not meteor-like exhaled from the vapours of this world; but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appears to fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which tries vertue: nor how tyrannically soever it usurpe on him, doth he pay to it a sigh or wrinckle; for he who suffers want without reluctancie, may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet waxeth not leane with envie: and when the posteritie of the impious flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards distinguish not ever the merits of men: and who hath beene of councel with the Eternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from the sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he dis : daines, when he findes it swelling in himself; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can any man's errour in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement. He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his æqualls but pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man esteeming yet no storme of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit. When he lookes on other's vices, he values not himselfe virtuous by comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough at home for reprehension. In conversation his carriage is neither plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigour but so demeanes himselfe as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse without assistance of inferiour organs. Lust is the basiliske he flyes, a serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with the breath, and carries the most murdering artillery in the eye. He is ever merry but still modest: not dissolved into undecent laughter, or tickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he reformes not by invectives but example. In prayer he is frequent not apparent yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations up to Heaven, and never findes himselfe wearied with the journey; but when the necessities of nature returne him downe to Earth, he esteemes it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his mistresse on which he is passionately enamour'd: for that he hath found the most soveraigne antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He therefore stands every moment prepared to dye and though he freely yeelds up himselfe, when age and sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him a martyr. The glorious trouble of the court. For though The vale lyes open to each overflow, For when, with losse of breath, we have orecome But you (my lord) prevented by foresight And this is th' emblem of our life: to please T' outwrastle time, we have but built on ice : And though the superstition of those times, Which defied kings to warrant their owne crimes, In their cœlestiall travaile, that bright coast These are sad thoughts (my lord) and such as fright No unregarded star Into so small a character, But if we stedfast looke We shall discerne In it, as in some holy booke, How man may heavenly knowledge learne. It tells the conqueror, That farre stretcht powre, Which his proud dangers traffique for, Is but the triumph of an houre. That from the farthest North, Yet undiscovered issue forth, Some nation yet shut in With hills of ice May be let out to scourge his sinne, Till they shall equall him in vice. And then they likewise shall Their ruine have; For as your selves your empires fall, And every kingdome hath a grave. Thus those cœlestiall fires, Though seeming mute, For they have watcht since first ET ALTA A LONGE COGNOSCIT. DAVID To the cold humble hermitage Stain'd with some pagan fiction, keeps aloofe. Whose buildings are like monsters but for show. Knowing thy art, the mockery of time? Rich structures they must as their owners, dye : In th' injuries of an ill cover'd cell! 'Gainst whose too weake defence the haile, The angry winds, and frequent showres prevaile. Where the swift measures of the day Shall be distinguisht onely as I pray : And some starre's solitary light Be the sole taper to the tedious night. The neighbo'ring fountaine (not accurst You wantons! who impoverish seas, And th' ayre dispeople, your proude taste to please! Who varies still its tribute with the day. And bow the flesh to sleepe, disease or lust. Ponders how bright the orbes doe move, And thence how much more bright the Heav'ns above, Where on the heads of cherubins Th'Almightie sits, disdaining our bold sinnes: Who, while on th' Earth we groveling lye, Dare in our pride of building tempt the skie. |