The Glorious Lover, Frontispiece – Preface
front y title. I. Oliver… Scu…
The Pirgin dreſt vp in her Gallant…
The glorious ſtate e'th ſoul doth …
Before the Fall. Her outward Robes …
Her inward Beauty was beyond compa…
But naked ſtri…, when ſatan did deceive her
And Hells wide jaws stood read… to receive …
frout y title. I. Oliver Scu…
THE Glorious Lover.
A DIVINE POEM, Upon the Adorable Myſtery of Sinners Redemption.
By B. K. Author of War with the Devil.
Pſalm 45. 1. My Heart is inditing a good matter.
LONDON, Printed by J. D. for Chriſtopher Huſſey, at the Flower-de-Luce in Little Britain. 1679.
The PROEM.
YOV Gentle Youths, whoſe chaſter Breaſts do beat
With pleaſing Raptures, & Love's generous heat;
And Virgins kind! from whoſe unguarded Eyes
Paſſion oft ſteals your hearts by fond ſurprize;
All you who Amorous Stories gladly hear,
And feed your wand'ring Fancies by the Ear;
Thoſe treacherous Delights a while lay by,
And lend attention to our Hiſtory:
A Hiſtory with Love and Wonders fill'd,
Such as nor Greece nor Rome could ever yield.
So great the Subject, lofty the Deſign,
Each part is Sacred, and the whole Divine.
If you its worth and nature well ſhall weigh,
'Twill charm your Ear, your beſt Affections ſway,
And in dark Minds ſpring an Eternal Day.
My Muſe is rais'd beyond a vulgar flight:
For Cherubs boaſt to ſing of what I write.
I write—But 'tis, alas, with trembling hand:
For who thoſe boundleſs Depths can underſtand?
Thoſe Myſteries unvail, which Angels do
With dread Amaze deſire to look into?
Thou glorious Being! from whoſe Bounty flows
All good that Man, or does, or ſpeaks, or knows;
Whoſe Altars once mean Turtles entertain'd,
And from the mouths of Babes haſt ſtrength ordain'd;
Purge with thy Beams my over-clouded mind;
Direct my Pen, my Intellect refine,
That I thy matchleſs Triumphs may indite,
And live in a due ſenſe of what I write.
And you, dear Sirs,, that ſhall vouchſafe to read,
Charity's Mantle o're my failings ſpread.
High is my Theme, but weak and ſhort my Sight;
My Eyes oft dazled with Exceſs of Light.
Yet ſomething here perhaps may pleaſe each Gueſt;
'Tis Heavenly Manna, though but homely dreſt.
Paul became all to All: and I would try
By this Eſſay of myſtick Poeſy,
To win their Fancies, whoſe harmonious Brains
Are bettrr pleas'd with ſoft and meaſur'd ſtrains.
A Verſe may catch a wandring Soul, that flies
Profounder Tracts, and by a bleſt ſurprize—
Convert Delight into a Sacrifice.—
How many do their precious time abuſe
On curſed products of a wanton Muſe;
On trifling Fables, and Romances vain,
The poiſoned froth of ſome infected Brain?
Which only tend to nouriſh Rampant Vice,
And to Prophaneneſs eaſie Youth entice,
Gilt o're with Wit, black Venom in they take,
And 'midſt gay Flowers hug the lurking Snake.
Here's no ſuch danger, but all pure and chaſt;
A Love moſt fit by Saints to be imbrac'd:
A Love 'bove that of Women: Beauty, ſuch,
As none can be enamour'd on too much.
Read then, and learn to love truly by this,
Vntil thy Soul can ſing (Raptur'd in Bliſs)
My Well-beloved's mine, and I am his.