Divine Passions Piously and Pathetically Expressed, Book 2
THE PRODIGALL SONNE, AND THE PITTIFVLL FATHER.
The ſecond Booke.
The prodigall Son.
MY reſtles thoughts what move you thus to rome?
Why reſt you not? what would you doe from home?
What doth incite you? have you found ſome prey
Worth your adventure, that you needs would ſtray?
Yes, yes, rich treaſures are abroad no doubt,
My ſtragling thoughts have found ſome jewels out.
But I am tender, travels rough; and yet
My skill but ſmall, for travells much unfit.
But wherefore ſhould I thus reſtraine my will?
I have my portion, that ſhall purchaſe skill;
Diſcreeteſt Fathers do not much deny
We yonger Brothers ſhould our fortunes try.
Beſides my ſailes thus fil'd with motion ſtrong,
Moſt ſweet companions do intice along,
With earneſt proffers of an equall ſhare
In treaſures, pleaſures, and contentments rare.
The Pitifull Father.
MY Son, my Son, who art to me ſo neer,
And whom I tender as a child moſt dear,
What worme is crept into thy troubled head?
Or by what ſerpent art become miſled?
Whither my child, oh whither would'ſt thou go?
What is the reaſon thou would'ſt leave me ſo?
Doſt thou ſuppoſe it is no griefe to me
Thus of a Son to diſregarded be?
Alas my Son, thou art too yong indeed
To make a venture will ſuch danger breed,
What favour canſt thou looke to find in lands
Moſt ſtrange to thee, and at meere ſtrangers hands?
Strange lands, and people, and from me as far
As Egypt is, or Sodoms people were,
Where thou ſhalt find thy hopes but mock'd vaine truſt,
For freedome bondage, and for fruit but duſt.
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt ſinfull ſons rebellious we below;
If that a ſon ſuch diſobedience ſhew,
A ſon too by the woman that is free,
How deſperate muſt the feed of Hagar be?
Too venturous children, from our Father ſtray
To make our ſelves unto our fees a prey,
Our ſin a monſter, but our grace a brat,
And yet we will be prodigall of that:
Our tender Father, who beſt knows our frame,
Our weakneſſe, ſees, and warns us of the ſame,
We are ſo wilfull, though moſt weak, indeed,
That we will truſt unto our ſtrength, that reed.
Our Father ſees what ſnares abroad are laying,
And therefore ſeeks to keep tis in from ſtraying;
We, by the worlds alluring wiles miſtooke,
Suck down the bait, ſuſpecting not the hook.
The prodigall Son.
VVHat ſhall I doe? my Fathers head doth ſhake
Againſt the courſe I goe about to take,
But doth he ſee occaſion of ſuch care.
Is there ſuch danger, and I ſee no ſnare?
Fathers I know are fearfull, and indeed,
Are oft more fearfull in this caſe then need,
But that is out of tenderneſſe and love,
Which ſons muſt therefore ſuffer, not reprove,
But I have found my tender Father kinde,
And unto pity ever much inclinde,
And though I ſome forbidden pleaſure take
He will not puniſh for compaſſions ſake.
Beſides my youthfull blooming years are ſuch
As doe by nature chalenge freedome much,
Fly then my thoughts, and ſeiſe upon ſuch prey
As ſhall admit you pleaſure in your way.
The pitifull Father.
MY tender ſon, I ſee thy tempted heart,
I ſee therein how thou diſtemper'd art,
What forces fight, and enemies perſwade
Againſt thy little weake reſiſtance made.
I moan thy caſe, and in a fathers care
I curb thy foes, and with thy weakneſſe beare,
Yea though they ſometimes in thee doe remove
All filiall feare, yet I have fathers love.
But oh, my ſon doe not my love abuſe,
That was the fault of the forſaken Jewes:
Be thou not like the ſpider in his looms,
Suck thou not poyſon from theſe hony combs.
Becauſe thou ſeeſt my tenderneſſe is great
More apt to grant, then thou art to intreat,
Let that not breed preſumption in thy minde,
Not fault thee more becauſe that I am kinde.
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt tender Father gentle God, indeed,
Whoſe matchleſſe love doth mothers love exceed,
How ſweetly ſing'ſt thou with moſt nurſing charmes
To keep thy children quieted in thy armes?
How loath art thou to let us off thy hand,
Becauſe thou ſeeſt our backwardneſſe to ſtand,
And, when we weake and heedleſſe babes are downe,
Thou tak'ſt us up, bemoan'ſt our ſals, not frowne.
Shall we be won then with meer toyes, or worſe,
Out of the armes of ſuch a tender nurſe?
Toyes proffer'd too by ſtrangers, and our foes,
Allure us from this boſome of repoſe?
Or yet more fond, ſhall we our ſelves defile
Becauſe our nurſe will waſh away the ſoile?
Or, worſt of all, for ſake our loving guide
Our God, becauſe we finde him ſlow to chide?
The prodigall Son.
NO doubt but fathers in affection burn,
Heat of affection into flames will turne,
From whence full oft, though often more then needs,
The quenchleſſe ſparkes of jealouſie proceeds.
This tender care I ought not to forget,
Nor will, I hope, in any thing is fit,
But ſometimes pearles in fathers eyes appear
But dim, which are to yonger eyes moſt clear.
Thoſe youthfull beauties, objects to the eye,
Which aged fathers cannot well diſcry:
Could they but view them as they are, no doubt
They would not curbe us buſi'd there about.
Sweet beauties, faces fairer then the Sun,
Where ſtars, like chryſtall, too and fro doe run,
Whence ſparkes, like Fayries, father ſuch a dart
As flies, and hits, inflames and burns my heart.
The pitifull Father.
DEluded infant wilt thou be thus cheated?
My tender ſon wilt thou not be intreated?
Wilt thou, oh wilt thou ſtop thy ears unto
Thy tender Father, liſten to thy foe?
Can fading beauty, like a bait, intice
Thee from thy Father, and all good advice?
Can a meer colour, and of all moſt fading,
Be in thy boſome moſt of all perſwading?
My wanton ſon tis thou art weak of ſight,
Thy infant eyes cannot diſcerne aright,
Thou dot'ſt on ſhells, but doſt the curnell loſe,
Thou leav'ſt the ſubſtance, doſt the ſhadow chuſe.
But ſtubborne childe, although thou ſtop'ſt thy ears
At my perſwaſions, yet regard my tears,
Let not a fainting carefull Father weep
Over a ſullen careleſſe ſon a ſleep.
The Authors Epigram.
OH gracious Father, can thy care be ſuch?
Oh graceleſſe children can we erre ſo much?
Canſt thou lament, when we in mirth are mad?
Can we be merry when thou art ſo ſad?
Wilt thou purſue us when we from thee run?
Wilt thou thus wooe when we will not be won?
Shall we forſake thee, who in love purſues?
Shall we with ſcorne thy tender care abuſe?
Oh ignorant children, and moſt apt to fall,
How earneſt is our carefull Fathers call?
And yet we ſtray, as if we were ſo young
We did not know our tender Fathers tongue.
But thou our Shepheard who doſt ſtill behold
Thy ſilly ſheep thus ſtraying from thy fold,
Forſake us not thus, in our way miſtook,
But bring us back, though it be by thy hooke.
The prodigall Son.
YOu my companions, my aſſociates ſweet,
Who with moſt courtly kinde imbraces greet,
With whom I count my ſelfe at home and beſt,
By whom my fancies are become poſſeſt.
What ſhall I doe? oh doe your anſwer frame,
My carefull Father doth my courſes blame,
He would perſwade me you doe but delude,
And that ſuch pleaſures will with griefe conclude.
But ſweet contentments, is it ſo indeed?
Doe you betray me, will you fail at need?
Oh tell me truly, doe you but beguile?
Thus make me frown'd on, only for a ſmile?
Sweet voice! me thinks I heare you anſwer no,
You have no purpoſe to delude me ſo,
You will be conſtant, and I yet ſhall finde
Increaſe of pleaſure, greater joyes behinde.
The pitifull Father.
DIſtreſſed Father, juſt as Scriptures tell,
I brought up children, and they now rebell;
I gave them being nurs'd them up, and loe,
They turne their backs as ſoon as they can goe.
The ſavage ſuckling, when his feet he feels,
Againſt his breeder can but turne his heels.
But none ſo ſavage nature, never frames
Such Monſters as do quite reject their dames.
But thou my child, with whom I grieve to chide,
For whom I have all means of pity try'd,
To whom hath given a portion may ſuffice,
On whom hath labour'd that thou might'ſt be Wiſe.
Wilt thou revolt, art thou ſo ſimple grown
To ſeek for wiſdome, having loſt thine owne,
At ſtrangers counſell? and beſides, of thoſe
Which are me or cheaters, and thy chiefeſt foes?
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt ſad relation! from the ſavage …
True births appear: but monſterous ſons of men?
Of men? oh moſt depraved natures rod:
But what is this then, monſterous ſons of God?
Moſt holy Father from whoſe ſtreams we know
The leaſt corruption can not ever flow:
How canſt thou looke downe as a Father milde▪
Ʋpon ſuch ſons thus by our ſelves defil'd?
Defil'd, indeed, we muſt be ſo reputed,
How can we chuſe who joyne with the polluted?
The ſin…ſt piece doth ſooneſt take a ſtaine,
The faireſt colour ſhewes a ſcar moſt plaine.
But why doe we ſo low polluted ly▪
And can derive a pedigret ſo high?
Meer beaſts doe not beneath their nature fall.
Can we be moſt degenerate of all?
The prodigall Son.
VVEll, I muſt travell, I muſt croſſe the Seas;
My awfull father is too hard to pleaſe,
His age ſo much civility requires
That he forgets what tender youth deſires.
Perhaps if I were further off imploy'd
My Father would be nearer pacifi'd,
Or at the leaſt wiſe then his frequent checks
Should not my youthfull diſpoſition vex.
Come then companions let us get on boord
Whiles tyde doth opportunity affoord;
And ſafely ſally on the Ocean flood,
With ſailes all ſpreading, whiles the winds are good.
That we, thus ſurg'd on Neptunes billows, ſoon
May paſſe through thoſe dominions of the Moon,
Arriving at thoſe Indian banks of treaſure,
The ſhoares of ſweet ſecurity and pleaſure.
The pitifull Father.
VNhappy childe, now what means all this ſpeed?
What, art for Tarſus? wilt thou flee indeed,
Wilt thou be ſo deluded? art ſo blinde,
Canſt thou forſake thy Father in this kinde?
Oh, how have I offended thee my ſon?
What wrong, or what unkindneſſe have I done?
Or rather what moſt fatherly endeavour
Have I left undone to protect thee ever?
Only with gentle admonitions due,
Drawne from the center of affection true,
I labour'd to reduce thee in thy way
Who art thus ſubject to be led aſtray.
Remember Jonach in the raging deep
When once he was awaked out of ſleep,
How was his ſoule tormented with the woe
His wilfull ſtraying then had brought him to?
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt loving Father, doſt thou thus perſwade
Poore duſt and aſhes which thy hands have made?
Doſt thou thus draw us with thy cords of love,
Who might'ſt moſt juſtly with a rod reprove?
Thou with one touch canſt crumble downe this frame,
Our wals of clay to rubbiſh, Whence they came,
And in an inſtant utterly ſubvert
The moſt rebellious caſtle of the heart.
Shall we poore children then, who cannot ſtand
Reſiſt thy juſt and fatherly command,
Thy gracious will moſt willingly reſiſt
Who at thy will can ſcourge us as thou liſt?
Nay yet more heavy, when thou ſeemſt to hide
Thy grievous rod, nay griev'ſt that thou muſt chide:
Shall we then for that plaſter make a ſore,
Becauſe thou favour'ſt we offend the more?
The prodigall Son.
MOſt pleaſant courſe! oh with what winged motion
On this indented pavement of the Ocean,
Glide we along? Or rather ſwiftly run,
As mounted in the chariots of the Sun.
Succeſſive ſure, no expectation fails,
Moſt proſp'rous windes doe fill our lofty ſails:
The ayre is gentle, and our veſſell ſtrong,
All promiſing a happy ſhoare ere long.
A happy ſhoare indeed; oh ſee, behold,
Are yonder not the hils where men dig gold?
Sure yes the ſame; let downe your plumets, ſound,
The banks appeare where pleaſures do abound.
Come then ſome skilfull Pilot with your oares
And tole us in unto your happy ſhoares,
Your flowry banks ſufficiently declare
What ſweet contentments in your confines are.
The pitifull Father.
FOrſaken Father! is my ſon on float?
Now whither will he in his cockle boat?
What fatall winde doth now thus conſtant wait
To tranſport ſuch a tranſpoſſeſſed fraight?
Unhappy voyage, it muſt needs be ſo
Where head-ſtrong will doth heedleſſe maſter go:
The ſhip, the ſhell of reaſons fraile fore-caſt:
Fond ſenſe the ſailes, and moſt proud fleſh the maſt.
The ſeas, the ſtreams of ſenſuall pleaſures flowing:
The winds untam'd affections ſtrongly blowing:
Falſe Syrens charm'd ſecurity, the calme:
Blind judgement Pilot: Satan ſteers the helme.
The haven where to this veſſell makes this ſpeed
Is hells owne channell, though not hell indeed:
The ſeeming pleaſures which are thence accruing
Conclude in ſorrow, if not utter ruine.
The Authors Epigram.
Moſt prudent Father, who doſt thus diſcloſe
The ſublile malice of our ſecret foes,
Our inbred traitors, joyn'd with Satans force
To hale us on in a rebellious courſe.
How juſtly might'ſt thou in our ſtraying leave us?
Or over-boord with ſtraying Jonah heave us?
And make us, who will here not hear thy call,
Cry out unto thee in the boyling Whale?
Oh fooliſh children, yea inchanted we
Who, in this danger, will no danger ſee,
But rather doe endeavour, yea deviſe
To cheriſh theſe our chiefeſt enemies.
Our wils are ſtubborne; and we will reſiſt:
Our reaſon blinded, and we love the miſt:
Our hearts unjuſt, and we delight deceit:
Our eyes are wanton, and we lay a bait.
The prodigall Son.
MOſt pleaſant borders! where am I on ſhore?
Your ſands are ſilver, banks are golden oare:
The gates within your marble wals are thoſe
Which open to the gardens of repoſe.
No other ſure then Paradice below,
See heere what various fruits of pleaſure grow,
How full with cluſters doth the tender vine
About the trees of golden Apples twine?
Under whoſe ſhadowes, as moſt pleaſant bowers,
Doth ſafely ſit the choice of beauties flowers,
Whoſe ſweet perfumes, and colours of delight
To higheſt raptures of content invite.
Are Edens pleaſures greater, or ſo much?
Moſt pretious fruits, may I preſume to touch?
Your lovely beauties do with ſmiles expreſſe
Your gentle natures will afford no leſſe.
The pitifull Father.
DEluded child, of judement thus depriv'd,
And duty voyd, where art thou now arriv'd?
Juſt on the banks of flowing Nilus caſt,
Where thou ſhalt woefull bondage find at laſt.
Thoſe grapes thou dot'ſt on yield but dreggs of wine,
Whereon thou drinking mak'ſt thy ſelfe a ſwine:
Thoſe golden Apples but the Serpents baite,
Which proffer pleaſure, but performe deceit.
Thoſe blazing beauties, which thou think'ſt ſuch ſtars,
Are but meere flames to brand thy ſoule with ſcars:
Thoſe flowers of pleaſure, which do ſo perſwade,
Intice to ruine, and moſt quickly fade.
Thoſe freedomes which thou doſt preſume on there
Are under Pharaoh, or the King of Sear,
Whoſe faireſt ſpeech, and ſweeteſt ſmiles, are all
But nets to draw thee to perpetuall thrall.
The Authors Epigram.
FOreſeeing Father, who doſt thus diſcerne
Thy childrens follies, and doſt thus fore-warn,
How juſtly art thou in thy juſtice freed
If mercy will not move us to take heed?
Can, can a Father ſeeing in this kinde
Have children which are altogether blinde?
No, no, we from thee do derive ſuch light
As can by no means be extinguiſh'd quite.
What then, oh what then ſo obſcures thoſe raies,
We grope in darkneſſe thus at high-noon dayes?
Surely, oh ſurely it comes thus to paſſe
Our eyes, thoſe caſements, are inchanted glaſſe.
Through which we are deluded in our ſight,
Or elſe our underſtanding is not right:
Both ſure abus'd, our judgement is defeated
By ſenſe, our ſenſe by falſe appearance cheated.
The prodigall Son.
FAint heart, what fail'ſt? canſt thou dejected be?
Revive thy ſpirits, pleaſures here are free;
Seeſt thou not how they flouriſh in this Ile,
As if they would intice thee with a ſmile?
When ſweet contentment no deſire reſtraines
Shalt thou be baſhfull? give deſire the raines:
Thou ſit'ſt as Queen within my tender breaſt,
What fate ſhall then thy awfull force reſiſt?
Call home thy thoughts then which are gone aſtray,
Rouze thy affections, here is richeſt prey.
And let it in this Paradiſe be ſeen
By thy attendance that thou art a Queen.
A Queen? then thou may'ſt queſtionleſſe command,
No ſubject may a Sovereigne pow'r withſtand,
Then like a Princeſſe keep thy foes in awe,
And take thy pleaſure, make thy will thy law.
The pitifull Father.
SAd Father! thus inforced to bewray
A ſons rebellion, running thus aſtray:
Can you ſuppoſe I without griefe can ſee,
Or tell theſe ſorrows? no it cannot be.
He now may thinke he being now remote,
He now unſeen may ſet his ſhell on float,
Let looſe affection, and unlimit will;
But I with ſorrow do behold him ſtill.
I ſee the bondage of his better part,
By giving power unto his wanton heart:
I ſee the thraldomes of his heart beſide
By making of his ſtubborne will its guide.
I ſee how vain the worthleſſe pleaſures be
For which he gives away his heart from me,
I ſee how thoſe his pleaſures doe deprave him
In thoſe indowments I his Father gave him.
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt gentle Father, tender hearted God,
What mother like thee could forbear the rod?
Thou doſt in bowels of compaſſion yern,
When we run from thee, and will not returne.
Shall we then, deſperate we, without remorſe,
Run headlong ſtill in a rebellious courſe?
Can any childe thoſe pearly drops deſpiſe
Who ſees the tears ſtand in his fathers eyes?
Oh ſenſleſſe creatures, ſilly children right
Who, having goe out of our fathers ſight,
Doe thinke our ſelves then moſt ſecure, when we,
Poore infants, then in greateſt danger be.
In greateſt danger, it muſt needs be ſo,
When we lye open to the greateſt foe.
The heavy ſequels are full ſad, bewraying
The wofull dangers of a wilfull ſtraying.
The prodigall Son.
YOu flowing pleaſures, which like ſtreames diſtill
From pureſt fountaines, let me drinke my fill:
I taſt your ſweetnes and it gives delight,
Oh let me fully take my appetite.
Your taſte reviveth more then Phaebus beames;
How happy is he bathes him in theſe ſtreames?
Theſe ſtreames, which ſo refreſheth with a taſt:
Here let me ſwim, or let me wade at leaſt.
Sweet currents! viewing of whoſe flowing tide.
Sits glorious Flora in her blooming pride,
About whoſe beds of roſes freſh and greene.
Sits beauties Nimphs attiring with their Queen.
Is here not heaven? or Paradice below,
The garden where the fruits of pleaſure grow?
And theſe the Angels, or the Saints moſt dear
Which I ſhould honour, if not worſhip here?
The pitifull Father.
PRodigious ſure! had ever father child
Became ſo vain, unnaturall, defil'd?
My Son hath now no thought at all of me,
He quite forgets how tender Parents be?
But can a childes forgetfullneſſe be ſuch?
And Parents never-reſting care ſo much?
My heart is heavy, and my hands I wring.
His heart is merry, he doth laugh and ſing.
Nay yet more deſperat, he doth now indeavour
To leave me quite, to caſt me off for ever;
And will have new affinity, new Father,
New gods, indeed, or curſed Idols rather.
Oh moſt perverſe I ſhall I with favour yet
Remember him who doth me thus forget?
Can ſparks from ſuch a quenched coale revive?
Abuſed patience thus for ever ſtrive?
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt conſtant Father, who art ſtill moſt ſtable,
Though we thy children be moſt variable:
Wert thou, like us, to reſtles change inclind.
There were no hope that we ſhould pardon find.
But howſoever we, unto our ſhame,
Are ſtill tranſported, thou art ſtill the ſame:
But can we careles children be declind
Thus from a Father thus for ever kind?
Thus kind indeed, when we offend he grieves,
When we do want, he preſently releeves,
Nay when we urge him to revoke his will,
He then takes pity and is patient ſtill.
Moſt gratious Father, but moſt graceles we,
Shall ſuch a Father without honour be?
Shall we for ever thus bis patience urge?
Moſt tender Fathers may be forc'd to ſcourge,
The Prodigall Son.
MY raviſh'd thoughts here take your fill in pleaſure
For here is fulneſſe, here is ample meaſure,
Here nothing wants, here nothing is reſtrain'd,
No coynes found, nor kindnes ſhown diſdain'd.
Here beauty burniſh'd in virmilion glowes,
Whoſe beams dart lightning from moſt youthful browes:
Oh let me take the comfort of this fire,
Theſe flames conſume not, but do feed deſire.
Moſt pretious jewels, what rare prize is here?
Such pearles as theſe cannot be bought too deer;
Shall I be ſparing of a little droſſe
To purchaſe jewells oh it were too groſſe.
Cheer then my thoughts, and uſher in content,
What gives more courage then a free conſent?
The prey is certain, be but you on wing,
Such pleaſant paſtime fits our cheerfull ſpring.
The pitifull Father.
DEluded child whoſe heart is gon a ſtray,
Needs muſt his ſences then be led away:
For this muſt by neceſſity appear
The fountaine foule, the ſtreame cannot be cleer.
Are all my gentle admonitions vaine?
My teares too fruitleſſe, will no meanes reſtraine,
But yet unmoved, but rebellious ſtill?
Rebellion is like witchcraft, or more ill.
What ſhall I do, who have thus kindly don,
Shall I be forced to reject a Son,
And with more ſorrow quite forſake infine,
A Son ſo neer and naturally mine?
Oh what a burden doth a Father beare?
To what a ſtraite am I inforc'd with care?
To loſe a member is a griefe, but ſure
To loſe a Son what Father can indure?
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt tender Father, pitifulleſt nurſe:
Moſt ſtubborne we whom pity make the worſe:
Thou ſooth'ſt and ſingſt us, proffer'ſt us the breſt:
We turne, we ſpurne, and frowardly reſiſt.
Thou ſeek'ſt with patience to reclaime us ſtill:
We ſeeke the more to have our froward will:
Thou ſhak'ſt thy rod, but ſhak'ſt to give a ſtroke:
We ſhake not but thy ſhaking hand provoke.
Thy heart is moved at our deſperat courſe:
Our hearts unmoved, are without remorſe:
Thou ſighing ſaiſt muſt I reject a Son?
We laugh, and ſing, and further from thee run.
Kind Father canſt thou thus keepe natures lawes?
And can no law no bridle hold our jawes?
Wert thou not certaine in thy love begun,
Vncertaine we were certainly undone.
The prodigall Son.
OH Sweet! what rare felicity is here?
Where nought offends, where all things fit appear?
Where natures ſhop, full furniſht with ſupply,
Stands alwaies open to the paſſers by.
My thoughts what thinke you of theſe ſtreames ſo cleere?
My ſenſes can you not ſuck hony here?
Affections can you here not feed deſire,
And with contentment to the heart retire?
Here are the beds where ſweeteſt roſes grow:
Here are the bancks where pureſt ſtreames do flow:
Here are the only inſtruments of mirth:
Here are the only jewels upon earth.
My ſtragling thoughts then here ſet up your ſtay,
My ſtriving ſenſes ſeek no richer prey:
Affections here your fancies may be quieted:
My tender heart then reſt thou here delighted.
The pitifull Father.
DIſquieted, yea diſcourag'd Father; what
All duty, yea humanity forgot?
Are all thoſe neere relations now exil'd,
Betweene the tender parent and the child?
Transformed children may become thus ſtrange,
But Parents love is not ſo apt to change;
Although my Son can with his Father part,
Yet this word Son comes neer my tender heart.
Oh careles child, a very child indeed,
But children will be childiſh without heed:
But Parents are by laws of juſtice tide,
If fair meanes faile to uſe the rod, and chide.
Then let me leave no meanes unſought to gain,
A child thus loſt, though faire meanes be in vain,
And chiding fruitleſſe, yet his ſtubborn heart
Will yeeld, it may be, when he feeles it ſmart.
The Authors Epigram.
HArd hearts of ours, where nothing will indent,
At leaſt no faire meanes, but are like the flint
Whoſe fire wil by no gentle blowing burn,
But ſtruck with force will into ſparkles turn.
Is there ſuch marble in our boſomes heel'd
As muſt be hamer'd, or it will not yeeld?
Or in the ſame ſuch Adamant indeed,
As cannot be diſſolved till we bleed?
Oh thou moſt skilfull Alchymiſt of all.
Who canſt extract pure hony out of gall:
Oh make thy knowledge here be underſtood,
Diſſolve this ſtone, thou haſt the only blood.
But were the hardnes of our hearts ſo great
They would not ſoften; yet thou canſt creat;
Then either do thy art of working ſhew
In melting theſe, or making of them new.
The prodigall Son.
FAir Phaebus, rights darke ſhut in ſhop adorning
By ſetting ope the windowes of the morning,
What glorious objects dreſt againſt I riſe
Prepar'ſt thou to ſalute my waking eies?
Reſplendent beauties which do ſhine ſo bright.
Got from beneath the Canopie of night:
Vouchſafe a bleſſing from your lips, which may
Fore-tell ſucceſſe for the ſucceeding day.
You almoſt Angels, may I not adore you?
Let no diſpleaſure draw a vaile before you:
Your piercing beauties, like Cupids pow'rfull dart,
Shot through mine eies, not wound, but warm my heart.
But what begin you to withdraw your rayes.
As though black fate envy'd my happy dayes?
Accurſt be the occaſion that ſhall ſhrow'd
Such Suns by day, ſuch beauties in a cloud.
The pitifull Father.
OH what an endles travell is our care
When children borne, are yet againe to bear?
When we welform'd have brought them forth, they then
Transforme to monſters, when they ſhould be men?
From which prodigious nature to reduce,
Or change thoſe formes made naturall by uſe,
We finde more hard and tedious then the ſmart
Of firſt producing, and more neer the heart.
So ſoone as forth the potters hand, they fall,
Oh feeble clay which cannot ſtand at all:
And being down have no deſire to riſe.
But ſleep, like ſwine, in moſt polluted ſties.
But can a child of mine thus blinded keep?
Or ſhall I let him thus for ever ſleep?
No, let me rather with the rod reprove
Correction, ſometimes, doth make way for love.
The Authors Epigram.
OH fooliſh children, why are we thus idle?
Why give we thus our vain deſires the bridle?
Our fancies fond with ſhadows thus fulfill.
To loſe the ſubſtance of our Fathers will.
Can we account a Fathers kindnes ſlight
Who doth thus tender-fatherly invite?
Or ſhall we prize his patrimony poore
Who to beſtow hath infinit in ſtore?
No, no we cannot but confeſſe tis known
Our Fathers love doth far exceed our own:
His portions laid up for each child a part,
Ten thouſand times exceed each childs deſert.
What then can move us to neglect ſo much
A Father tender, having riches ſuch?
Who labours thus unto us to convay
A ſtate which never, never ſhall decay?
The prodigall Son.
OH what a cloud is this which doth appeare?
Which darkens thus my day which was ſo cleer?
Can ſuch a ſun-ſhine be obſcur'd ſo ſoone,
Shall night incroch upon my day at noone?
Late ſmiling fate beginſt thou now to frown,
As if thou didſt intend to throw me down?
Doſt thou, who ſeem'd ſo ſure, begin to reele,
Wilt thou in thy diſpleaſure, turne thy wheele?
Oh you my pleaſures and contentments ſweet,
Which did with ſuch moſt kind imbraces greet,
Will you now fold, your late unfolded armes,
Becoming churliſh, who bewitch'd with charmes?
But you faire faces, natures choyceſti art,
Whoſe tender beauties ſhew a gentle heart,
Can you prove cruell? do you too ſeeme nice?
Will you reject now, who did late intice?
The pitifull Father.
HArke, harke, methinks I heare my ſtraved Son
Begins to loſe the pleaſure he had won,
Thoſe painted outſides of delight begin
To let him ſee they are deceit within.
Deceit indeed which is but made to ſhine.
With the meer droſſe and refuſe of good coy….
Which worthleſſe gilding being worne away,
It ſhewes how painted ſhadowes do betray.
My blinded child doth now begin to view
Thoſe pleaſures falſe, he once accounted true;
And, to his ſhame and ſorrow, may conclude
They did but at the beſt of all delude.
But let them, mock, and more deride him yet,
Him thus befooling, they may teach more wit:
He on them hath ſo deeply ſet his love,
It will not without violence remove.
The Authors Epigram.
OH blinded reaſon, and corrupted ſtain
Of once pure nature, now exceeding, vain:
Can we reſt captive in this baſe ſubjection?
Thus live in thraldome to untam'd affection?
We read of ſtrangers and meer bondmen too
Who conquer'd paſſion could that wonder do:
And ſhall we children, and by birth made free,
In bondage thus to brutiſh paſſion be?
But ſhall we then take pleaſure in this thrall?
And count it ſweeteſt liberty off all?
And will not without violence be freed?
Oh this is ſordid ſlavery indeed.
And yet theſe are the heavy cha…s we beare,
We, gon aſtray, are taken in this ſnare;
Within which mill, we, by deceit made blind,
Do, like moſt groſſe contented Aſſesgrind.
The prodigall Son.
BUt you the objects of my youthfull joy;
Who thus would try me by your being coy,
You have my heart; then do not thus perſiſt,
But ſmile agine, you need not be in jeaſt.
The fountaine of my love doth overflow
Which jeaſted at will quickly jealous grow;
Then be not coy, but ſmile, and coole that ſmart
Before it workes combuſtion in my heart.
But what ſtill frowne you? and yet anſwer no?
Can you thus leave me, will you gull me ſo?
Have I prefer'd you above heav'n, oh vaine,
And will you now require me with diſdaine?
You that have pluck'd the bloſſomes of my youth,
Will you with falſhood now requite my truth?
You that have ſuck'd my fountaine of ſupply,
Can you now ſcorne me, having ſuck'd it dry?
The pitifull Father.
So, ſo, my Son doth now begin to prove
Thoſe courſes vaine I told him of in love:
He thought my counſell then might ſlighted be,
But now he findes, what I did then fore-ſee.
Raſh headed youth, preſuming on their skill,
Will take their courſe, againſt their parents will;
As if they thought their wiſedomes were the beſt;
Who, ſilly ſoules, with folly are poſſeſt.
My Son upon my Fatherly advice
Did turn his back, as too ſevere, or nice:
But now he doth, to his confuſion, find
That Fathers ſee, when fooliſh Sons are blind.
But as he left me, and would have his will,
So let me let him ſtrugle with it ſtill;
No meanes doth more reclaime a child reſiſting
Then to be whip'd with cords of his own twiſting.
The Authors Epigram.
OH thou our God, and Father too, moſt juſt,
Who gav'ſt us all our being out of duſt,
And having fram'd us by thy matchles skill,
Doſt like a Father nurſe, and feed us ſtill.
How full of wonder finde we all thy deeds?
And yet thy kindneſſe moſt of all exceeds,
How could'ſt thou elſe ſo full of pitty be
To children ſo undutifull as we?
Thou canſt give quailes if we ſtand need of meat,
And thereby too canſt teach us how to eate,
And, when we have the baits of pleaſure took
Canſt thereby curb us, when we feele the hook,
Oh thou who canſt bring day thus out of night,
And make our ſhadowes vaniſh, with the light:
Make thou, who thus diſcover'ſt all deceit,
The hooke appeare, before we take the bait.
The prodigall Son.
OH moſt unhappy miſerable wretch,
Whom moſt falſe joyes moſt deeply did bewitch,
Falſe joyes, indeed, I may moſt truly ſay,
Which did but ſmile upon me to betray.
Thoſe my companions who, when I had ſtore,
I made moſt, now mock me being poore:
My late full cheekes, which were delighted in,
Proud beauty ſcornes, by ſicknes now made thin.
Moſt deſperat wretch, to whom ſhall I betake me?
When thoſe I thought my deareſt friends forſake me?
And curſed pleaſures I may call them ſo,
Which thus, infine, take pleaſure in my woe.
I now want food, who food abus'd of late,
Which want, with ſickneſſe, doth my ſtrength abate:
Diſtreſſed creature, thus inforc'd infine
To want the husks which are beſtow'd on ſwine;
The pitifull Father.
THere, there my rod, begins my child to bleed?
It is not matter, make it ſmart indeed.
And yet, I truſt, thy ſtroaks may be the leſſe
Becauſe he is already in diſtreſſe
Nor can I thus return him his deſert,
And reſt my ſelfe unfeeling of the ſmart,
For (howſover I might be in mood)
I would not give one ſtroak but for his good.
But he hath been unruly, make him …ame,
And make him, likewiſe, to confeſſe the ſame:
Yet be not rough, though he hath badly done,
He is, though a rebellious, yet a Son.
But oh, he hath forgot his Father quite;
But oh, that was but childiſh overſight:
Yet touch him till he thinke on me again,
That yerk, I know will not be given in vain.
The Authors Epigram.
MEere Prodigalls! we muſt that title grant,
Who in our plenty never thinke of want,
But winde up from the Ciſtern of our ſtore
Till, ſilly Aſſes we can wind no more.
But when we find by making of this ſpeed,
Our buckets doe come empty up at need,
We then can ſee, but not till then, alas,
What too raſh drawing brings too ſoone to paſſe.
Then, then, when it is almoſt then too late,
We can accuſe our courſes, curſe our fate,
And curſe thoſe pleaſures, cauſes of our care,
Which once we thought the only joyes that were.
But oh, how watchfull is our Fathers eye
To make a vertue of neceſſitie?
Who, when we fooles have thus our ſelves undon,
Doth, like a Father, there by call a Son.
The prodigall Son.
ALL wanton youth take warning by my woes,
And ſee in me the ſumme of vaine repoſe,
Which, like a bud froſt bitten ere it bloomes,
Appeares, but unto no perfection comes.
All earthly pleaſures are but like a bubble,
Straight turn to nothing, which were rais'd with trouble:
The faireſt faces ſooneſt change their dye;
The ſweeteſt charmers are moſt apt to lye.
Thus, mov'd with ſorrowes, I may tell the ſame,
And make the world take notice of my ſhame:
But, till I had experience of this woe,
No meanes could make me think it would be ſo.
But now I think upon my Father here,
Whoſe fore-ſight now I find exceeding cleere,
He often told me, and with many a teare,
What would befall, but then I would not heare.
The pitifull Father.
HArk, hark again, what voyce is this I heare,
Is this which makes ſuch muſick in my eare?
Which thus tunes Father, hath my Son that ſtrain,
Is he reſtor'd unto that life again?
He which, indeed, was dead and bury'd deep
In grave-like groſſe ſecurity aſleep:
Hath that loſt child the name of Father found?
Can he that heav'n awaking trumpet ſound?
And can I ſtop my eare then to his voice,
Where at the heav'ns inhabitants rejoyce?
Reject an infant calling upon me
That am his Father, no it cannot be?
Nor can he be more ready to declare
His wants in calling then I am to heare:
Though I, indeed, might juſtly make him ſteep
His eyes in teares, who would not ſee me weep.
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt carefull Father, but moſt careles we
Who are moſt blind in what thou doſt fore-ſee:
Thou knowſt our folly: we will truſt our skill:
Thou wouldſt direct us: we will have our will:
Thou ſee'ſt our danger: we are therein blind:
Thou doſt bemoane us: we are not ſo kind:
Thou ſtill giv'ſt warning: ſtill we give no care:
Thou doſt allure us: but we will not heare.
Thou ſhew'ſt the rod: we at ſuch ſhadowes ſcoffe:
Thou ſhak'ſt the ſame: we ſhake the danger off:
Thus urg'd thou ſtrik'ſt: we ſtrive to have our will:
Thou ſtrik'ſt again: we ſtrugle with thee ſtill.
At length, thou wound'ſt: we then begin to fall:
Thou wound'ſt more deep: we then dear Father call:
Thou hear'ſt our cry: we yeeld to thy command:
Thou burn'ſt the rod: we feel thy ſtroaking hand.
The prodigall Son.
POore ſilly Pilgrim, by deceit betray'd,
Thus from my Country, and my Father ſtray'd,
Where I in plenty might have been ſecure,
I here undone muſt ſlavery indure.
Oh heavy yoak intolerable weight;
Are theſe the chaines ſo gilded by deceit?
Which ſeem'd to proffer liberties ſo ſweet,
But now become ſuch fetters to my feet?
Poore captive thus in miſerable need,
Whiles pooreſt ſervants of my Fathers feed:
Oh now how happy ſhould I think my ſtate
Were I but ſervant, where a Son of late?
But I for ever juſtly am exil'd:
But juſtice ties no Father from his child,
But I have plaid the rebell, prov'd no Son:
But rebells yeelding have ſome favour won.
The pitifull Father.
MY Son, my Son, repentant ſighs are loud,
I heare thy voice, though from beneath a cloud;
No diſtance, place, nor darkneſſe can deny
My ſpeedy hearing when my children ery.
Tis true my Son, tis true I do confeſſe,
I might inſult now thou art in diſtreſſe;
But thus to heare thee thus far homward brought
Doth baniſh all diſpleaſure from my thought.
Returne, returne then, linger not the time,
Thy recantation ſhall acquit thy crime:
I do receive ſuch loſſes as my gaine,
I take no pleaſure to prolong thy paine.
Thou only beg'ſt to have a bondmans place;
I do not do my children that diſgrace:
Then feare not, Fathers joy in ſuch returnes;
Diſtruſt diſheartens where affection burnes.
The Authors Epigram.
MOſt gentle Father, pitifull indeed,
Thy heart is wounded when our hearts do bleed:
And yet moſt wounded then when thou doſt ſee
Our hearts ſo hard they will not wounded be.
We from thee run, thou callſt us back againe,
We are undone, yet thou doſt not diſdaine;
Thou giv'ſt that motion to return, we lack,
And yet with praiſe doſt crown our coming back.
Oh thou that doſt thus Fatherly reſpect,
And workeſt both the will, and the effect:
Make us more able to return, at leaſt,
Make us more willing when thou doſt aſſiſt.
Thou art the potter, we are but the clay;
Thou art the Shepheard, we the ſheep aſtray:
Though we be vain, yet loſe not thou thy coſt,
Though we be ſtray'd, yet do not ſee us loſt.
The prodigall Son.
FAther, dear Father I would utter fain,
But feare doth that word Father dear reſtrain.
Father, I faine would have my grievance ſhown,
But oh I am aſham'd to make it known.
But it is fit I ſhould confeſſe the ſame:
But thou canſt take no pleaſure in my ſhame:
Thy greatneſſe doth in robes of glory ſhine,
Then canſt thou looke upon ſuch raggs as mine?
But why ſhould I theſe troubled Seas propound,
I ſayling in whoſe ſurges muſt be drownd?
Why feare I thus the fetters which inthrall me,
When thus my Father doth from priſon call me?
Thy call deare Father, cannot but ſuffice
To ſhake off all my ſhackls, bolts and tyes:
Then at thy call, which thus doth call for ſpeed,
I come to meet thee, truſting to be freed.
The pitifull Father.
VVElcome my Son, thrice welcome, i'ſt not meet
Thou ſhouldſt bee welcom'd with imbraces ſweet?
Thou, who wert loſt, and now art found remain,
Thou, who wert dead, and art alive againe?
Long have I long'd for this thy ſafe return,
Whereat my bowells of compaſſion yern,
Why ſhak'ſt thou then, why bluſheſt being poore?
Thy feare is paſt, thou ſhalt have raggs no more?
Revive my Son, be cheerfull then my child,
And ceaſe thy ſorrowes, I am reconcil'd,
Oh let thoſe teares be taken from thine eyes,
They ſtir the Fountaine where compaſſion lyes.
Come taſt my dainties, I have choiceſt fare,
And ſweeteſt muſick to delight thy eare;
This is my pleaſure, I will have it done,
In ſpite of envy, for thou art my Son.
The Authors Epigram.
THou Father of all fatherly reſpects,
Whoſe pittie this, all parents thus directs:
What duty then, for this thy kindneſſe ſhown,
Is due to thee from children of thine own?
Moſt happy children, happy we, indeed,
Whoſe Fathers kindnes doth thus far exceed;
Who, when our follies, in our faces flying,
Returns us weeping, ſcekes to ſtill our crying.
Oh then how ſilly, ſenſles I may ſay,
Are we; if we from ſuch a Father ſtray?
Can all the worth, can in the world appear,
Make us ſet light a Fathers love ſo dear?
But then ſhall trifles, ſhall meer painted toyes,
Shadowes, of pleaſures, and but dreames of joyes.
Or ought detaine us, that ſhall labour for it,
From ſuch a Father? let us Sons abhor it.
Let us not, ſeeking, loſe our ſelves to gain
Such huſks abroad, and may at home have graine.
An Epitome.
FAther, I have offended, but alas,
Shame ſtops my voice here, will not let it paſſe.
Son, ceaſe thy ſorrow, let my joyes appeaſe thee,
Tis not thy teares, but thy return that pleaſe me.
Father, but canſt thou thus be pleas'd with me,
Who have thus ſin'd both againſt heav'n, and thee?
Son, this thy ſin is vaniſh'd, as lamented;
I take delight to pardon ſin repented.
Father, but ſuch offenders are too baſe
To raign as Sons, grant me a ſervants place.
Son, know my Servants are as ſons to me.
So highly honour'd all my Saints ſhall be.
Father then let me be for ever bound
To ſerve, where ſervice is ſuch freedom found.
Son, welcome Son, no bondman thou ſhalt be,
But ſhalt inherit with my Sons made tree,
Free then, indeed, when the teſtator lives
To make that freedome certain which he gives.