A Sovereign Antidote Against the Fear of Death, Poem – Publishers advertisement 2
A POEM, wherein is ſet forth the Vanity, Frailty and Brevity of Mans Life; as alſo the Certainty of Death, with the Benefit of it to Believers.
THE Life we live reſembles much a Play,
Where each man acts his part, and ſo away:
The beſt act Comedies which Joyfully end,
Moſt Tragedies, which to confuſion tend:
Men are the Actors, and the World's the Stage,
Whereon appears perſons of every age,
The good, the bad, the noble and the baſe,
Both Males and Females, even all Adams race.
None are exempt, each have ſome part to play,
Yet ſome have leſſer, ſome have more to ſay.
Some Childrens parts do play, they cry and then
March off, when others act the parts of Men.
Some on the Stage do fetch a turn or two,
Some look about them, and no more adoe:
Some act their own, and ſome anothers part;
In a diſguiſe they're honeſt, Knaves in heart.
The worſt in Royal Robes ſometimes do dreſs them,
Thoſe that their inſide view have cauſe to bleſs them;
In their diſguiſe like painted Tombs they ſhine,
They're fair without, but foul enough within.
In Silks and Sattins many men are clad,
When Dunghill-rakers are not half ſo bad;
But when Death comes, in their own ſhape we find them,
Their borrowed Robes they then muſt leave behind them.
Some act in thred-bare Coats, yet you may find
Under that ſordid Veſt a gallant Mind:
Though theſe are ſcorned by our Gallants gay,
Yet theſe do act their parts as well as they.
Some act Religious parts, but moſt prophane;
The Hypocrite, he is for either Game;
For he hath Vizards, if he pleaſe, enow
To make him ſeem prophane and holy too:
For he can one way look, and row another,
In a diſguiſe he'l cozen his own Brother;
Where Intereſt or the Devil drives he'l goe,
And ſhifts his Sails ſtill as the wind doth blow:
He'l act you any part, Noble or Baſe,
With his Apparel he can change his Face;
Each day like to the Moon, his Face is new,
With the Chameleon he can change his hue,
Ape-like he'l imitate whate're he ſee;
Proteus never had more ſhapes than he:
Like Mercury with Good he'l ſeem the beſt;
If found with Bad, he will exceed the reſt:
Religion is his ſtalking-horſe, and he
Doth only uſe it for to take his prey;
So long as he can get by't he will uſe it,
But if he loſe by't, he will ſoon refuſe it;
Him of his borrowed Robes Death will diveſt,
He'l dye in Earneſt, though he liv'd in Jeſt.
Some more ingeniouſly ſhew what they are,
Rotten they are at heart, and ſo appear:
Taverns they haunt, their Names not States to raiſe,
And thoſe in Hell do go for roaring Boyes.
In Venus Courts ſome live, but moſt of theſe
Come lamely off, or die of her diſeaſe:
Some few ſtay Natures time, moſt run before,
Bacchus or Venus opens them the door.
Some cheat, ſome ſteal, ſome lye, ſome ſwear and curſe,
And moſt, though bad enough, grow worſe and worſe:
But when their part is acted Death will come,
And clear the Stage, and then the Play is done.
Moſt are hiſs'd off the Stage, few get applauſe,
For few of acting well obſerve the Laws:
Some few to Wiſdoms Rules their hearts apply,
And theſe know how to live, and how to dye.
Some mind their buſineſs, moſt time idly ſpend;
Some love their way, but few their Journeys end.
For Riches, Honours, Pleaſures moſt men ſtrive,
But to get wiſdom is the way to thrive.
Some court fair Ladies, whoſe bewitching Spells
Ruines the State, and ſinks the Souls to Hell.
Some few improve their time while God doth lend it,
When others ſtudy vainly how to ſpend it:
How for to live moſt men their thoughts apply,
But wiſe is he that ſtudies how to dye.
The heav'nly Loadſtone Grace having toucht the Soul,
Makes her unſettled till ſhe finds the Pole.
This World will not ſuffice for her abode;
She's reſtleſs here, her Polar Starre is God.
This Heaven-born Eagle mounts and ſoars too high,
To feed on Carrion that in Ditches lye;
This World ſhe hath conquer'd, and with Philips Son,
She'd weep if there were not more worlds than one.
This Pilgrim cares not where ſhe lays her head,
She ſleeps ſecurely, if God make her bed.
In a cold Priſon ſhe can lye and eaſe her,
With Jacobs Viſions Jacobs Stone will pleaſe her.
Moſt men 'tis true, complain of grief and trouble,
But few of ſin, which makes their ſorrows double:
Troubles ariſe from ſin, the World and Devil,
God makes our dayes ſo few, we make them evil.
The world much like an Inne ſerves for a day,
Some only break their faſt, and ſo away:
Some dine, ſome ſup, and ſome are richly treated,
But thoſe that eat moſt Meals are moſt indebted.
If any ſuffer hardſhip, 'tis the beſt:
The worſe the man, the better is the Gueſt:
Some feaſt, ſome drink, ſome game, ſome drab and whore,
But when they come to pay, their reck'ning's more.
The World's to bad men as the Earth to weeds,
She'l cheriſh thoſe, but choak the better ſeeds;
And Stepdame-like, ſhe will Gods children ſerve,
She'l feed her own, but ſuffer them to ſterve,
For entertainment ſhe's much like to Jael,
She offers Milk, when ſhe intends the Nail;
Who truſteth to her ſmiles, doth quite miſtake her,
The wiſeſt men they be that quite forſake her.
Well, though the way be rough, let's mend our pace.
Our Journey's ſhort, and then we ſhall have eaſe.
Life's but a ſhadow which is alwayes flying,
For from the Cradle we are alwayes dying;
'Tis but an Hour-glaſs, and the ſands are ſins,
Brimm'd up by Nature, turn'd when Life begins.
Which ſtill is running, as each day doth come,
And when the laſt fins dropt, our life is done.
Our labour's near an end, our death is haſting,
And good or bad rewards are everlaſting.
We reach not Neſtors dayes with our ſhort ſpan,
Nor number years with old Methuſalem.
Men lived then five hundred years or more,
Not one of twenty now can reach Threeſcore:
No, no, our Meaſure's cut, it well appears,
Our Fathers Months were longer than our Years.
The Hart, the Stagg, the Raven, the Eagle free,
May boaſt they are long-liv'd, ſo cannot we.
The withering Graſs, a Shadow, Emblems be
That fitly ſets forth our Mortalitie;
A Roſe, a Bloſſom, or a Flower in May,
Or Jonah's Gourd, that laſted but a day;
A Dream, a Shadow, if you will a Span,
Is long enough to mete the Life of Man:
For like a Pear, or Plumb, when ripe we fall
Into our Mothers lap, for ſo do all:
Mans Life is of a thought much like the Dream,
A Weavers Shuttle, or the gliding Stream;
Or like a haſty Poſt that ſwiftly flies,
For man that's born to day, to morrow dies:
Life's like a Bubble that's ſoon prickt by Death,
For Man is but a Bladder fill'd with Breath.
Life haſteth like a Ship that's under Sails,
Death cometh like the Tide that never fails.
Our Time like Lightning full quick doth goe;
Death haſtneth like an Arrow from a Bowe:
Such is the Life of Man, for in a day
Man ſprings and withers, like a Flower in May;
The Sun ne're runs his race in this our age
But ſees ten thouſand marching off the Stage:
The Life we live is but an inch of time;
Laſt day my Fathers was, and this day mine:
The next belongs to the ſucceeding age;
Thus one doth thruſt another off the Stage.
My Predeceſſors they are dead and rotten,
And I in little time ſhall be forgotten.
Great Caeſar's Bones Death did to Aſhes turn,
And Alexander's bounded in his Urn.
The fair, the foul, the Holy, the Prophane,
The Rich, the Poor, are worſted at Death's Game.
To Mighty Sampſon Death did give a Fall,
Wiſe Solomon did dye, and ſo muſt all.
Though in thy hand all Peru's Gold thou have,
Death will thee make a Tenant to the Grave:
Death makes no difference between Poor and Rich,
The Worm feeds ſweetly on no matter which;
The Faireſt Lady, and the fouleſt Slave
Death can both wed and bed in the ſame Grave.
To God a thouſand years is but a day,
Our life's then but an Hour that fleets away.
And of this Hour ſo many ſharers be,
O Lord how ſmall a part belongs to thee?
Though life ſeems long becauſe 'tis full of trouble,
Yet many wiſh their dayes were three times double.
The Captive Slaves that in the Gallies lye,
To end their Bondage, yet are loth to dye;
They flee from death although he be their friend,
For when he ſtops their Breath their Sorrows end.
Life is a warfare, Death doth ſtint the ſtrife;
We leave not fighting till we leave our life.
We fight againſt our ſins, the world and Devils,
At death we fully Vanquiſh all thoſe evils.
To heavenly Joyes Death opens us the door,
Where ſin and ſorrow they ſhall be no more:
There's no Corruption ſhall moleſt us there,
There's no Temptation that we need to fear.
Why fear we Death then, he this Boon will give,
Our Enemies ſhall dye, but we ſhall live?
Life is the day wherein we labour hard,
Death is the night, and then comes our reward.
Now we with Tempeſts on the Seas are driven,
Death is the Wind that blows us to our Haven.
Is he leſs happy that a brisker Gale
Drives to the Shore, or he that's under Sail?
Whom fierce tempeſtuous winds as yet are driving,
Who with a thouſand dangers yet are ſtriving?
In life we in the raging Surges be,
Death comes and lands us in Eternity.
In life the Saints are Heirs but under age,
When death comes they receive their Heritage:
Heaven is our Kingdom, but to come thereat,
There is no other way but through this Gate.
Life is our Journey, Death our Journeys end,
Life is our Enemy and Death our Friend.
Death like a Pilot guides us to the Shoar,
He is the Porter that muſt ope' the door.
We cannot ſerve our God or Chriſt enjoy,
Without diſtraction till our dying day.
Death's but a quiet ſleep when wearied,
'Tis but put off our Cloaths, and go to bed.
Death is Gods purſivant and will compell
Gods Friends to go to Heaven, his Foes to Hell.
He is his Meſſenger none can prevent him,
None can reſiſt him, or the Lord that ſent him.
Both Prince and Peaſant drink of the ſame cup,
When he invites them home with him to Sup.
All men muſt pledge the health Abel began,
There's none exempt, the Maſter nor the man.
The greateſt Potentate cannot eſcape,
The way to Heaven and Hell lye through this Gate:
The high, the low, the rich, and eke the poor,
When he doth knock muſt open him the door;
Nor fear nor favour makes him turn aſide,
He will not be perverted with a Bribe.
What though ſome have their lives drawn out at length,
And we cut down by Death in our full ſtrength?
What Hurt to us if we receive our pay
For one Hours work, as much as for a day?
What dammage to us if Commandment come,
When others work till night, to leave at Noon?
The weary labourer pants and longs for reſt,
And when he's in his bed he thinks he's beſt;
The Bed of Death to th' weary will give eaſe,
Our ſleep's not broken there by worms nor fleas:
No fearfull Dreams, nor Viſions of the night
Diſturb our Fancies there, or minds affright.
Within Death's Sheets the Grave we reſt ſecure,
Free from oppreſſion, and tyrannick Power;
Our Souls like Captive Birds in Cages ſing,
Death breaks the Cage, and then the Birds take wing.
The world's a Peſt-houſe, ſin doth us infect,
Death's our Phyſitian, ſhall we him reject?
The Soul's infected with ſins foul diſeaſe,
And naught but Death can give us our releaſe.
The world's a Priſon and we Captives be,
And only Death our Champion ſets us free.
We mortal are when Death of life bereaves us.
We dye no more, Death doth immortal leave us.
A thouſand Maladies do each day attend us,
We're ſick to Death and none but Death can mend us.
In life we languiſh, Death can make us well,
He's like Achilles Spear, can wound and heal.
Poor and in want we up and down do wander,
Death makes us all as rich as Alexander.
Death levels all, both rich and poor do ſtand
On equal ground, none ſerve nor none command.
When Death hath done his work, there's no man can
Diſcern between the Maſter and the man.
The Princes Skull no more than other men
Bears the impreſſion of a Diadem.
'Tis true of terrors Death is call'd the King,
And well he may while he retains his Sting;
But to Believers he no hurt can do,
For he hath loſt his Sting and Poyſon too.
In Stinging Chriſt this Serpent loſt his Sting,
He that brought terror then doth comfort bring:
Chriſt conquer'd him, and ſhall we fear to meet
A Vanquiſht Foe, lying proſtrate at our Feet?
For ſince that he was overcome and foil'd,
He is no Enemy, but reconcil'd.
To good and bad he ſhews not the ſame face,
He's Foe to Nature; but a Friend to Grace.
We are poor mortals, life is our diſeaſe,
Death our Phyſitian that can give us eaſe.
We groan for pain, yet would not be ſet free,
We love our Bondage, hate our Liberty.
Rather than over Jordans ſtreams we'l venture,
We'l dye i'th' Wilderneſs, or Egypt enter:
This Son of Anak Death more terror brings
Than all the fiery Serpents with their Stings.
And though Egyptian Bondage doth torment us,
Fleſh Pots, and Leeks, and Onions here content us
At Death 'tis true, we muſt to Aſhes turn,
But God will keep thoſe Aſhes in his Urn.
And when the all-awakening trump ſhall ſound,
The ſmalleſt Atoms of it ſhall be found;
And then by vertue of a new Indenture,
The Soul into her new-built houſe ſhall enter:
God ſhall with robes of honour then inveſt her,
And ſin and ſorrow ſhall no more moleſt her.
She ſhall by Chriſt her Judge be then acquitted,
And all her ſins and treſpaſſes remitted.
She ſhall in glory Halelujah's ſing,
Unto the mighty God the worlds great King;
And wedded be to Chriſt in endleſs Joy,
And in her Husbands Boſom lye for aye:
Sorrow and Sighing then ſhall fly away;
And Tears ſhall ſwallowed be in endleſs Joy.
Then ſet thy Houſe in order, for thou muſt
Within a little time return to Duſt.
Lord make me then to know my later end,
How long the number of my dayes extend;
That I may know how frail I am, before
I go from hence, and ſhall be ſeen no more:
When will this Joyfull Marriage be? oh when!
Oh come Lord Jeſus, quickly come. Amen.
Edward Bury.
FINIS.
The Author hath in the Preſs a. Book on the Subject theſe Poems are of. Printed for Tho. Parkhurſt at the Bible and three Crowns at the lower end of Cheapſide.
End of the text · Edward Bury, A Sovereign Antidote Against the Fear of Death (1681)