What shall I do? when as I strive to end,  
I still forget to do what I intend.  
When I begin, methinks I am content  
Never to end: Distraction is th' event  
Of Sorrow. (Reader) pardon this last error,  
For I began with grief, and end with terror.    

AN EPITAPH.  

Come gentle eyes, and take a view,  
Here rests a Jewel was as true  
As Truth itself; see how he lies  
renowned, and crowned, a Sacrifice.  
Lay your hands upon your hearts,  
Each eye must weep before it parts.  
Sigh, and sob; let each sigh call   

Love to attend his Funeral.  
Understand that this was he  
Conquered Death and tyranny:  
And when your eyes begin to run,  
Say yo'ave gazed upon a Sun.    

AN elegy Upon the Death of my dear Friend Mr ROBERT REASON Who quitted this life the 13. NOVEMBER, 1646.— Sic voluêre Fata.  By J.Q. 
AH, whence proceed those swelling floods that rise  
Like restless waves from my tempestuous eyes?  
The surges beat (Provoked by stormy passion)  
My weather-beaten senses out of fashion.  
But ah forbear (distemp'ring grief) surcease  
Those storms, which rage against the shore of peace▪  
Forbear superfluous blasts, be not too brief  
To dash my Soul against the rocks of grief:  
But stop a time (sad Genius) here's a stile  
Invites a rest; Let's meditate a while:  
Can tears express a perfect grief? Or can  
Excess of language re-enlarge a man  
From Death-benumming shades? Can blubbered eyes  
Invite him back? Can integrating cries  
Enforce a life, in spite of death? Can all  
The doleful sighings in this world recall  
Revolted breath? Oh no: 'Tis therefore vain  
To think that tears can call him back again  
From heavens' immortalising Throne: Thus we  
Fond men expand our own infirmity;  
And thus our spendthrift eyes profusely flow  
In lavish tears, for him whose Soul we know  
Is far more happy than we can express:  
(Why do we then lament his happiness?)  
Then go (sad Genius) and advise all such  
That grieve, to grieve, because they grieved so much  
For him, who heaven hath lately made a stranger  
To grief, who rests above the reach of danger;  
There let him rest in a most glorious sleep:  
And if weak Nature urgeth us to weep,  
Let's weep, nay weep indeed, until our eyes,  
Blinded with weeping, weep for new supplies:  
Let's weep for sin, let troops of sighs attend  
Our hasty tides to their long journey's end.  
Oh let's deplore our most unhappy state  
Betimes, for fear lest time-devouring fate  
Blocks up the narrow passage of our breath,  
And so surprise us with a sudden Death▪  
And ah how soon the shadow-flying days  
Of man consumes: how soon the troubled blaze  
Of his frail life expires; and ah how soon  
He finds a night, before he thinks 'tis noon:  
And how the pleasures of this sordid Earth  
Shadow his senses with a glimmering mirth.  
And what's this world? 'tis but a glass, wherein  
Nothing appears but heau'n-confronting sin:  
Alas, its painted beauty represents  
Nothing but folly, crowned with discontents:  
There's nothing here that truly may be styled  
A happiness; here's nothing but's defiled.  
Alas, alas, in what a sad condition  
Is dust-composed man! what expedition  
He daily makes to gain those things, which gained,  
Gnaw him like vipers; thus are mortals stained  
And blured with vanities; and thus they spend  
Their winged hours, as if they could not end:  
Fond Earths-consuming trash hath so combined  
Their hearts to worldly pleasures, that they mind  
Nothing but profit, basely gained, which shall  
Mount them up here, but after let them fall.  
But where's that man, whose Soul contrives to be  
Imparadised, and crowned with dignity,  
With Hallelujahs Angels, which control  
The Family of heaven, who still inroul  
In their sublimer thoughts, how great, how just  
Their Maker is, before whose throne all must  
Appear with spotless Souls, and fly from hence  
With downy wings of dovelike innocence?  
But stay my quill; have I thus soon forgot  
My bosom friend, as if I loved him not?  
No, no; though he be dead, he cannot die,  
Death cannot drive him from my memory,  
Where he shall rest, till time shall recommend  
My friend-bereaved Soul unto my friend;  
For whilst he lived, my sympathising heart  
Was truly his, and truly bore a part  
In what he suffered; Ah but now he's fled,  
And left me here, to say, my friend is dead.  
Poor soul! and why poor soul? rash tongue, call back  
That fond abortive word; how can he lack,  
That daily feeds upon delicious diet  
In heavens' great store house, and knows no disquiet?  
This was an Error that my hasty quill  
Too rashly stepped into against my will:  
I hope 'tis venial, Reason may afford  
A pardon for a grief-relapsed word.  
When passion rules the fancy, men become  
Vainly pragmatic, or extremely dumb:  
But why rash death, why didst thou send thy dart  
To take possession of his willing heart,  
And gave no longer warning? was there none  
Could please thy palate, only him alone?  
'Twas quickly ended, and as soon begun;  
Believe me death, 'twas but unfriendly done.  
But why do I (fond man) expostulate  
With thee, that art an all-consuming fate?  
Th''ve done a happy deed, I dare not blame  
Thy power, because I know from whence it came.  
Shall I, because he was my friend, repine  
At his departure? was he heaven's or mine?  
I yield him heavens', not mine; but yet I might  
Claim him as finite, heaven as infinite.  
He was but lent me for a time, that I  
And others by his life might learn to die:  
Whilst he enjoyed the fullness of his breath,  
His life was a preparative for death:  
His whole delight and study was to pry  
Into the bosom of Divinity;  
From whence he sucked such wholesome streams, that those  
Which heard him, gave a plaudit to his close:  
His daily practice was, how to fulfil  
And prosecute his great Redeemers will:  
heaven was his Meditation, and he gave  
A reverent respect unto his grave:  
Faith, Hope, and Charity did sweetly rest  
Within the council-chamber of his breast;  
And in a word, the graces did agree  
To make one happy Soul, and this was he:  
As for his moral duties, they were such,  
That should I strive, I could not speak too much:  
His civil carriage towards all men might claim  
A perfect right to a beloved name:  
His actions were so just, that they may tell,  
He lived uprightly, and he died as well:  
His love, his sweet society might call  
Ten thousand tears t'attend his funeral:  
And to conclude, in him all men might find  
A real heart, and a most noble mind:  
But now he's gone, his winged Soul's aspired  
To heaven's high Palace, where he sits attired  
With glorious immortality, and sings  
Melodious Anthems to the King of Kings.  
There, there his melting Soul, ravished to see  
The sunbright throne of splendent majesty,  
Adores his well-pleased maker, who makes known  
He's pleased to crown, and keep him for his own:  
Oh there he rests, free from the rubs of Earth,  
Hugging no shadow, but a real mirth:  
Oh there's no grief, no sorrow found to vex  
His peaceful Soul▪ no trouble to perplex,  
Or blast his new-bred joys; there is no woe,  
No care, no pain, no misery, no foe,  
That dare presume to interrupt him; all  
Must stand aloof, and not appear, nor shall  
Encroaching boldfaced grief, nor pale-faced spite  
Dare interpose t'eclipse one blaze of light.  
Oh there methink I hear him sweetly sing,  
Grave, where's thy power? Oh Death where's thy sting?  
Methinks I hear his warbling tongue declare,  
How good his works, how great his wonders are:  
Methinks I see a great united Band  
Of glittering Angels, how prepared they stand  
To welcome him: Methinks I hear them say,  
March on blessed Soul, thou needest not doubt the way.  
Oh glorious sight! In what triumphing state  
They guard his Soul to heavens' refulgent gate;  
Where when he comes disrobed of all his sin,  
The gates fly open, and his Soul flies in.  
Methinks my ravished ears are filled and blessed  
With such harmonious raptures, and possessed  
With such varieties, that even I,  
Were sin absolved, would resolve to die.  
Methinks I hear within heavens' echoing Grove  
The quavering Angels chant, as if they strove  
T'excel themselves: Methinks that every breath  
Is a sweet Invitation unto death.  
But oh what rare, or what profound invention,  
Beatified with a strong apprehension,  
Can sound the depth of those delights, which he  
Shall swim and bathe in to eternity:  
There rest dear Soul, having thus conquered fate,  
Thy pleasures never shall expire their date.  
There, there the Alpha of thy joys shall never  
Know an Omega, but be blessed for ever  
With Alpha and Omega, who shall crown  
Thy throne-approaching Soul with true renown,  
Whilst we confused mortals here below  
Gulp up the dregs of sorrow, and bestow  
Curses in stead of prayers upon each other,  
And daily labour to confuse, and smother  
Our serene happiness, and turn those joys  
Which heaven allowed us, to neglected toys:  
And thus our deviating Souls befool  
Themselves, and practise in the common School  
Of Errors: Thus erroneously we bend  
Our flexive minds to folly, and commend  
nonsense for wisdom; Reason being dead,  
Repose my Muse, discretion calls to bed.  
FINIS.