Vicissitude plaies all the game; Or hath a name, But waits upon this wheel; Kingdomes too have their physick, and for steel Thus doth God key disorder'd man, Tuning his brest to rise or fall; THE TEMPEST. How is man parcell'd out? how every hour When nature on her bosome saw And all her flowres wither'd to straw, She made the earth, their nurse and tomb, 'Till to those sighes fetch'd from her womb So in the midst of all her fears And faint requests, Her earnest sighes procur'd her tears O that man could do so! that he would hear Makes up but lectures for his eie and ear. Sure mighty love, foreseeing the descent Of this poor creature, by a gracious art Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, And layd surprizes in each element. All things here shew him heaven; waters that fall, Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam Quit their first beds, and mount; trees, herbs, flowres, all Strive upwards still, and point him the way home. How do they cast off grossness? only earth, Plants in the root with earth do most comply, Their leafs with water and humiditie, The flowres to air draw neer and subtiltie, And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky, Light, motion, heat. All have their keyes and set ascents; but man Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, Sleeps at the ladder's foot: alas! what can These new discoveries do, except they drown? Thus, groveling in the shade and darkness, he Yet hugs he still his durt; the stuffe he wears, And painted trimming takes down both his eies; Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, And money better musick than the spheres. Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'r a flowr To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law? O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light? Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must Be broke again, for flints will give no fire RETIREMENT. I. WHO on yon throne of azure sits, Above the morning starre, Whose meaner showes And outward utensils these glories are, Part of his mansion; he one day, Out of meer love, By his mild Dove, Did shew me home, and put me in the way. II. Let it suffice at length thy fits And lusts, said he, Have had their wish and way; Presse not to be Still thy own foe, and mine; for to this day And would not see, but chose to wink; And edge of all, When thou wouldst fall, My love-twist held thee up, my unseen link. III. I know thee well; for I have fram'd, And hate thee not; Thy spirit, too, is mine; I know thy lot, Extent, and end, for my hands drew the line If, then, thou would'st unto my seat, Leads to that way, But from those follies a resolv'd retreat. IV. Now here below, where yet untam'd I have a house as well In it my name and honour both do dwell, I make all new; there, nothing gay In perfumes or array, Dust lies with dust, And hath but just Where dead men preach, who can turn feasts and To funerals and Lent. |