M. Whitebread‘s CONTEMPLATIONS During his Confinement in NEWGATE.  

To a Soul in the Body.  

POor Soul, what makest thou here? is this the place,  
Thou wert designed for? sure the Noble Race  
Thou art descended from, may well require  
Better accommodation; and aspire,  
To greater matters, than immured to stay,  
Under a mouldy roof of dirt and clay:  
Where thy employment's like to be,  
To hear, to smell, to touch, to taste, to see,  
Things wholly succouring of flesh and blood;  
And are with Beasts, and Birds, a common good.  
Mean while thine own good parts are downed and lost,  
To serve the Humours of a peevish Host.  
Nor shalt thou please him long with all thy care,  
And diligence. For e'er thou art ware;  
He'll change into a thousand forms and shapes,  
And put as many humours on; as Apes  
Make mouths and mops: now he's for this, now that,  
Nor shalt thou easily know, what he'll be at  
Next moment, or next hour. One day he's well,  
Another sick to death; so sierce, so fell:  
That nothing can content him. Nothings right:  
He quarrels with the day, rails at the Night.  
As if they were the Authors of his ill,  
And bound to come, and go at his fond will.  
There's nothing now to do, but weep and mourn,  
As if he were a creature quite forelorn;  
Destined without Reprieve for Grave or Urn:  
But possibly  long the Tide may turn.  
And he from discontented, sick, and sad;  
May pleasant be, Jovial and half mad.  
'Tis as the humour flows, now cold, now hot,  
Now moist, now dry. But still 'twill be thy lot  
To wait upon him, and in all his wild  
Exotic moods, to tend him as a child:  
Caressing, soothing, using all the skill,  
A Nurse employs to keep her Baby still.   

It moves my heart to pity, when I see  
Thy understanding, Will, and Memory,  
(Parts fit to place thee on a Regal Throne)  
Thus undervalued; and thou scarce to own  
Thy great misfortune: but seem'st to rejoice  
As in a thing contrived by thy own choice.   

But look to't well, for trust me time will come,  
When he for all thy kindness, and in room  
Of all thy service, will serve thee a trick,  
And leave thee nothing but his bones to pick,  
From whence thou scarce shalt gather, wherewithal  
To satisfy his debts; which then will fall  
To thy lot to discharge, as having been  
His constant partner, and his next of kin.  
Nor shall he so escape. For he must know  
That though he skulks in Grots, and Caves, as low  
As Earth's deep centre, 'twill him not avail,  
He must appear without mainprize or bail.  
And answer to th' Action, which will be  
A  business both for him and thee,  
For as y'are jointly bound Body and Soul;  
You both are answerable for the whole.   

Rouse up thyself then, and without delay,  
Show him his danger, teach him to obey  
Thy just Commands: Make use of spur and rain,  
And if thou dost perceive, that he again  
Would break lose from thee, hold a stricter hand;  
Rebuke, persuade: But quit not thy Command.  
And above all remember thy descent,  
Make him too capable of the intent,  
Of his, and thy great Maker, to bestow  
Much nobler things, and greater, than this low  
And abject State of Life, you now do lead,  
Can promise. Tell him, he must learn to read  
His better fortune in the Starry Globe  
Of Heaven, where lie a rich and precious Robe,  
Of Glory shall receive; if he prove true  
To God, and Conscience, to himself and you.  
Deal with him so, that he oft casts an eye  
Up to that seat of Bliss, where he'll descry,  
Things worthy of his hopes, and find desire  
And love inflamed with a celestial fire:  
So that when e'er he will, or must return,  
To treat again with Earth, he'll kick and spurn,  
And what he lately did so much admire,  
And dote upon, and soon again retire  
To those great thoughts, wherewith Heaven did him treat,  
And oft with tears and amorous sighs repeat:  
Base World, vild Earth, how I thee do despise!  
When up to Heavens bright Sphere, I cast mine eyes.    

SOLITUDE.  

Dear Solitude, 'tis thou I see alone,  
Restor'st Men to their wits, to thee we own  
Ourselves deep debtors. We had half forgot,  
That we were men, till 'twas our happy lot  
To light on thee. Now free from those fond toys  
That everlasting bustle, endless noise,  
The basy World engaged us in we find,  
W● had something else to do, something to mind,  
Imports us more, than we as yet perchance,  
Had Thought well on: Our Life was not a trance?  
A waking dream, a spice of the disease  
On Brainsick Lunatics is wont to seize:  
Flattering their fancies, causing them to take  
Themselves for Kings, Queens, Princes, and to make  
Their brags and boasts of strange and mighty matters;  
Swearing they're richly clad, though all in tatters:  
But rags are Robes with them, Joined stools a Throne;  
Sticks Sceptres are, and scarce half caps a Crown.  
Their wooden di●h pure Gold; their bed of straw  
Embroidered Velvet: All they says a Law.   

Ay! this indeed is downright Bedlam mad,  
'Tis very true, and if perchance y'had had  
The time and leisure Solitude affords;  
Long since y'had found the deeds (if not the words)  
Of most men's Lives, to speak them little less;  
Than those now mentioned, and their Happiness  
As little real, with this only difference,  
That these in number those exceed, and hence  
By vote 'tis carried; these are wise and those  
Fit guests for Bedlam: though (under the Rose)  
These quite as Mad are in another kind,  
As viewing but what passes, you shall find.  
Mark their designs, pretensions, pursuits, Aims,  
At such mean things, as only bear the Names  
Of real goods; but are no more the things,  
They go for, than the Players Acting Kings,  
Are real Sovereigns: 'Tis from fancy that,  
Most things their value take. From whence or what,  
Is Gold, that it so great esteem should have?  
'Tis but a yellow Clay. Yet Lord and slave,  
To it must homage give, and half adore:  
And he that has thereof the greatest store,  
Is held the greatest, the best Man; whereas  
He's still but dust, and Gold but di● as ' 'twas.    

JEWELS.  

What Pebbles that? Why don't you see or have,  
It's Sunbright beams dazzled your sight? then save  
Your pains and eyes, and look else where: But know  
To this a Prince his Liberty may owe.  
Sweet Sir, your pardon, but pray is it not  
A Pibble still? or has it lately got  
Some strange Enchanting Virtue? to cut glass  
Is that alone for which it famous was,  
If that be all, though it shine ne'er so bright,  
Y'are ruled by fancy, not by reasons Light.    

BVILDINGS.  

See yonder Noble Structure, which e'er while  
A Cha●s was, now 'tis a stately pile;  
Where Greece, where Rome, where England, all its Art  
Engaged has, besides kind Nature's part  
Of choice materials; Marble, best Freestone,  
And things great and rich, as you will own,  
But that's of all, the least considerable:  
The Art, Contrivance, Symmetry is able,  
To raise wonder in the very stones. And  
Pray good Sir stop a little, hold your hand.  
After this fair recital, after all  
You have or can say, touching this you call  
A stately Noble Structure is't not still,  
A heap of Stones and Morter? by the skill  
Of cunning Workman cemented together;  
T'enhance the grand design, 'gainst Wind and Wether.  
For there are those, who will not stick to say,  
A close thatched Roof, and Wall well daubed with clay,  
Your first design, and chief end will fulfil  
As well, and as completely, as all the still,  
Which crafty Artist doth employ intending,  
T'enrich himself by your vain needless spending.  
Leavinged in doubt too, where the Italian curse  
Shall fall upon your head, or empty purse.    

To Death.  

DEath, thou'rt welcome. For though thou art a Thief,  
instead of Robbing, I expect relief,  
From thy kind hand, 'tis long since I have found.  
Thou stealest upon me and dost still get ground.  
So that I see, there's little hopes by flight,  
T' avoid thy pursuit. And although I might,  
There is so little comfort in the way,  
I still must keep, that I had rather stay  
Expecting thy last stroke; than thus remain  
In such a dying Life, where such a train  
Of miseries, such cares, wants, griefs succeed,  
The one the other daily; that 'twere need,  
To have a heart of Brass, and Breast of steel,  
To bear the cruel brunt. And now the Wheel  
Is set a running, 'twill scarce stop its course;  
Till it has hurried all from bad, to worse.   

So 'tis, and so 'twill be. But, pray, good Death,  
Let's make a friendly truce, before my breath  
Has quite forsaken me. I find, I have  
A little work to do; for which I crave  
Some short forbearance. It cannot be long  
My cares, my years, now coming in full throng,  
Upon my drooping Soul. And first of all,  
Provision should be made against the call  
Of the Almighty; for a strike account  
Of thoughts, words, actions, which must needs amount  
To a vast sum: O, what a fearful charge  
Will then be brought against me! not at large.  
But where each minute thing, each circumstance  
Shall be produced, and what e'er may enhance  
Sins direful malice, Mercy then no more  
Shall act her part: but justice on the score  
Of things irrevocably done and passed,  
Shall give the Sentence: and we then our last,  
And endless doom receive. Now this is that,  
I crave some respite for. For thoughht be what  
I have long laboured in, striving to frame  
My Conscience so, that it might without blame  
Appear before his eyes, who searches all  
The close Recesses of man's Heart: yet shall  
I gladly once more make a strict review  
Of what is past; and in my Soul renew  
That just Resentment; which at other times  
I seem t'have entertained against my crimes;  
Detesting them, and willing that my blood,  
Joined, and in union with that precious flood;  
Which from my Saviour's sacred wounds did flow,  
May wash my sinful Soul, and cleanse it so,  
That when before my great Judge I appear,  
Well managed Confidence may vanquish fear.  
This is what I do project. But pray stay,  
Take not my first word. For perchance I may  
Repent me, and on second better thought  
Resolve, forbearance may be too dear bought.  
For as there's nothing I so much detest,  
As sin: a thousand fears would me invest;  
Lest so unhappy I again should be,  
As to offend my great good God. I see  
The dangers are innumerable; The Nets  
Are spread on every side: and he that gets  
Well off from some, or most, is not secure:  
Some crafty Siren him may yet allure,  
And cast upon some desperate Shelve or Rock:  
Which to avoid, may ask a greater stock  
Of strength, and foresight, than my weakness dares  
Presume upon. Hence day, and night, such fears,  
And frights my trembling Soul, must needs oppress:  
That life cannot be held a Happiness.  
Then welcome Death, by thee I hope t'obtain  
A better Being, and secure remain  
From Sinn; that greatest, foulest, blackest Devil  
The subtlest Foe, the only dreadful evil:  
Which can a generous Soul befall. The case  
Thus then resolved is: that though the face  
Of Death hath something harsh in't, yet the harms  
Life still exposed to, and the kill charms  
Of Sinn so numerous are; that to eschew  
Such endless Hazards, 'tis best to renew  
Our first Address, and choose without Reply  
Rather to die, to live; than live to die.     

London, Printed in the Year, 1679. By a Copy of his own Writing.