THE MIRROR OF MERCY IN THE MIDST OF MISERY: OR, Life triumphant in Death, where in is abolished, and Freegrace exalted. WITH The large wonders of Love's wounds. Written in a fit of Sickness, By JEREMIAH RICH. LONDON, Printed by J. G. for Nath: Brook, at the Ange. in Cornhill, 1654. To the Right Honourable, the Lord JOHN BRADSHAW. I Have read of some of the Saints of old, that have prayed for life, as David and Hezekiah; others that have desired to be dissolved, as Paul and Eliah; yet those that desired to die, had abundance of contentment here, and the others that laboured for life, had assurance of glory hereafter. Alas my life was not worthy the name of life, 'twas not a life, 'twas but a piece of childhood thrown away; yet in my sickness I desired to escape death, by dying daily, since I have been taught, that he that is dead while he lives, shall live when he dies. How direful are the thoughts of Death! how grievous the remembrance of the Grave! yet when we call to mind how it was sweetened by our dear Saviour, methinks Death is not so dreadful, nor Life so : Death is but a freedom from danger, and the bank of Rottenness, is now a bed of Roses, where Innocency may dwell secure, nothing assaults us there; I have thought to die, is less than to be borne, 'tis a quiet resting from all Iniquity, a conclusion of troubles, an end of fiery trials, where in dust we shall be lost a while, as is the Sun, that must permit the base and sordid Earth to smother up his Glory for a night, that the next morning when he arises, as from a bed of Roses burnished in all his bravery, he might be the more wondered at; so when our hearts are pure, and when our sighs are past, and when our griefs are gone, and when our wiped eyes shall weep no more, then nor will it be long) we shall be snatched up from the conversations of Sinners, to the habitations of Angels, where Mortality shall be swallowed up of Life. May it please your Honour, I thought to have done something in answer to , but that I wanted to do it, therefore I have left the Matter almost as imperfect as the Author, yet had I had time, I had either added more, or have done this better. As it is, I humbly offer it to your Honour for a Memento mori, that when we put off our garments of Mortality, we may launch into the gulf of ever blessed Eternity; I mean at that time, when we have time to say no more, but in manus tuas domine commendo spiritum meum. Your Lordship's devoted Servant. Jer: Rich. TO THE LADIES AND Gentlewomen of ENGLAND. IT hath been reported by some, (who have had more vices in their mouths, than virtues in their minds, that what Books I have printed formerly, were not mine own; because (they have said) my countenance doth not promise so much. I could answer them, but I will not brawl with such poor blasts, for Solomon saith, that which is done, hath been done, and there is no new thing under the Sun; therefore since my adversaries have not wit enough to rule like Judges on the Bench, I will let them brawl like Prisoners at the Bar: I confess Righteousness doth cross the recreations of the rich, and Purity is against the opinion of the poor; Piety hath been estranged from Princes, and Poetry is a mystery to Pedlars, therefore my Poems are unfit for the Pockets of the one, or the Palates of the other. Indeed though I have been persuaded by some eminent persons, yet I never did intent to write again, till Providence gave me such an occasion to Pen my strange recovery from Death, which I have vowed to bear about me, as a perpetual memorial. Thus from the secrecies of night, have I stolen Time from sleep, to picture out from my vetired thoughts, the melancholy of my mind. And Ladies I present it to you. It is a Mask of Cupid and Death; you cannot run from the one, though you may rail at the other; and you will have no reason, for though the first part be fearful, the last is delightful, that if one cannot win you, the other may wound you; let it lie in your laps, and at least be read by your lips, or hold it in your hands, till you have it in your hearts, that it may help to make you lovely with inward graces, when age and sickness with their ashy hands, have swept the beauty from your amorous eyes. Jeremiah Rich. The mirror of MERCY IN The midst of MISERY. WHen Kingly Phoebus drove his Chariot down Into the Southern Kingdoms, there to crown Those People with his glory, when the Air Was cold, intemperate, neither foul nor fair, But wondrous various, and the Earth the while, Casts off her amorous glances and sweet smiles, Her costly Ornaments, Livery of Greene, Her Robes of Gallantry, and lies unseen, Lamenting for her Lover, when she feels Delay waits on his absent Chariot wheels: Just than it was, when Titan's Throne was gone, And Cynthia doth possess the darkened throne, Usurping to herself half of the year, And rules it with her sable Hemisphere. When you might see Night's Empress ride in state, And all the Stars and Royal Armies wait Upon her high Commands, when you might see The Giant Orien in the Canopy, Walking the nightly Circles, as if none But he should rule the World; Nights sable Throne Is drawn by winged Pegasus, and she With Cyreus, Procean, and Andromache Rides o'er the milky way, when Sol retires, To light the World with their dim feeble Fires. It was October, and the very day Sol entered into Scor●io, than I say, When all my Actions were unsound, uneven, Me thoughts I heard a threatening from Heaven, Which filled my troubled fancy full of fears, And ringed Death's Alarm in mine ears. Am I a God? and did I rai●e this World From her first Chaos, to have blackness hurled Against my sparkling Throne? Shall my pure eyes Behold these Sins and base enormities Without revenge? What! did my fingers frame This Universe for th' glory of my name, And made Man Lord of all, that he might be In a capacity to honour me? And am I thus rewarded? I'll go spurn Away the World, her glory, and I'll turn Time from his Chariot wheels, I'll rend in sunder Her Axletrees, and with a clap of Thunder, I'll puff this spacious Fabric aside: And blast these mortals in their height of pride. At this I started: my distempered brains Did ache, my head was tortered with great pains, My body shivered, and my blood did boil, Like fiery Aetna, or the burning oil That Drunkards quaff in Hell, my heart was saint, My tongue too weak to utter a complaint, Though I were full; I knew not what to say, Nor scarce could tell where 'twas my torment lay. Sometimes I burned like the Promethean Fire That came from Heaven, and sometimes my desire Cooled as the angry North, when Jove makes bold To cl●ath the Universe with freezing cold. Sometimes I was in Heaven, or else not fare Below it, where I saw each wand'ring Star Move in their several Orbs: Sometimes mine eyes Beheld great wonders, as if all the Skies Were paved with Pearls and Rubies, then I'd run To view the glittering Palace of the Sun; Where I beheld how Phoebus drove his throne Over the Spangled vault, and I made moan He went so swift away with hot desire, Lashing his Horse with whips of flaming Wire. Then to the middle Region of the Air My fancy would retire, to view the rare Agreement of the Elements, how they Keep in their bounds, and every hour obey The Ordinance of Heaven, and then my mind Would think how clouds road on the winged wind. Now horrid Aeolus who is heard too oft, And wide-mouthed Boreas raises storms aloft; ●he sable Clouds have blotted all the Skies, And to the apprehension of all eyes ●ave banished the Sun's glory, all is black With angry Clouds, the Poles do seem to crack, The Axeltrees to rend, the Fabric shakes The Exhalations, and the Vapours makes The flashy Lightnings and the Winds to fly, With Thunderbolts from Jove's Artillery. Then, on the sudden, all is hush and gone, And smiling Phoebus in his kingly Throne: The roaring Thunder now is quite given o'er And angry Jove will fire his Guns no more: Neptune appears to calm the swelling maine, Delos and Boreas now are friends again; The Clouds are vanished, and the Heavens do smile, As if they did but fright us all this while; And all was done in jest, but to invoak Us to believe a God, with that I'woke. What horrid shape is that, that calls dim Night To hid my torments, that abjure the light? With that like thunder, or like flashy fire, His fury risen, Wherefore dost thou inquire? Says he, I am the King of fears, and I Was sent with summons from Eternity: I dwell in that dark Vault where the black line Of Death is drawn, where Pluto, Proserpina, Proud Beelzebub, and Mephestophilus, Pale-saced Oblivion, horrid Cerberus, Millions of Hags and fearful Furies haunt, Grim Charon, and the churlish Rhadamant, Where Aetna's hill doth pour her hideous flames Into the starry Region, and proclaims. A terror to the world, by soaring higher Than flashy lightning or feeble fire; While the amazed Mariner from a farre, Looking aloft admires what blazing Star Threatens the aged Moon, because they be Fearful fore runners of a tragedy. At this! turned my face, and wept, till all My ch●●k●● were bathed; and is my Funeral So suddenly to be, and is there none Will send a sigh to heaven, a tear, a groan? Will no one beg for me that heaven would stay His hand a while and give me longer day? Unhappy m●ther, where are all your gains? Poor satisfaction for your nine month's pains; Was it for nought but this? oh rather why Did! not weep a shower of tears, and die Within my Nurse's arms? Then might I have No fostering, but a cradle and a grave. Oh beauteous Innocence, how blest art thou! Sweet Virtue too! oh might I tarry now! How should I love thee! then I should not fear To fly into the bosom of my Dear: Where lifted up, ravished I should behold That shining City built of burnished gold, Like to transparent glass, then should I dare To travail through the dwellings of the air, To immortality, where I might see, Wonders denied to our capacity; There is perpetual Youth, perpetual Spring, ●o evening cold, no heat, nor no such thing ●s time or feeble age, nor timorous fear, ●nvy, deceit and pride are strangers there. ●here is no dread of horror to perplexed, ●o poverty to curb, no care to vex, ●o fear● of Thiefs to rob, no Moth to rust, ●o winking fraud, no trembling distrust; ●o trading there, nor trafi●king for toys, ●ut every man his own desires enjoys. ●here troops of glorious Angels shall surprise Having rare pleasures sitting on their eyes) ●he new-come Soul, in white transparent veils resembling Snow, their garments decked with trails Of Orient Pearl, with which you may behold ●right Diamonds, their girdles are of Gold; ●heir eyes like morning rays, but shine more ra●e, ●ike threads of fringed Gold, their frizzled hair, ●heir countenances sweet, where Love encloses ●he Lilies with a bed of fragrant Roses, ●nd send a thousand thousand graces down ●rom their fair eyes, to welcome me, and crown My Soul with endless pleasures, and delights Of rarities their Snowy hands invites ●o their rare walks, where that Immortal love, ●ts richly shadowed in a hallowed grove: ●here pleasures still are lengthened with device, ●heir food is swelling fruit of Paradise; Where on a bank of Violets our ears, ●hall drink the ravishing music of the spheres: While we sing Hallelujahs to't, and cry No Joy; no triumph to Eternity. Oh! If the King of Heaven would please to smile, And to my days add but a little while; A little, little longer, that poor I Might learn to live before I come to die, How should I prise it? then with regenerate fear, Would I go bathe my eyelids with a tear For my black crimes; how should I slight this ball Of Earth, and tread, and trample upon all The glory of the world: then should my days Be passed in purity, and spent in praise: But now I see my labouring sands are run From times swift hour glass; the days bright Sun Is hurried to the shades, where envious night Will hid the lustre of his glorious light; And now 'tis vain for me thus to implore, I must be gone and shall see Man no more. Death.] I have out-stayed my patience, let's away Together, yonder comes the dawning day, And still we linger on, cease thy vain prayers, They are too tedious, and my weighty affairs Will not admit delay; thy weak desire Is vain, thus, thus I'll quench my flaming Ire. Time.] Hold, I command thee hold, or by my powers, Years, ages, seasons, months, days, minutes, hours: And by the spangled Palace of the Sun, By all their glories, ere my glass is run, Strike if thou darest strike; look here this hand, Hath brought from heaven, a powerful countermand. I'll puff thy power away, and banish thee To that low vault of black eternity; Stand back, or to the shades thou shalt be hurled, I'll make thee cease triumphing o'er the world. At this Death vanished; and who ever saw Those timorous people, that were struck in awe With that great Comet, that did once appear Within the Horizon of our Hemisphere, May guess how we all wondered at the story, Being much amazed at this Persons glory: Therefore 'twixt grief or fear, joy, hope, or rage, I thus replied: What mean these Changes? What has Time or Age To do with us? What sudden Change is this? What glorious Guest? What Bird of Paradise Does here attend us? What bright Angels he Has left the Palace of Eternity, To grace my Funeral with his Presence? O Perhaps he comes but to increase my woe, And tell me what high glory I have lost, And what rare pleasures; oh my hopes are crossed! I have offended Heaven by sin, and now He's angry, and does furrow up his brow; Or else it may be he is come to jest A while, and rock me to eternal rest, And in a trance show me that glorious Throne, Where high borne Saints attend the Holy One, Globed by the breath of Angels, that poor I M●ghtin my sorrows, Swanlike, singing, die. So said the Vision, than approached nigher Rare flashes of delightful love and sire, Glanced from his eye, his trestles dangled down By Art, his head was arched with a Crown, And in his hand a glass that made such way, Whose labouring sands strove to outrun the day, And tyre his horse; the mantle that he wore Leapt under his right arm, embroidered o'er With stars of orient Pearl, that strove to shroud Their glimmering glory in an airy Cloud; It was of Azure and the purest die, Not much inferior to the midday sky, When Sol is in his glory; 'twas made fast With a rich Diamond, his face surpassed The Queen of Love, and his right arm did hold A rising Sun embossed with purest Gold. Thus in this gallant posture having laid His hand upon his hourglass, he said, Time's Message. Know fearful mortals, I Apollo am, Who hearing of these sorrows, hither came, From my bright Palace, and high spangled Throne, Aloft, to put a period to thy moan: I dwell above, higher than Eagles wings, The breath of Fame, or majesty of Kings; There, where the lovely grey-eyed morn perfumes Her rosy Chariot with Sabean fumes, Where Geminies are linked with Cupid's Yokes, And Jove sits crowned with a grove of Oaks, From Jealous Juno, where Sols horse to gain Th● olympic hill, doth champ the frothy Rhine In fury, and with flaming nostrils dare The frozen Arctic, and the snowy Bear. It's I, that chase the regions of the night Away, those horrid shadows that affright Languishing Lovers; whose unknown desires Are virtuous, those circles of blue fires: That do from the infernal darkness rise Amaine, and glance before unquiet eyes, That none of these from the Iberian glades, May black the world with their inveterate shades; And so it was in that same hour, when thou Didst open thy lips in that most holy vow: That if the King of Heaven would please to smile, And to thy time add but a little while; Then thou wouldst spend the remnant of thy years In raining from thy eyelids showers of tears For thy black crimes, and then thy following days, Should pass in purity, and be spent in praise. Heaven heard thy words, and his all-piercing eye Relented for thy sorrows, he did spy Thy low estate, and sent me post away, To stop death's hand, and give thee longer day; And here my message endeth, all thy score Is wiped away, see that thou sin no more, Lest Heaven be deaf, when next thou dost complain, Live happy, thus I turn my glass again. Simile.] At this Time vanish too, and I began To gather strength. Have you beheld a Man New risen from a swound, whose wand'ring eyes At first can scarce discover where he lies, Till by the help of Art and Nature he Gathers a little more capacity To know the standers by, and with some pain, Gets up upon his feeble feet again. So I recovered, new risen from the dead, And live to pay what I have promised. Which I shall do, but this discourse I'll wave, Only three words I have brought from the grave Unto three sorts of persons, they'll refer, To th'soldier, Poet, and ginger. And first to thee thou Noble Son of Fame, That from deep wounds didst strive to make thy name Ride o'er the world, and for a little breath Of praise, durst gaze upon the face of death: I like that humour well in them that do Such things with Valour, and with Virtue too; But you Hell's Instrument that often die The earth with crimson blood, until the cry Of Widows, Mothers, Orphans too, are feign With showers of tears to wash it white again. You that dispeople Earth, and poison Aire, And murder young and old; both soul and fair, Children and Scholars, these that cannot stand Against the opposition of your hand; That strew your walks with blood, and fire, and pay The tribute of a bleeding wound a day: Thou canst not sight with death, he with a frown Will make thee trembling lay thy weapons down, Like a base coward, though thy body be Walled round about with armour Cap-a-pe. And you that by the magic of your quill Writ language that can make alive, or kill, And with your brazen Epitaphs endeavour To make the dead survive, and live for ever, That out-charme Orpheus, Amphion, Mercury, Apollo, Cleo, or Melpomene, That writ in hidden mysteries, and can prate In rapture, and are Poets Laureate: Ye Sons of Phoebus, you that can display Upon the top of high invention, say, What will you answer Death? Will all the charms Of Rhetoric, redeem thee from his arms? Or if the twy forked mountain hid thee, will Death fear to clamber up Parnassus' hill? No: then thy sweetest lines and choicest sense, High Rhetoric is but fruitless eloquence. Thou canst not charm him with a lyric strain, Nor can the Muses fetch thee back again. And last, to thee, that unto Heaven dost fly, And with the Eagle makest thy nest on high; That with thine Ephemeridis canst see Saturn, Jove, Mars, Sol, Venus, Mercury, With all their Angulars, and Variations, Their Sextiles, Squares, Trines, Retrogradations, Conjunctions, Oppositions, fixed Signs, Circular, Ecliptic, Equinoctial Lines, And calculatest for the following year, Stars, Tropics, Horoscoqe, and Hemisphere; And art exceeding skilful in the seven Celestial Orbs, say Register of Heaven, Why dost not fly from Death? D●st thou not care For the grim Monster? Why dost not prepare For his approach? Or is thy wisdom shown, In telling others fortunes, not thine own? Were I a Merlin or a Rabulis, Skilled like to Prolomee, or opernicus, I'd take the winged morning and go Into the bosom of an airy cloud, Or saddle winged Pegasus, an● flee, With the swift Eagle and Andromeche Into Jove's palace, where obscured I Might live eternally and never die. But Oh, that will not be, there is a power Higher than these and that same dismal hour Of death is hid from all, who can withstand The blow, and ward the terror of his hand: And on the other side, so no disease Can take us off sooner than heaven please; No evil constellations of the Stars, Perils at Sea, nor wounds of bloody Wars; Dangers of death, nor sorrows which impair Our health, infections nor corrupted air, Which I have found, when I lay at the door Of death, and all my hopes were given o'er. Just than Sols Chariot being in his fall, Entered the house, they Domus mortis call; And Luna entered Scorpio, which to me, Presaged nothing but mortality. And yet I live, and better too, for here I behold Angels of a higher Sphere, Which sung me amorous Eclogues: lullabyes, And charmed soft sleep into my troubled eyes, Eased my deluded fancy, put my brain, And my Souls Organs into tune again: Oh how shall I adore you! you whose fires, With hallowed flames so sweetly did inspire This better soul of reason: and did see My pain, and came from Heaven to pity me: How shall I serve you now? and die so pure That I may come to that sweet place where you are; Where Saints and Angels arm in arm do walk, Through those blessed groves: whose sweet discourse & talk Is love: where we each other may behold In everlasting glory uncontrolled; To all Eternity: And Oh my God Hid all my faults in love, let not thy rod Afflict for ever: why dost thou take such pains With worms? Oh wash away my guilt stains With thy dear merits, that which is above Desert, & crown me not with Laurels, but with love; And then, Oh then! though foolish fancies fill My measured lines, and undervalved quill With scorn, and though the basest of all men On earth slight the Geometry of my Pen; Yet I will now go soar a little higher, And light my blazing torch with holy fire; That my poor Tapor may resemble thine, Whose sparkling glories are of fire Divine; And when these lips shall fail to speak, Oh then! When all my earthly work is done, and when My pen is dulled, and when I shall restore Nature her debt, when I shall be no more: Then grant without a blemish I may flee, Into the Palace of Eternity: Or show me here the promised Land, that I May live, and wander thither when I die. Draw me, and I will run after thee. THus I, poor I, in Pilgrim's weed obscure, Surround the world, yet feign away would fly To Heaven, for alas I am too sure That if I am entangled here I die. Yet when I see this price is got with pain, I set me down, and count my labour vain; Resolving to stand still, or wander back again. 2. Sol's flying Horse, whose nostrils vomit flames, And from their Lungs spit forth quotidian fire, His Whips of flaming Wire their speed proclaims, Yet their Immortal spirits scorn to tire, Till down th'olympic hill they make their way In fresh career, and Tytan's glittering ray Doth hurry to the shades, and Sol has done the day. 3. But oh I tyre; some Angels from above Lend me your aid; is there no gentle hand, To guide me to the Pasace of my love, And lead me prisoner to the promised land? Alas these up-hill ways are hard to trace, I'm unacquainted with that holy place, But run quite out of breath ere I begin the race. 4. My weak desires are but like sudden flashes Of Lightning in unwholesome troubled air, And sin like Thunder every minute dashes Me down, my deeds are fare more foul than fair: When shall I end my race that run so slow? Or how escape from Death that do not know The way that leads to Life? where, whither shall I go? 5. If! should fly to wealth, that's but a trouble, And who ●an glory in uncertain gain? And if I sly to beauty that's a bubble, Wealth is but want, and pleasure is but pain; Earth's gain is loss, her sweets are all but sour. Her highest joy is vanished in an hour, Aals' all flesh is grass, Death crops the fairest flower. 6. To Heaven's high Palace therefore will I steer My wand'ring course, Oh that some gentle wind Would fill my Sails! why should I tarry here, And in this veil of misery be confined To sin and sorrow? Lord let these my ways Be led by thee, and I will waste these days Which now I spend in Tears, in speaking out thy praise. 7. Behold my Body how obscure it lies! Alas is but an idle story, Can my dead heart, or these my Leprous eyes Direct me to the Palace of high glory? Phoeb with her sable Hemisphere would stray, And every wand'ring Star would lose his way, If Sol should hid his face, the giver of the day. 8. Let Love and Terror both together awe me; I am the Star, be thou my glorious Sun, Thy light must guide me, and thy love must draw me, I have no strength to stand, no power to run: Oh wound my bosom with an amorous dart Of holy fire! the thoughts of what thou art, Invites, incites, delights, my joy, my love, my heart. The soliloquy. IT was in the day, when the Soul was armed with Virtue and unarmed Innocence; singing her Epithalamiums among the trees of the Garden, like a Bird of Paradise. 'Twas then, when she could spread her airy wings, and fly to Heaven, chanting her sonnets (with the Hallelujahs of Angels) in her well-tuned Lays) to the delight of her Lover. Before, Sensuality, Security, Pride, Discourtesy, Opinion, and Disdain, had blinded those well-formed eyes, and blacked so fair a face; but now instead of Aspiring, he is Descending; instead of soaring to Heaven, he must go sow the Earth, where his sweaty Pain must curb his aspiring Pride. This was the day, if it might be called day, the latter part whereof was Tragical; wherein (I think) the Sun was muffled in a black, mantle of clouds which resembled ink put into water; and like a curtain of night did overspread the Universe, as if they meant to banish out the day; or like another Phaeton into some unknown world to drive the flaming throne. The Heavens, that sometimes seemed to smile at Man's Innocence, upon whose well-formed body, if the Sun in his pride had shot a burning ray, then gentle Zephyrus with soft and silken wings would fan cool air upon him. But now the thundering Heavens and stormy Winds strive which shall be loudest; the first with their horrid cracks do shake the Fabric, as if they would break the Axletrees of the Earth, and hurl her from her Arctic and Antartique Poles: The other with roaring gusts of wind boil up such mighty waves, and shoot such angry surges at the Sun, as if they meant to drown the day, or in their fury to wash away the world. Thus Man is thrust out of Paradise, and instead of having converse with Angels, he is become a companion for Devils; he that aspired so much after knowledge, knows nothing now but that which he would not know: ah me! how is the beauty of Innocency become a map of misery? the Man that was made Immortal to live, hath now received Sentence to die: ah me, how are the mighty fallen! he that was once the Image of Heaven, the Glory of the Earth, the wonder of the World, the pride of Nature, and the Angels true Idea, is now a curse to the Earth, and an offence to Heaven, borne to misery, and banished out of glory: whose days of life are hasting, whose death comes on posting, having no power to lengthen the one, nor friends to lament the other. The symptoms of Immortality are gone, and sin hath puffed his power away; he that climbed, can hardly crawl, and he that had Feathers to fly, can scarce find Feet to follow; for so much do the words of our subject import: Draw me, and I will run after thee. And now with a free will answer me, all free well-willers, you that have still the power your Father had in Paradise, that can overthrow Sin, and conquer Satan; shut up Hell, and open Heaven; and baffle all those principalities and powers, temptations and corruptions, which often in our Journey to Heaven do make us lie becalmed; does not thine eye check to see our subject? does not thy heart smite thee to read thine inability? Peradventure thou wilt ask how God draws the Soul? I could answer several ways; God is not tied to the education, condition, means, time, matter, nor manner of his creature: And his ways are above our thoughts, as far as an infinite Creator is beyond a finite creature: it is the prerogative of his grace, to draw one man one way, and another man another way; all of which for their number and nature are past our finding out, nevertheless, I shall name five ways, and they be these; By his Works. By his Word. By his Lash. By his Light. And by his Love. First, God draws by his works, and this I believe, would puzzle the Intellects of Angels to rehearse, who I think are the fittest Orators to utter the glory of his greatness; since they are not clouded with a veil of flesh, but can behold those works of wonder, in a more perfect form, which I believe doth not a little amaze those glorious creatures, while they bow before the Immortal throne. What means the forming of this spacious universe, and the setting so fair a fabric in such a curious frame; the Imperial Heavens, where Argel●sing Hallelujahs. I shall not speak of that sense, it passeth the highest capacity; and in relation of which, many abler pens than mine have been already dulled; it being circkled with such brightness and glory, in such a capacious Orb, that no mortal can behold and not drop down and die. And when Aurora sets open her golden gates, in what a Majesty the Sun arises, as from a bed of Roses, to rouse up sleepy mortals, and lend his light to all, unmuzling Darkness from the lower World: And with what swiftness doth he hurry through the Zodiac, adding Summers' heat, and Winter's cold, and sometimes a Medium when he mingles his sire with the cold and freezing Air; and how welcome is his approach to the Earth, who against the return of his Chariot wheels, doth cast off her mantle of mourning, and adorns herself with costly fruits, sweet flowers, perfumed finells, rich odours, amorous glances, sweet smiles, beauty, bravery, dignity and glory, wrapped in a robe of the purest dye, and flourishing in a never-fading livery of green. Beside, the Moon, Planets, and fixed Stars, and all those Royal Armies that spangle the Canopy, that in their nightly Watches, they might adorn the darkened Throne, when Darkness draws a sable Curtain o'er the Sky, and the Sun hath done the day: What shall I say, for the time would fail me to tell you of the Royal Armies of Heaven; their secret workings in their several Orbs, the Golden Mines, costly Jemms, rich Jewels of the Earth, her pompous Apparel, delicious fare, Physical Herbs, gallant Fruits, sweet Flowers, the wonders of Art, the hidden fecresies of Nature, that lie in the boundless Earth; unfathomed Sea, unseen Fire, and perfumed Air. What mean the shining Lamps of Heaven, that chase away darkness from the world; the dividing of the unruly Elements, the hanging of the Earth just in the Centre of the Heavens; her wondrous motion between the two Poles, her equal distance from the flaming Chariot of the Sun, and the hidden region of Fire, lest with contagious heat our hearts should fail, lest we should suck up hot lightning, and embrace in our bosom's Fire in the stead of Air. The works of God have in all ages drawn Souls, as may witness the Plagues of Egypt, the Prosperity of Israel, the overthrow of Nations, the clashing of Kingdoms, the dividing of the red Sea, the Manna in the Wilderness, the thundering of the Law on Mount Sina, the Birth of our Saviour, the deeds that he did, the Sick that were healed, the Eyes that were opened ●●e Devils dispossessed, the Wicked converted, the Lame that were cured, the Lepers that were cleansed, the Dead that were raised, the calming of the Sea to the Disciples, the Holy Ghost that was given to the Apostles, the draught of Fishes to Peter, the Vision from Heaven to Paul. These works of God (I say) have in all ages wrought on both Sinners and Saints, causing the one to admire, and the other to adore. Secondly, God draws by his word; and if it were demanded what word? I should answer, the sweetest words that Art or Love can frame, the word of the Gospel, what directions, dehortations, what counsels and comforts? what enticements and allurements? every Line is penned with Love, every Page hath its promise, that he that runs may read; and if it were not so, how should the poor Pilgrim wander to the holy land? when on the one hand the world presents him with riches, and rarities, honour and pleasure, presumption and pride, dignity, vainglory, stately buildings, costly, fair, trampling Horses, rich Jewels, rare Music, enchanting faces, amorous glances, sweet smiles; when his journey to Heaven is strewed with Briars and Thorns, difficulties and dangers, afflictions, desertions, trials, temptations; being despised, disgraced, afflicted, tormented and abused with envy and folly, discourtesy, disloyalty, opinion and disdain, and how often do these poor Souls strike Sail, and lie becalmed? when the Heavens are covered with blackness and darkness, and the Sun of glory is mantled in a sable cloud, and hath turned the glorious morn into a gloomy day. Therefore the Almighty wisdom, thought best to draw by his word, and no part of his word so prevalent as promises, to support the Soul in the midst of sorrow, they being the promises of this life, and of that which is to come; the promises of pardon of sin, of rest for the Soul, of protection from danger, of deliverance from Fear, of communion with the Spirit, of fellowship with the Son, of eternal life, and the Father's love; and how exceeding great and precious are they? great in the superlative, the greatest. All that we have, are nothing to promises: they are like Spikenard in the King's Palace, or Manna in the Wilderness: or Solomon's Chariot paved with Love, or Balm in Gilead, or Moses rod, or the ointment poured on Jesus Christ, or that perfume that ran about the head of Aaron, being for our security in the possession of the Prince of Peace, built upon the rock of ages: the Usurer (it may be) hath rusty prosperity, the high-born flashy dignity, the Prodigal a puff of Pleasure, the Soldier a blast of honour: But tell me thou Silkworm, or speak thou glorious slave, how long will they last? Many men have great Estates, but they have but a little time; the children of Israel murmured for want of bread, and 'twas that which made Hagar sad, when her bottle of water was out, but you that travel to the holy land, your water shall never fail. Consider then how they ennoble the mind, how they make us partakers of the Divine Nature, how they purge away Sin, and sanctify the Soul, how in all afflictions they give us strong Consolations, that there is no danger but we shall be delivered from it, no cross but we shall be able to bear it, nor no duty but we shall be able to do it. Consider how they open the Ears, how they enlighten the Eyes, how they direct the Feet to walk, and teach the Fingers to fight; how they give us rest for weariness, courage for faintness, and kindle fire in the stead of fear. Object. But it may be objected, why doth God make promises of reward, if the Creature cannot work? or why doth he command, when we have not ability to obey? Answ. God gave Man his portion in Paradise, he was endued with excellency, when he came out of his hands, and God is not bound to give him a new stock, though he hath found out many inventions to run out the old. God is no more bound to preserve us, than he was to create us, therefore Man's inability doth not discharge him from his duty, God still retaineth his prerogative royal, though we have lost a Subjects Loyalty, he hath not lost his Kingly Dignity, but still may command, though we (poor we) have no ability to obey! God calls on all men every where to repent, will it therefore follow Man can repent? No, but it is our duty to do● it, and our misery that we cannot. But farther, God hath made an everlasting covenant with us, and works that in us, which he requireth of us, and hath undertaken to do that which he hath commanded us to do; John 6.5, 6. therefore having removed this Objection, let us go forward to see what strong consolation promises do afford us; the truth of it is, the promises are those that make our lives comfortable in the world: we are travelling to Heaven, and all the portion we have is in promises, to assure us we shall lack nothing in our Journey, Heb. 6.17, 18. Thy portion is in thy Father's hand, and therefore whether it be losses, crosses, temptations, desertions or persecutions that trouble thee; be contented, for ere long thou shalt pass through all thy poverty, and when thou comest home, shalt feed on husks no more; what joy will the Father and all his holy Angels make at thy arrival? then all tears shall be wiped from thine eyes, and thou shalt soon forget thy light afflictions, and momentany miseries, when thou shalt sit smiling in eternity, and thy head impaled in such an exceeding weight of glory. Thirdly, God draws by his Lash: Before I was afflicted, I went astray, but now I have learned thy Statutes, Psal. 119.67. but there being so many things extant for the supporting of afflicted Souls, I shall only say thus much, that conquering is as well by streaking as striking; howbeit our Heavenly Father knows best how to drive one, and draw another; who are to be affrighted with a frown, and who to be alured by love; Linen is made whiter by Bucking, and woollen cleaner by Beating; Sufferings and Sorrows come not upon us without a cause, though to them that have too little Faith, or too much of slavish fear, they serve but as Water in the Ship, or rough Winds to the Sails, that sinks the one, and blows away the other, because they see not the hand that sends them, but like the Dog, by't at the Stone, and mind not the Man. Fourthly, God draws the Soul by his Light: when night appears in her spangled Canopy, and mounts her darkened throne, to follow her flying predecessor; when with too long delay she shakes her dewy locks, as she rides upon the backs of downy Ravens sleek and sable Plumes, and hurls black darkness from her Chariot wheels, wrapping the world in a Mantle of mourning, by the charming power of her sable Hemisphere: then the forsaken Universe is lost a while, and drowsy Mortals (rocked in her charming lullabies) in the midst of danger sleep secure: notwithstanding the terrors of the night, and the dangers of the dark, those fearful visions, and strange apparitions that affright languishing lovers, and sometimes glance before unquiet eyes. Thus the poor Soul, in the time of Ignorance, is like the Egyptians that grovelled in the dark, or the blind Sodomites that could not find the door, who were (in the midst of distraction) hurried to destruction: the first buried alive in the Water, the last burned to death in the Fire. Alas there is no coming to Paradise by pleasure, nor gaining Heaven by honour; not Honour nor Dignity, Pleasure, vainglory, a Kingly Throne, nor a transitory Crown. It is not coin can purchase Canaan, nor Money merit Mercy; Nay, to come nearer, it is not Earth's happiness, nor the Creatures holiness, Man's sincerity nor his mind's purity, that can merit Heaven; not by Prayers nor Promises, Duties nor Endeavours. Which when the Sun of Righteousness hath discovered to the Soul, (when he sees there is no contentment in the Creature, till it centres in the Creator; no satisfaction in itself, no rest in the Soul, but that the redemption thereof depends on another) therefore in a self abhorrency, he mutters to himself these or the like speeches. The World shall never have my heart no more, no, though I should sit at the upper end thereof in Prince's Palaces, and had the peculiar treasure of Kings; though I were dressed in robes of the purest die, and fared deliciously every day; though I were drawn in a Chariot of Ebony, or sat upon a chair of Down, or did ride upon the wings of Fame; though I had stately buildings, and could for recreation retire a while into curious Gardens, rare Walks, and gallant Groves, where I might hear the birds sing out their ravishing tones, in a well-measured evenness, and be lulled asleep with the still music of murmuring Water, and perfumed Air; though I had all the beauties of the Arcadian Court, and had every room adorned with White, Greene and Blue hang, fastened with Cords of fine Linen and Purple, and Silver Rings, and though my Bed were of Gold, hung round with Diamond and Pearl, and stood upon a pavement of Red and Blue, and White and Black Marble. Deluding Vanities, I'll tear you from my heart, what do you here weak chains? my Pride presumed once you had the power to fetter Hell, and guard me from the terrors of the evil day; I once believed you could have brought content, when your delights dropped in my Soul like dew into the bosom of a flower; and thou poor flattered heart, whom oft I have esteemed pure; I thought my prayers once would open Heaven, and bring down Guardian Angels from the Canopy of Love, to catch my Orisons, and bear my night oblations to the holy one; but light doth chase these black delusions now, like darkness from the rising of the morn; since I myself am nothing, I'll go to him that hath the treasure of all: If he will please to except me, I will cease to be my own, and live to his glory (not otherwise) that I might redeem those vaine-spent hours which I have thrown away. Fiftly and lastly, God draws the Soul by his Love: And here (sweet Readers) I should indite an Epithalamium of Love, but having lost my best Fancies with my Fortunes, I shall rather darken than dignify so rare a Subject, set Hills on Hills, till they aspire above the lofty Alps, whose proud imperious Pyramids, may serve as a Rampant against the Sun's rage, and all is below Love; 'tis not the treasure of the world in one, the wealth of Tagus, nor the rich Peru, nor Pearl enough to pave the Courts of Kings, mountains of Silver, nor mines of golden Ore, that can buy Love: It is the mirror of Earth, the majesty of Heaven, the ornament of the Soul, the beauty of the Body, the glory of the Spheres, the upholder of the Universe, the delight of Man, the Dignity of Angels, the map of Honour, and the world's great wonder. Which when the Soul once tasteth, how is it raised with Joy? how ravished with Delight? how rich is he in Adversity? how merry in Misery? reckoning his Poverty, prosperity; his Afflictions, felicity; his Disgraces, high dignity, as having nothing, yet possessing all things; delighting in company, yet loves to be alone; praying for life, yet desirous to die; counting his days but hours, and yet his minute's years. And though this Soul may be as unwelcome to the Peacocks of the world, as Ink upon their Gorgets, Water in their Shoes, Dirt upon their Cheeks, or Ashes in their Eyes, yet he is borne of the Family of Heaven, and lives more high than they. His Drink is Wine of Consolation, his Bread the food of the Gospel, his clothing the Armour of Righteousness, his Shield, the Shield of Faith, his Dowry the Kingdom of Glory, his Recreation is Religion, his Bed the bosom of Abraham, under the Canopy of Love, surrounded by Guardian Angels; where he doth (as well he may) teach sorrow how to sing, sighing his crying Elegies in Heavenly raptures, sending many a groan to Heaven, that he might be dissolved, till soft and silken slumbers close his amorous eyes. But is this Act our own? can the blind eye put a difference 'twixt light and darkness? can fordid Earth outvie the shining Heavens? or a Candle vie with the glory of the Sun at the top of noon day? can deformity become purity? or Devils plead with holy Angles? can Poverty purchase Dignity? or the thing that is sensual become supernatural? Oh no! It is the work of the Creator, therefore bow not thy glory to the Creature. That God should come a wooing to thy Soul, to thee that hadst no comeliness nor beauty! that God should love thee, who hadst not loveliness in thee! that God should lay out so much, and yet look for so little! that God should speak to thee, when Man only spoke to others! and that thou shouldst feel his work, when others did but here his Word! that God should sum up thy Sighs, and bottle up thy Tears, and for a little insamy crown thee with a Crown of Glory! that God should convert thee in the morning of thy days, and let others go on till the evening of their age! that he should give thee a token of Heaven, when so many thousands drop into Hell! that thou shouldst be converted with joy, when others have had thunder claps of Mount Sinah ringing in their ears, while they have sailed through the Red Sea of sorrow, in the midst of the valley of Anchor; thou hast been drawn by the still voice of a promise, thy ways were strewed with Roses, thy footsteps washed with butter, and thou hast been alured by Love, and then that God should Metamorphose thy nature, and turn thee from a Nabal to an Abigal; from a Demos, to a David; from a Judas, to a John; from a Publican, to a Puritan; and then lead thee by an Eye of Faith, and the powerful Arm of Love to trust thy Soul upon his bare word to all Eternity, whether thy Judgement may be Life or Death. The SOULS Trance. Soul. I Shall never be able to get any ease for my trouled heart, just such another fit of amazement fell upon me, when Tread of the Vision from Heaven, that shone about the head of Paul, then was I in as great a strait as now; therefore I will say with him, Lord what wilt thou have me do? If Man in Innocency, who was a piece of Excellency, the Image of Heaven, Companien of Angels, and Lord of Earth, had then no power to stand, how then shall be secure from a fall? If he that resembled Heaven could not, than I that am like to Hell shall not; Oh my heart! how happy had I been, if I had died as soon as I was borne, or if these wretched eye had never seen the day, than had I not seen mine own deserved overthrow: but I will reason no more, the remnant of my days that I shall languish here, I'll give to Contemplation, and pass my wearied time in Tears, and see if in the midst of sorrow I can weep myself away, and like a hunted Partridge hid myself, — For I Must waste my Soul in sorrow till I die. Christ. What Man art thou, that when Nights gloomy shades hath drawn her sable Curtain o'er the Sky, and banished out the Day, durst stand to question Heaven; whose sacred name, thy black unhallowed tongue ought not to mention, but on thy knees with reverence: say, canst thou plead with him at whose command attend those sulphurous flames which Aetna's fiery mouth doth vomit into Air, why is thy heart so full of carnality to dispute of Man's ability? and question Heaven's love,— were all the powers of Hell come down in Battle array, to bear thee captive in their furious Arms, though they should surround thee with hot Lightning, and cast their fiery darts to wound thee, as thick as Atoms in the Air, yet I alone would stand thy fierce assault, and with a blow, I'd quell their pride, and set my Prisoner free. Soul. How comely is deformity beautified at thy approach? and all that blackness chased away, that darkened my understanding with a frown; resembling the majesty of the Sun ushered by glory from his shining throne, but as it would be presumption in me to think I merit forgiveness from thee, so would it be rebellion to refuse thy proffered love, which is everlasting life, but I am unworthy. Christ. Poor Soul, remember how dear thou art in Heavens eyes, 'twas not the treasure of a thousand Worlds, Mountains of Silver, nor Mines of Gold, promises of Men, purchase of Crowns, policy of States, purity of Saints, nor power of Angels, that could redeem thee from eternal death, till I did pay the price, and wilt not thou believe me now? except my profferred love, and let me lead through this darkened vale; thou canst not find the way alone, see if I will not bring thee to my Father's house, and lay thee under the Canopy of Love; though dangers were before thee as thick as Stars above thee, my hand should crush them all, and with an angry breath, I'll blast their fury in their height of pride. Soul. Oh my dear let me not see paradise in a vision! that when I wake it may appear a dream: I know thou canst do all things, but I am so stained with Spots, and dressed in rags of such deformity, that I shall but fall as dirt upon thy Cheeks, or Ashes in thine Eyes; the best I have is but unwilling willingness, why dost thou descend below thy incomparable throne, to trouble thine ears with me? Alas what can I give thee for all thy pains, but Rebellion? and sure the saving of such a wretch as I, will not advance thy glory: but speak apace my Sighs, my best Orators, I feign would resign my will to thee for ever, Oh guide and direct me for I am wholly thine. Christ. How comely are thy eyelids in their Tears, which sit upon thy face like Arythrian Pearl, with a Vermylian dye, they shine like to the eyelids of the morn, for when the Sun retires behind a cloud a while, to weep alone unseen, methinks he looks like thee; those drops upon thy cheeks, are like the early dew that comes to kiss the Rose, and in a Summer morn, doth fall into the bosom of a flower; the Courts of Kings, or Prince's Palaces, are poor habitations, I had rather live with thee than with the greatest Monarches of the World. Soul. Oh what is there in me worthy of love? I shall be the unworthiest Instrument that ever was made to celebrate thy praise; The Organs of my soul are all untuned; and every noble faculty of my spirit is obscure; I am poor and despised, and the world rejects me, but 'tis no matter, if thou wilt love me, though I be hated of all: but how shall I spend my weary hours when thou art gone away? Christ. I'll send the Spirit to bear thee company, when thou dost sit alone, and sometimes droppest a tear, his hand shall wipe it away, and glad thy heart; teach sorrow how to sing, and when thou walkest abroad, a guard of Angels shall secure thee from injury my love. Soul. When I am sad alone, my busy thoughts shall fly on wings of contemplation, and see thee in Heaven, and I will watch and pray till stealing slumbers with soft and airy wings, shall bring my languishing Spirit, to the Visions of Eternity, where I may dream of thee; and when I wake, I'll walk and view the world, and when I see the spangled Canopy, and behold the wondrous motion of the Orbs, I'll think upon thy glory there. Christ. I'll go prepare a place for thee, a place in eternity above the teeth of time, there where the grey-eyed morn ushers the flaming Chariot of the day, surrounded in brightness and glory, where we will dwell in temples not made with hands, in streets of Gold like to transparent glass; and when the houre-glass of thy life is run, and time hath brought thy journey to an end, I le dress thy temples in a victor's Orb, and arch them with a Crown. Soul. Well, while I live here, I'll be exceeding humble, (and if I can holy) in all my actions, I'll resemble thee. If sinful thoughts begin to stain my Soul, I'll weep them o'er ere I have thought them out. If I am abused, I will get upon the wings of prayer, and tell thee all my wrongs, my life shall be a continual repentance; I will not back-slide, rather than so, I will waste my Soul with Sobs, and Sigh away my Body into air. Christ. Farewell, dearest farewell, make haste and meet me in Heaven, let not the assaults of sin daunt thee, but with an Heroic heart stand the fiery trials; remain as spotless as my love; I will go before to the Palace of Peace, situated in Eternity, the purest milk white robes shall be our vestments for the Marriage day, and our Music the Halleluja's of Angels, run then with patience, for when thou comest to the end of the race, I will welcome thee home, — And we'll knit fast the bands Of Marriage, and in glory join our hands. Soul. And doth this empty world deserve thus much of me, to steal my heart in the prime of all my age, that I should lift up my voice in my best tunes, chanting amorous Sonnets hourly to its praise? no, every of these have left me now dull melancholy, the picture of my sorrow, Oh how the object of my Souls delight did please himself to encourage me! did I enjoy that happiness for ever! I should have some of Heaven here, but now what joy have I to live, whose life is but a trouble? this world, this poor, this low, this transitory world, is but a scene of sorrow, 'tis but a dying life, or living death, and that which troubles me is, how long it will be ere I shall have his company again: when he went away, me thoughts he resembled the flood Sun, when down the Western world he drives his teem, leaving the Universe in a mantle of mourning, and I could wish my night were coming too: why do I languish thus? since I cannot see his face, I will go hear his word, that I may learn to do his will, methoughts he had me fight against temptations, and look for fiery trials, I will do it; and for the love of him I will pass a thousand dangers,— — In which my courage shall, Stand up Victorious, or in battle fall. Ye Sons of Honour, Heirs of Glories Crown, whose sacred feet must trample the Holy Fields; what is it that makes you sing in sorrow, and glo●y in your shame? that crownes your hearts with courage? and beautifies your faces with a smile? that sets fortitude upon your brows, and places sweetness in your amorous eyes? that doth advance you in adversity, makes you rich in poverty, and glory in indignity, is it not Love 〈◊〉 what is it that will keep up your spirits at that Dreadful Day, when the Trumpet shall be sounded, the World shall be startled, the Graves shall be opened, the Dead shall be raised, and the Unjust shall be Judged? will it not be Love? when the Fabric of the World shall be shaken, and the Axletrees or the Earth broken, and Time shall lose his way, when the Kings of the Earth, and all their mighty Armies shall look pale, and their winged Bulwarks grapple, and their battered Kingdoms fly about their ears in clouds of dust, when the Spheres are sweltting in flames, the Earth surrounded by fire, and bufling winds beat Thunder out of Air; when with terror from on high, the day shall be as black, as if Don Phoebus frighted from his chaite, left ugly darkness on his Chariot wheels: and indeed, Love may be compared to Wine, with which Kings sometimes have drunk themselves to such a height of kindness, that they have remembered Majesty no more: alas every Christian hath his cross, every day its difficulty, every time its trouble, and every action a a several temptation; the best of what is here, is but Sunshine mixed with Raine, sweet with four, and every smile intermingled with a frown; but than ye shall put off your fl●shly garments ●●…corruption, and be dressed in the habit of Heaven, out of the ward●●p of glory, and be entertained with the pleasures of Paradise, where there are incomparable delicates for the taste, sweet perfumes for the smell, rare music for the Ear, ravishing objects for the Eye; where thou shalt lie on a Bed of Roses, in swelling soft Eternity, and be lulled in Angels arms; but it being beyond description, too high for imagination, impossible for the mind to conceive it, unlawful for the tongue to utter it, I shall conclude the Book, for methinks a gloomy Cloud doth stop the passage of my Pen, and I can write no more. FINIS.