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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;
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
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,
Fire to all three, but man hath no such mirth.
Plants in the root with earth do most comply,
The flowres to air draw neer and subtiltie,
All have their keyes and set ascents; but man Though he knows these, and hath more of his
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 Without a steel, O let thy power cleer Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust!
WHO on yon throne of azure sits,
Above the morning starre,
Whose meaner showes
And outward utensils these glories are,
Out of meer love,
By his mild Dove,
Did shew me home, and put me in the way.
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
I did delay,
And would not see, but chose to wink;
Nay, at the
And edge of all,
When thou wouldst fall,
My love-twist held thee up, my unseen link.
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.
Now here below, where yet untam'd
I have a house as well
As there above:
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.