Com'st thou to downie yeares? See, how deceits
Gull thee with golden fruit, and with false baits
Slily beguile the prime of thine affection.
Art thou attain'd at length to full perfection
Of ripen'd yeares? Ambition hath now fent
Thee on her frothy errand; Difcontent
Payes thee thy wages. Doe thy grizly haires.
Begin to caft account of many cares
Upon thy head? The facred luft of gold
Now fires thy fpirit, for fleshly luft too cold,
Makes thee a flave to thine owne base defire,
Which melts and hardens at the felf fame fire.
Art thou decrepit? then thy very breath
Is grievous to thee, and each griefe's a death.
Looke where thou lift, thy life is but a span,
Thou art but duft, and, to conclude, a Man.
Thy life's a warfare, thou a fouldier art,
Satan's thy foe-man, and a faithfull heart
Thy two-edg'd weapon, patience thy fhield,
Heaven is thy Chiefetain, and the world thy field.
To be afraid to die, or wifh for death,
Are words and paffions of defpairing breath :
Who doth the first, the day doth faintly yeeld,
And who the fecond, bafely flies the field.
Man's not a law full ftearfman of his dayes,
His bootleffe wish, nor haftens nor delayes:
We are God's hired workmen; he discharges
Some late at night, and (when he lift) inlarges
Others at noone, and in the morning, fome:
None may relieve himfelfe, till he bid come:
If we receive for one halfe day as much
As they that toyle till evening, fhall we grutch?
Job Militant,
Med. 8. by F. Quarles.
Ed. 1630.
The Immortality of the SOUL, implied from its Motion.
-The Soul, which in this earthly mould
The spirit of God doth fecretly infuse,
Because at first she doth th' Earth behold,
And only this material world fhe views:
At first her mother Earth fhe holdeth dear,
And doth embrace the world, and worldly things;
She flies close by the ground, and hovers here,
And mounts not up with her celestial wings.
Yet under heav'n fhe cannot light on aught
That with her heavenly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.
For who did ever yet, in Honour, Wealth,
Or Pleasure of the fence, contentment find?
Who ever ceas'd to wish when he had Health?
Or having Wisdom was not vext in mind?
With this defire she hath a native might
To find out every truth if she had time;
Th' innumerable effects to fort aright,
And by degree from caufe to cause to climb.
But fince our life so fast away doth flide,
As doth a hungry Eagle through the wind:
Or as a fhip tranfported with the tide,
Which in their paffage leave no print behind;
Of which swift little time fo much we spend
While fome few things we through the fence do strain,
That our short race of life is at an end,
Ere we the principles of skill attain,
The Inftability of HUMAN GREATNESS.
FOND Man, that looks on Earth for happinesse,
And here long feeks what here is never found!
For all our good we hold from heav'n by leafe,
With many forfeits and conditions bound;
Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due;
'Though now but writ, and feal'd, and giv'n anew,
Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.
Why should'st thou here look for perpetuall good,
A every loffe against heav'ns face repining?
Do but behold where glorious Cities stood,
With gilded tops, and filver turrets fhining;
There now the Hart fearleffe of grey-hound feeds,
And loving Pelican in fafety breeds;
There shrieching Satyres fill the people's emptie steads.
Where is th' Affyrian Lion's golden hide,
That all the East once grafpt in fordly paw?
Where that great Perfian Beare, whofe fwelling pride
The Lion's felf tore out with ravenous jaw?
Or he which twixt a Lion and a Pard,
Through all the World with nimble pineons far'd,
And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdomes fhar'd?
Hardly the place of fuch antiquitie,
Or note of these great monarchies we finde ?
Onely a fading verball memorie,
And empty name in writ is left behinde :
But when this fecond life, and glory fades,
And finks at length in times obfcurer shades, A fecond fall fucceeds, and double death invades.
That monftrous beat, which nurft in Tiber's fenne
Did all the world with hideous shape affray ;
That fill'd with coftly fpoil his gaping denne,
And trode downe all the reft to duft and clay:
His batt'ring horns, pull'd out by civil hands,
And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the fands;
Back't, bridled by a Monk with seven heads yoked stands.
And that black Vulture, which with deathfull wing
Ore-shadowes half the Earth, whose dismal fight
Frighted the Mufes from their native spring,
Already stoops, and flagges with weary flight.
Who then shall hope for happines beneath;
Where each new day proclaims chance, change and death,
And life itfelf's as flit as is the aire we breathe?
Purple Ifland,
Cant. 7, St. 2-7:
by Ph. Fletcher. Edit. 1633.
THE proudest pitch of that victorious Spirit
Was but to win the World, whereby t' inherite
The ayrie purchase of a transitory
And glozing title of an age's glory;
Would'st thou by conqueft win more fame than he,
Subdue thyfelfe; thyfelfe's a world to thee.
Earth's but a ball, that Heaven hath quilted ore
With Wealth and Honour, banded on the floore
Of fickle Fortune's falfe and flippery Court,
Sent for a Toy, to make us Children sport,
Man's fatiate fpirits with fresh delights fupplying,
To still the fondlings of the world from crying;
And he, whose merit mounts to such a joy,
Gaines but the honour of a mighty toy.
But would'st thou conquer, have thy conqueft crown'd
By hands of Seraphims, trymph'd with the found
Of Heaven's loud trumpet, warbled by the shrill
Celestial quire, recorded with a quill,
Pluckt from the pinion of an Angels wing,
Confirm'd with joy by Heavens eternal King;
Conquer thyfelfe, thy rebel thoughts repell,
And chafe thofe falfe affections that rebell.
Hath Heaven defpoil'd what his full hand hath given thee?
Nipt thy fucceeding bloffomes? or bereaven thee,
Of thy deare latest hope, thy bosome friend?
Doth fad Despaire deny these griefes an end?
Despaire's a whisp'ring rebell, that within thee,
Bribes all thy field, and fets thy felfe agin thee;
VOL. II.
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