Condemning thoughts, like mad ecclipses, scowl And clouds of crying witnesses without Yet digg'd the mole, and, lest his ways be found, Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see Churches and altars fed him; perjuries It rain'd about him bloud and tears; but he III. The fearfull miser, on a heap of rust, Yet would not place one peece above, but lives Thousands there were, as frantick as himself, The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense, While others, slipt into a wide excesse, The weaker sort, slight, triviall wares inslave, And poor, despised truth sate counting by Their victory. IV. Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, "O fools," said I, "thus to prefer dark night To live in grots and caves, and hate the day The way, which, from this dead and dark abode, A way where you might tread the sun, and be But, as I did their madnes so discusse, "This ring the bridegroome did for none provide, But for his bride." First Epistle of John ii. 16, 17. All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doth the will of God abideth for ever. THE MUTINIE. I. WEARY of this same clay and straw, I laid So shook my brest, that, sick and sore dismai'd, Did quit their troubled channel, and retire Turning to Him who made poor sand to tire My taske and destinie, II. Let me so strive and struggle with thy foes, May prove thy glory and their shame; so close And Author of my faith; so shew me home, And frothie noise, which up and down doth flie, III. Not but I know thou hast a shorter cut To bring me home than through a wildernes, Though in this desart I were wholy shut, That no decay shal touch me; O be pleas'd O give it full obedience, that, so seiz'd Rev. ii. 17. To him that overcometh wil I give to eate of the hidden manna; and I will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth, saving he that receiveth it. THE CONSTELLATION. FAIR, ordered lights, whose motion, without noise, Resembles those true joys Whose spring is on that hill where you do grow, And we here taste sometimes below, With what exact obedience do you move, And, in your vast progressions, overlook Some nights I see you in the gladsome East, And when I cannot see, yet do you shine, Silence and light and watchfulnes with you No sleep nor sloth assailes you, but poor man He gropes beneath here, and, with restless care, First makes, then hugs, a snare; Adores dead dust, sets heart on corne and grass, But seldom doth make heav'n his glass. Musick and mirth, if there be musick here, These things are kin to him, and must be had, Perhaps some nights he'll watch with you, and peep, When it were best to sleep; Dares know effects, and judge them long before, When th' herb he treads knows much, much more. But seeks he your obedience, order, light, Where, though the glory differ in each star, Since placed by Him who calls you by your names, And fixt there all your flames, Without command you never acted ought, And then you in your courses fought. |