A FOVRE-FOVLD Meditation, Of the four last things: viz. 1. of the hour of Death. 2. of the Day of Iudgement. 3. of the pains of Hell. 4. of the joys of heaven. showing the estate of the Elect and Reprobate. Composed in a divine poem By R. S. The author of S. Peters complaint. Imprinted at London by G. Eld: for Francis Burton. 1606. To the Right worshipful and virtuous Gentleman, matthew Saunders, Esquire. W.H. wisheth, with long life, a prosperous achieuement of his good desires. SIr; as I with great desire apprehended the least opportunity of manifesting towards your worthy self my sincere affection, so should I be very sorry to present any thing unto you, wherein I should grow offensive, or willingly breed your least molestation: but these meditations, being divine and Religious(& vpon mine own knowledge, correspondent to your zealous inclination) emboldened me to recommend them to your view and censure, and therein to make known mine own entire affection, and serviceable love towards you. Long haue they lain hidden in obscurity, and happily had never seen the light, had not a mere accident conveyed them to my hands. But, having seriously perused them, loathe I was that any who are religious●y affencted, should be deprived of so great a comfort, as the due consideration thereof may bring unto them. As for myself, Sir, the knowledge you haue of me, I hope will excuse the coldness and sterility of my conceits, who covet to illustrate my entire affection unto your worship, by real and approved actions, referring myself wholly in this,& all other my endeavours, to your favourable construction, who shall ever be of power, in the humblest services to command me. Your Worships unfeigned affectionate, W. H. A Treatise of the hour of Death, the day of Iudgement, the pains of Hell, and the joys of heaven. Of the hour of Death. OH wretched man, which lovest earthly things, And to this world, hast made thyself a thrall, Whose short delights, eternal sorrow brings, Whose sweet in show, in truth is bitter gull: Whose pleasures fade, ere scarce they be possessed, And grieve them least, that do them most detest. Thou art not sure, one moment for to live, And at thy death, thou leavest all behind, Thy lands, and goods, no succour then can give, Thy pleasures past, are corsiues to thy mind. Thy worldly friends, can yield thee no relief, Thy greatest joys, will prove thy greatest grief. The time will come, when death will thee assault, conceive it then, as present for to be, That thou in time, mayst seek to mend thy fault, And in thyself, thine error plainly see: Imagine now, thy course is almost spent, And mark thy friends, how deeply they lament. Thy wife doth howl, hir shrieks do pierce the skies, Thy childrens tears, their sorrows do bewray, Thy kinsfolk wail, and weep with woeful cries, Yet must thou die, and canst no longer stay: Lo here the joys, and treasures of thy heart, Thy race is run, from them thou must depart. With pain thou liest, gasping now for breath, Past hope of life, or hope of any good, Thy face presents, a lively form of death, Thy heart becomes, all could for want of blood: Thy nostrils fall, and gasping thou dost lye, Thy loathsome sight, thy friends begin to fly. Thy voice doth yield, a hoarse and hollow sound, Thy dying head, doth yield to deadly sleep, Thy senses all, with horror do abound, Thy feet do die, and death doth upward creep: Thine eyes do stare, deep shrunk into thy head, Thy jaws do fall, and show thee almost dead. What dost thou think, now all thy senses fail, What dost thou say, by pleasure here is won, How dost thou now, thy passed life bewail, How dost thou wish, thy course were now to run? What wouldst thou do, thine ending life to save, What wouldst thou give, for that thou canst not haue? Thy body now, must from thy soul depart, Thy lands and goods, an other must possess, Thy joys are past, on which thou sett'st thy heart, Thy pains to come, no creature can express: Lo now the fruit, and gain of all thy sin, Thus life must end, and endless life begin. Thy former faults, are set before thine eyes, And monstrous show, which seemed before so small, To swallow thee, despair in secret lies, And al thy sins, with terror thee appall: With scalding sighs, they move thee now to mourn, And force thy soul, with sorrow for to burn. Thou wailest now, the pleasing of thy will, Thine ill got goods, do make thee to lament, Thy vain delights, with anguish thee do fill, Thy wanton parts, thy conscience do torment: Thy sweetest sins, do bring thee bitter smart, Thy heinous faults, oppress thy dying heart. With dreadful fear, they shake thy guilty mind, And bent to fight, with fury thee enclose, In worldly wealth, no rescue canst thou find, But standst enclosd, amid thy mortal foes: A thou sand deaths, would seem a lesser pain, Then this estate, in which thou dost remain. No tongue, no pen, no creature can bewray, How all thy sins, their festered rancour show, How sobbing sighs, with sorrow thee dismay, How blushing storms, of grief begin to blow: Thy joys are gone, which were thy God before, thy life is done, and shall return no more. Now heaven to win, no pains thou wouldst refuse, Nor spare thy good, to ease thy woeful state, Of all thy sins, thyself thou dost accuse, And calst for grace, which seldom's given so late: For sin thou didst, while life and power did last, And leavest now, when power to sin is past. What booteth it, thy lewdness to lament, And leave off sin, when sin forsaketh thee, What canst thou do, when all thy force is spent, Or will our Lord, with this appeased be? Thy life thou ledst, in service of his so, And servest him, when life thou must forego. Then had-I-wist, with sorrow thou dost say, But after-wits, repentance ever breed, The hour is come, thy debt thou now must pay, And yield to death, when life thou most dost need: Thy breath is stopped, in twinkling of an eye, Thy body dead, in ugly form doth lie. Thy carcase now, like carrion men do shun, Thy friends do hast, thy burial to procure, Thy seruants seek, away from thee to run, Thy loathsome stench, no creature can endure: And they which took, in thee their most delight, Do hate thee most, and most abhor thy sight. Thy flesh shall serve, for vermin as a pray, For pampering which, both sea& land was sought, Thy body must, transformed be to day, For whose delight, such costly clothes were bought: Thy pride in dust, thy glory in the grave, Thy flesh in earth, an ending now shall haue. Behold the place, in which thou must abide, Is loathsome, dark, vnsweet, and very strait, With rotten bones, beset on every side, And crawling worms, to feed on thee do wait: O hard exchange, O vile and hateful place, Where earth and filth, thy carcase must embrace. O wretched state, O most unhappy man, Yet were it well, if nothing were behind, If all might end, as here it first began, Some hope there were, an ending for to find: For then as God, of nothing did thee frame, By course again, thou shouldst become the same. Of the day of Iudgement. but live thou must, a thousand deaths to die, And dying still, yet never wholly dead, Thou must appear, before the judge on high, And haue reward, as thou thy life hast led: The time is come, thou canst no longer stay, The judge is set, and bootless is delay. Behold his power, whom here thou didst offend, For vain delights, which were but mere deceit, Behold on him, how Angels do attend, And all that host, doth for thy coming weight: Behold his throne, of glory in the skies, And mark how wrath, doth sparkle in his eyes. Lo this is he, which every thing did make, Whom heaven& earth, do praise both night& day, Lo here the look, at which th'Angels quake, Lo here the Lord, whom all things do obey: His will is law, and none can it withstand, His wrath consumes, and killeth out of hand. O wretched soul, how may his wrath be born? Or can a worm, his fury now abide? Th' Angels al, do laugh thy sins to scorn, They hate thy sin, and loathe thee for thy pride? They shine with beams, far brighter then the sun, And call to God that iustice may be done. Each creature cries, that punished thou mayst be, Whom in thy life, thou lewdly didst abuse, Both heaven and earth, are foes professed to thee, And all thy thoughts, of sin do thee accuse: Thy words& deeds, against thee now are brought & all the faults, which sin in thee hath wrought. Thou cited art, a just account to make, How far thou soughtst, thyself for to deny, How all thy lands, and wealth thou didst bestow, And with thy good, thy brothers need supply: What care thou hadst, thy makers name to praise, What pains thou tookst, to walk in all his ways. The judge doth ask, how all thy time was spent, If from offence, thy senses thou didst keep, If in thy soul, thou truly didst lament, And for thy sins, with hearty sorrow weep: If thou his fear, didst set before thine eyes, And for his love, all worldly joys despise. If of thy foes, reuenge thou hast not sought, If to thy friends, thou never wert unkind, If earthly pomp, thou ever setst at nought, If secret hate, thou keepst not in thy mind: If thou alike, didst ioy and sorrow take, And with thy heart, all carnal lust forsake. Thy thoughts and words, the judge doth open lay, And asketh now, a just account of all, And how thou didst, his motives here obey, And for his grace, with earnest fervour call: If all thy life, on earth thou leadst upright, And in his love, didst settle thy delight. What canst thou pled, thy lewdness to excuse? When truth shall prove, in all thou didst offend, The judge is just, thou canst not him refuse, Thy cause is nought, thou canst not it defend: To hope for help,( alas) it is but vain, The time is past, no grace thou canst obtain. Our Lord doth say, how couldst thou use me so? Sith I to thee, both soul and body gave, How durst thou seek, to serve my mortal foe? Sith I did die, thy soul from death to save: I gave thee all, and me thou didst detest, He gave thee nought, yet wholly thee possessed. Thy lands and goods, did from my goodness flow, Thy flesh and bones, I did of nothing frame, Both wealth and wit, I did on thee bestow, And gave thee all, to praise my holy name: Yet with them all, thou didst against me fight, And fledst to him, that bears me most despite. When I did speak, thou seemedst deaf and dumb, When he did call, thou mad'st him answer strait, He never ovid, but in did quickly come, And I without, enforced was to wait: O thankless wretch, thou me shalt see no more, But dwell with him, that had thy heart before. Thou shalt with him, for evermore remain, To whom thyself, for pleasure thou hast sold, His will thou wroughtst,& mine thou didst disdain, His right thou art, I can thee not withhold: Thine own delights, haue made thee his to be, The choice was thine, no wrong is done to thee. Then comes the divell, The divels speech to Christ in the day of iudgment. and to our Lord doth say, O righteous judge, this wretch I ought to haue, For in his life, he would not thee obey, But with his heart, himself to me he gave: My precepts were, his practise day and night, And me to please, he made his whole delight. himself he vowed, to serve me all his dayes, His eyes were fixed, vpon my council still, His feet were bent, to walk in all my ways, His heart was set, for to perform my will: His life and lands; I drew him on to spend, In doing that, which might thee most offend. Thy power he scornde, and quiter refusd thy grace, Thy bitter pains, he banished from his eyes, Thy precious blood, he never would embrace, Thy grievous wounds, he lewdly did despise: Thy threats for sin; he reckoned as a iest, Thy words and will, in all he did detest. Thy endless joys, he seemed to disdain, And followed that, in which he found delight, In serving thee, he took not any pain, But all thy love, with hate he did requited: What reason now, thy glory he should see, Of which he seemed, so careless for to be? Thou didst him make, and on him all bestow, I nothing gave, nor him to being brought, Yet thee he left, to whom he love did owe, And me he served, who never gave him ought: What wouldst thou more, thou usest none to wrong, And he to me, in iustice doth belong. Behold O soul, The soul refused of God. how God doth thee refuse, And how his so, doth claim thee as his own, Thy conscience doth, with terror thee accuse, And reap thou must, as thou before hast sown: The Lord of Lords, doth thee condemn to lye, In endless flames, where living thou must die. O wretched soul, what shall become of thee? What greater pain, can any heart devise? Yet worse there is, if worse then it may be, Thy body must, to iudgement shortly rise: And both alike, in hell must suffer smart, As both on earth, in sin had equal part. All sinners fain, The signs before the day of iudgment. would shun this dreadful day, And wish it were, without their peril past, The fear alone, must needs the heart dismay, The signs appear, and on it cometh fast: Behold the sun, is dark that shined bright, The scars do fall, the moon hath lost her light. Behold how men, are wasted quiter with wo, And cannot find, a harbour now of rest, Behold on earth, how senseless they do go, Their faces pale, their hearts with fear oppressed: Behold each where, how beasts with terror cry, And mark how men, already seem to die. Behold how blood, the trees and branches sweat, And how each thing, doth tremble fear and quake, Behold the sea, against the land doth beat, And roaring loud, doth force the earth to shake. Her surging mount, with swelling fury shows, And on the land, hir fish she foaming throws. The clouds like smoke, do vanish in the skies, The mountaines move, the earth doth open wide, And blustering winds, with storm and tempest rise, The stoutest hearts, their faces seek to hid: Both rich and poor, from cities now are fled, And all in caues, do run to shrowd their head. Each living thing, for help doth cry and call, The savage beasts, unto the cities fly, The earth doth quake, the loftiestrowers fall, And beasts remain, where men were wont to lye: The course begins, of nature here to fail, The heau'ns do mourn,& al things else do wail. The angel loud, his dreadful trumpet sounds, And summons all, that ever life possessed, The earth with wo, and terror all abounds, The dead arise, that long haue lain at rest: Both quick and dead, assembled round do stand, And wait his will, whose coming is at hand. Behold how low, both heaven& earth doth bow, And prostrate all, his favour do desire, Behold how Christ, in glory cometh now, And in the air, appears a sea of fire: Th'earth for fear, doth tremble at his sight, The sea's dried up, the hills are melted quiter. The hardest rocks, are turned into dust, His furious wrath, no creature can abide, Their pains were sweet, which now are proved just, And need not seek, in corners them to hid: Our Lord rewards, where goodness he doth find, thrice happy they, which haue a guiltless mind. O cursed soul, how art thou drowned in care, When all this sight, is set before thine eyes, Thy passing fear, no writing can declare, Thy body dark, like death doth seem to rise: Thy hope is past, for easing of thy smart, Thy sins are pricks, to wound thy dying heart. Behold how thou, no favour here canst get, Nor from thy foes, by any means escape, On right hand th'art, with all thy sins beset, Beneath thee hell, to swallow thee doth gape: The fearful fiends, vpon thy left hand frown, And lye in wait, to cast thee head-long down. above thee sits, the judge inflamed with rage, Whom in thy life, thou lewdly didst offend, No means thou hast, his wrath for to assuage, His brows he doth, with angry fury bend: And all the sins, of men he doth repeat, Which maketh then, his indignation great. Within thee gnaws, thy conscience void of grace, And all the ill, to which thou didst consent, Without thee open, books declare thy case, Which damned thou dost, with bitter grief lament: On every side, the world doth thee affright, Which terror shows,& flames all burning bright. If forward now, thou takest on thy way, Thou headlong dost, unto thy ruin run, The divell doth watch, thy coming back to stay, No mean is left, misfortune for to shun, What wilt thou do, inuiron'd thus with wo? For neither back, nor forward canst thou go. O wretched man, how heavy is thy heart? How dost thou wish, for that which cannot be? How dost thou sigh, and quake in every part? How must thy friends, be severed now from thee? replete with ioy, in glory they shall reign, And full of grief, thou torment must sustain. Of the pains of Hell. THe Iudges words, are like a burning fire, Which wasteth all, it cometh to embrace, It booteth not, his iustice to require, The time is past, of calling now for grace: Behold the judge, doth thee condemn to hell, Where thou in pain, for sin shalt ever dwell. O doleful words, O most unhappy wight, Thy head to hid, for mountaines thou dost call, Thy future pains, are present in thy sight, Thou cursest now, the causers of thy fall: Thy birth and life, too late thou dost repent, Thou wailest both, but dost in vain lament. No tongue that pain, no creature can express, Those deadly griefs, which always thou shalt taste, The longer time, thy comfort is the less, Thy hope decays, thy sorrows never wast: Oh bitter sweet, which earthly pleasures breed, This living death, all torments doth exceed. Thy wanton eyes, those hellish monsters see, Whose bloody mindes, thy ruin did conspire, Whose neesings seem, like lightnings for to be, Whose ugly mouth, doth cast out flames of fire: whose nostrils smoke, whose eyes are glowing read, whose whole delight, by others smart is bread. Thy wretched ears, which hearkened unto lies, May hear how fiends, do rage with great despite, No voice is there, but shrieks and hideous cries, Which able are, the stoutest heart t'affright: Where some blaspheme, and some their states bewail, Where others curse, and never cease to rail. Thy dainty nose, which had perfumes each day, A loathsome stench, for ever must abide, Which riseth up, from damned bodies ay, That heaped there, do smell on every side: Lo here the sweet, thy smelling to content, No worldly thing, can yield so foul a sent. Thy curious taste, doth hunger now sustain, Which did in meate, such rare devises crave, With burning thirst, thou sufferest grievous pain, And yet to cool, no water canst thou haue: No drop is there, thy thirsting for to ease, Nor hope of help, that may thy grief appease. Thy feeling yet, the greatest pain doth bear, When fiery flames, do all thy parts torment, And shivering could, thou also findest there, With gnashing teeth, that makes thee to lament: Thy tears with heat, in streams are daily shed, Thy teeth with could, do chatter in thy head. If for a while, no creature can endure, In earthly fire, one member for to be, What torment do, thy passed joys procure, In endless flames, thy body for to see? what grief, what pain, what sorrow may it breed, which doth our earthly flames, so far exceed? The divels with flouts, do laugh thee now to scorn, Thy flesh and bones, a sunder they do tear: Thy cursed sin, with cruel whip is torn, Thy woeful heart, is filled full with fear: With inward wo, thy soul is sore oppressed, With outward pain, thy body finds no rest. Thy torments strange, do breed thee bitter grief, Which rests in thy, imagination still, Thy own conceit, which now should yield relief, Doth labour more, with sorrow thee to fill: Thou thinkest on that, thou wouldest most eschew, grief do thy thoughts,& thoughts thy grief renew. Thy memory now, recalles unto thy mind, The short delight, of all thy pleasure past, It wounds thy heart, these pains for them to find, Which grievous are, and shall for ever last: Thy desperate case, no comfort can obtain, Thy passed joys, increase thy present pain. Thy understanding, doth thy misery show, And telleth thee, thou art in Sathans jaws, For short delights, thy loss it makes thee know, And in thy soul, the worm of conscience gnaws: Those fading joys, in rage thou dost defy, And in despair, they make thee thus to cry. My former ioy, a shadow was indeed, Which did not last, but passed quiter away, My present pain, all measure doth exceed, No wit, no arte, my torments can bewray: A time there was, true bliss for to obtain, But time's now past, and labours now in vain. O cursed time, The complaint of a sinner in Hell. in which I time forsook, A little pain, had rid me of this wo, O cursed joys, in which I pleasure took, For pleasing you, all pleasure I forego: And here in hell, each kind of pain I find, Which wastes my flesh, and wounds my woeful mind. If I my sins, with sorrow had confessed, They had to me, been clean remitted all, In stead of grief, I glory had possessed, If I for grace, had bent my mind to call: O cursed wretch, that for so small a pain, Refusing bliss, in torments must remain. The greatestioyes, that do on earth abound, Can in the world, not yield so much delight, As here by pain, is in one moment found, Whose blazing wo, is present still in sight: What frenzy then, bewitched my wretched heart, For feigned joys, to suffer endless smart. My parents were, the causers of my wo, And all the meat, on which I ever fed, My carnal life, hath proved my greatest fo, And unto me, this misery now hath bread: accursed be all, that hath my ruin wrought, And every mean, which me to living brought. thrice happy they, on earth that never were, Their state is blessed, which never come to live, O blessed wombs, that children never bear, O happy breasts, that never suck did give: O deadly pain, O most unhappy place, O cursed wretch, whom all mishaps embrace. Let's hear thy plaints, in this infernal place, Where Scorpions sting,& Snakes do thee torment, Where hammers beat, and divels do roaring make, Where hope is past, and damned souls lament: Where worms do eraule,& ugly serpents creep where pains abound,& sorrows make thee weep. Against our Lord, thou ragest with despite, And him thou dost, with cursing words defy, Thou barred art, for seeing any light, And while he lives, thou must for ever die: Lo here the fruit, which earthly pleasures bring, Thy pains agree, in measure with thy sin. Thy sweet delights, are come to wo and wrack, Thy happy state, into a wretched case, Thy greedy mind, is answered here with lack, Thy lecherous arms, do ugly fiends embrace: Thy vexed soul, now howls for deadly pain, Thy heavy heart, doth suffer much disdain. Thou findest smart, in stead of pleasant game, Thy dainty wines, are turned to bitter gull, Thy costly clothes, are changed to burning flamme, Thy lofty pride, hath now a loathsome fall: Thou nothing hast, which may afford thee ease, And feelest all, that may thee most displease. Yet chiefly one, which all doth far exceed, And as it is, none rightly can esteem, It grieves thee most, and makes thy heart to bleed, And joined with it, the other nothing seem: Then judge what pain, this torture brings to thee When match to it, all, nothing seems to bee. Thy senses feel, for every sin a pain, So ranted there, as here thou tookest delight, and now for that, our Lord thou didst disdain, Thou banished art, for ever from his sight: The pain of sense, small torment thou dost find, When thou this loss, dost call into thy mind. O grievous loss, which cannot be expressed, O cause of grief, and spring of deadly wo, Thy soul hath lost, the center of her rest, Thy hope, thy health, thy life, thou must forego: No pain, nor loss, with this we may compare, It passeth all, and none it can declare. From hope of joys, this is an endless bar, And greatest plague, which God on sin bestows, compared with this, all torments pleasant are, And all thy woes, an easy burden shows: The bitterst pains, seem trifles in thine eyes, compared with this, the flames thou dost despise. What wo, what pain, what smart can be rehearst? What wanteth now, on thee for to be laid? With swords of grief, thy heart is daily pierced, With dreadful fears, thy conscience is dismayed: Thy soul hath lost, what most she doth desire, Thy body burns, in flames of endless fire. And if thy pain, an ending might obtain, When yeares there were, as many thousands run, As on the earth, haue lighted drops of rain, Since first of all, this wretched world begun: Some help this hope, might bring unto thy mind, When hope were least, an end at last to find. But of them all, no ease nor end thou hast, Which in thy soul, some comfort might procure, No time will help, thy sorrows for to wast, While God is God, thy torments shall endure: The pain in truth, is more then can be told, The sight in thought, no creature can behold. O dying life, O hell of endless smart, Which nature hates, and all things do detest, O living death, no life nor death thou art, For death hath end, and life hath sometimes rest: The worst of both, our Lord hath put in thee, That neither rest, nor end might ever be. Of the joys of heaven. O damned soul, why dost thou roar and cry? What deadly griefs, thee daily do oppress? But lift a while, thy cursed eyes on hye, And see what joys, the blessed there possess: That by the sight, thy torments may increase, And for thy life, thy sorrows never cease. And first behold, the beauty of the place, Where all the Saints, with Christ in glory reign, What piece is there, that's mixed with disgrace, Where it is free, from taste of any pain? Where great rewards, attend on good deserts, And all delight, possesseth faithful hearts. O wicked wretch this city now behold, Which doth surpass, the reach of any thought, The gates are pearl, the streets of finest gold, With precious stones, the walls are wholly wrought: Of sun or moon, it needeth not the light, For ever there, the sun is shining bright. And from his seat, a crystal river flows, Where life doth run, and pleasure always springs, On either side, a three of comfort grows, Which saving health, to every nation brings: It worketh rest, and stinteth worldly strife, It killeth death, and bringeth endless life. This goodly place, all beauty doth surmount And all this world, in largeness passeth farr●, The earth itself, for bigness in account, Not equal is, unto the smallest star: O worthy place, whose glory doth excel, thrice happy they, that here attain to dwell. No Saint is here, but brighter seems to be, Then sun or moon, whose brightness wonder breed, What glory then, so many Saints to see? Which all the stars, in number far exceed: O glorious place, where glory doth abound, O blessed state, where bliss is always found. archangels are, but under seruants here, And Angels do, their makers will obey, The powers with ioy, in triumph do appear, The virtues shine, the thrones their beams display: The cherubins, do yield a glorious sight, The Seraphines, with love are burning bright. The patriarchs here, haue ioy for all their pain, True Prophets are, with endless glory blessed, The holy Martyrs, worthy crownes obtain, The godly find, a heaven of happy rest: To all their joys, in glory they are met, And now possess, what long they sought to get. These sacred Saints, remain in perfect peace, Which Christ confessed, and walked in his ways, They swim in bliss, which now shall never cease, And singing all, his name for ever praise: Before his throne, in white they daily stand, And carry palms of triumph in their hand. Each in their order, seemly to behold, Are placed, by that all-ruling power divine; But how distinguished, is not to be told; For all as different stars in glory shine. The mansions are, for greater, and for less▪ Where all of ioy, the perfect state possess. The twelve Apostles, erst held as a scome, Who here below, left all, to bear the cross, Exalted are, the high heauens to adome, And rule with Christ, for whom they suffered loss. Vpon twelve thrones, they now in glory sit; And judge the tribes, as teacheth holy writ. above them all, and in an higher throne, Our saviour in, his man-hood sitteth here, From whom proceeds all perfect ioy alone, And in this place, all glory doth appear: The Saints delight, conceived cannot be, When they a man, the Lord of Angels see. They ravished are, with ioy in seeing this, How Christ our Lord, the chiefest place obtains, They now behold, the sea of endless bliss, And ioy to mark, how he in triumph reigns: What unto men, more honour can besall, Then here to see, a man the head of all? More ioy it yields, then any can devise, And greater bliss, then can in word be told, His piercing beams, do dazzle all their eyes, His brightness scarce, the Angels can behold: The Saints in him, their wished comfort find, And now enjoy, what most contents their mind. To think on this, it passeth human wit, The more we think, the less we come to know, He doth vpon, his fathers right hand sit, And all the Saints, their humble service show: His sight to them, doth endless comfort bring, And they to him, all praise for ever sing. O worthy place, where such a Lord is chief, O glorious Lord, which princely seruants keeps, O happy Saints, which neuertast of grief, O blessed state, where malice ever sleeps: No one is here, of base or mean degree, But all are known, the sons of God to bee. What higher place, can any Prince attain, Then to be son, to him which rules above? This state is no ways, subject to disdain, But in their mindes like brethren they doeloue: No place is left, for any hate or fear, But here they all, one heart and soul do bear. O happy peace, where discord never fights, The joys of all, are found in every breast, For each as much, in others joys delights, As if alone, it in himself did rest: In all their joys, no difference is there known, For each accounts, them all to be his own. And those they taste, wherewith our Lord abounds, And as their own, his glory do they take, unto themselves, by union it redounds, And all his joys, their glory perfect make: So fast are knit, the members to the head, As over them his ioy is wholly spread. What ioy is left, which here they do not find? What greater bliss, what pleasure may be more? What comfort may, conceived be in mind? Which hath not been, recited here before. Yet one delight, behind as yet remaines, Which one is all, and all in it contains. They face to face, do God almighty see, And all in him, as in a perfect glass: No good there is, but here is found to be, And all delights, his visage doth surpass: Each sight doth yield, the heart all perfect rest, Because no good, without him is possessed. He present, past, all future things doth show, And therefore rest, their understanding hear, There's nothing needful, but in him they know, And to their eyes, it plainly doth appear: They now obtain, what long they sought to get, And all their thoughts, are wholly on him set. Their will doth last, in loving of this sight, In which consists, all good that can be thought, They here haue fixed, their love and whole delight, And never will, from loving this be brought: For here all good, and goodness doth abound, And never can, without this good be found. There whole desire, from hence doth never part, But settled here, for ever doth abide, This sight doth fill, the mouth of every heart, And nothing leaves, for them to wish beside: Without desire, desire, content remaines, And her desire, with full delight obtains. There faith beholds, her best beloved guest, And her belief, this sight doth here fulfil, There constant hope, her hope hath now possessed, And him enjoys, for whom she hoped still: There charity, not perfect full before, To perfect state, this vision doth restore. O glorious sight, O sun of endless bliss, Which never wears, nor seemeth for to fade, Who ever saw, so faire a sight as this? What may be thought, that may not here be had? They live in ioy, which now shall never wast, Who ever did, such hopes of comfort taste? They here possess, what may content them most, And nothing want, which perfect bliss may bring, With all delight, here breaths the holy Ghost, Which always makes, a fresh and endless spring▪ No day is there, no morning, noon, nor night, But ever one, and always shining bright. O blessed joys, which all these souls possess, O happy fruit, which Christ for them hath won, And in degree, the bodies find no less, But shine with beams, far brighter then the sun: Not subject more, to sickness, grief, or pain, In glory now, immortal they remain, And perfect joys, each sense in private finds, Their eyes behold, that passing glorious sight, Where nothing wants, for to content their mindes, And all things are, which may their eyes delight. Their ears are fed, with hearing sweetest sounds, And them to please, al music here abounds. From songs of praise, the Saints no moment spare No tears are seen, nor any eye to weep, But in this place, the music is so rare, As half a sound, would bring all hearts asleep. And every sense, a proper pleasure takes, Which joined in one, their glory perfect makes. No eye hath seen, what ioy the Saints obtain, Nor ears haue heard, what comforts are possessed, No heart can think, in what delight they reign, Nor pen express, this happy port of rest: Where pleasures flow, and grief is never seen, Where good abounds, and ill is banished clean. And of these joys, no creature end shall see, The longer time, the sweeter they do show, Whiles God endures, they ended cannot be, And never waste, but always seem to grow: When worlds are worn,& many millions past, They new begin, and shall for ever last. O seat of ioy, where endless ioy remaines, O heaven of bliss, where none do suffer wrack, O happy house, which all delight contains, O blessed state, which never feeleth lack. O goodly three, which fruits doth ever bear, O quiet state, which dangers need not fear. O mixture pure, which basest dross refines, O pleasant place, which onely comfort brings, O joyful sun, where glory always shines, O fertile soil, where pleasure always springs: O glorious souls, O bodies highly blessed, O sea of good, and of all good the best. O damned wretch, the thought of this alone, A speech of the damned. Oppresseth thee, with heaps of deadly care, And sighing now, in spirit thou dost groan, When with their bliss, thy woe thou dost compare: Thy grievous loss, doth grudge thy wretched heart, And it with grief, redoubles all thy smart. If all the world, by conquest thou hadst won, A trifle now, thou thinkest all to give, That on the earth, thy race were not begun, And thou again, were suffered here to live: An other course, thou wouldst then undertake, And serving god, thy carnal lusts forsake. The straightest life, no pains thou wouldst esteem, Thy praying would, a passing ioy appear, Thy fasting oft, no trouble then would seem, Nor any grief, the hardest torment here: A ioy thou wouldst, account the greatest pain, To scape from hell, and endless bliss obtain. Then must I call, O wretched man to thee, And end where first, I did begin to writ, That all these joys, and pains, which thou dost see, May move thy mind, to lead thy life arighte: Thy hart will melt, to think upon thy case, If there be left, but half a spark of grace. Thou findest here, what thou wilt wish at last, And that account, which none can ever shun, Then frame thy life, before the time be past, As thou wilt wish, that thou in time hadst done: Least thou in vain, dost wail thy wretched state, When time is past, and wailing comes too late. FINIS.