Remains, Poem 8 – Poem 10
The Rout. Demetrius, Act. 19.23, &c.
HEroick Paul, in this thy ſoul was brave,
That wouldſt a Crown though gotten by the grave!
Undaunted ſpirit! that could face a King,
And count great Caeſar but a common thing;
Could'ſt ſpeak thy meſſage with a ſtately grace,
In all things acted as became thy place.
God's ſpokes-man ſhould be ſtout, where e're he ſtands,
When 'tis to utter what his God commands.
If God to Athens will with meſſage ſend,
He dare with wife men there for God contend.
Their Temples, Golden altars, gods, and all
Their Goddeſſes he vanities dare call.
Some him deride, but others what he ſaid,
Take him an Oracle, and's word obey'd.
Among the people hence diviſions came,
All do each others gods contend to ſhame;
Some cry for crutches for their gods of wood,
And ſay, they're neither wiſe, nor juſt, nor good:
Room in the hoſpital! Oh let them come,
Your gods are blind, lame, ſenſeleſs, deaf and dumb.
What is Diana but a lump of Gold?
'Way with her Shrines that ev'ry where are ſold.
The Silver and the Copper-ſmiths did hear
Theſe upſtart Hereticks with no ſmall fear:
One 'mong the reſt, Demetrius by name,
Unto his brethren he in fury came;
A man of upright ſtature as I gueſs,
But five foot high, I judg, no more nor leſs;
Of a pale face, and of a long ſtretcht noſe,
Yet of a ſprightful eye, as I ſuppoſe.
The laſt activity, th' other envy notes,
But the long ſnout one that on money dotes.
And if you'l add the tufts of hair that lye
About his lips of a deep carrot-die.
The end of 's whiskers ſinically 'roſe
Up ſtraight t' guard his promontorial noſe.
His garments ſuch that Greek-wiſe ſwept the ground,
With a muff-cap hanging on ſide his crown.
Thus with grave countenance, as it was fit,
He fetcht a hum, and then moſt gravely ſpit,
Nodding his head on one ſide, then on t'other,
He thus began to ſpeak unto each brother:
Genteels, you know, Epheſians were your Sires,
And that you had your breeding 'mong the fires;
Your ſp'rits ſhould be warm, to ſee th' foundation
Of your divine and noble occupation
Race't to the ground; do you not all well know,
If this Sect do encreaſe, it will be ſo?
If that Diana men no Goddeſs take,
No man her ſhrine will buy, which we do make:
That ſhe a Goddeſs be, is it not fit?
When we by her our wealth and ſubſtance get.
Did not our anceſtors her e're adore?
Muſt ſhe be chang'd for gods ne'r known before!
Doth not all Aſia and the world allow
That ſhe be worſhipt, and before her bow?
That her rich Temple (is it not much pity!)
Should now at length be ſlighted by this City!
Now brave Epheſian Copperſmiths, I call
You ſuch, that you prevent your Goddeſs fall.
Shall this one fellow with his witleſs crown,
Be let to turn the great world upſide down!
The only feeble argument that he
Doth urge to us, is that no Deity
Is made by hands of man; you ſee
How he brings hither new Philoſophy:
I am no Sophy, yet an anſwer I
Will give to this poor ſilly fallacy.
Diana is a Deity you know,
And mans hands made her, tell me, i'nt it ſo?
Ergo, he lies: But yet he further ſings,
Can any make them that have made all things?
To this I anſwer him, I never yet
Studied the point. But I will never let
My Goddeſs and my trade go down together;
But right or wrong, I do not much care whether.
That you are of the very ſelf-ſame mind,
I hope this day by your warm zeal to find.
When this long ſpeech he ſweetly forth had ſtutter'd,
He paus'd, then made a ſtop, then no more utter'd.
Theſe things thus ſpoken by Demetrius,
Great is Diana of brave Epheſus;
They all with one continued voice did ſhout,
Throw down their hammers, ſo they all run out.
Tuck up their aprons, and do ſhrug the ſhoulder,
Run from their Maſters, whither, never told her:
Throwing their arms, and moving legs apace,
All ſeem'd as if they were to run a race;
With red-coats, blew-coats, and add to them yellow,
The ſtreets do ſwarm, and each the other follow.
Some with fall'n ſtockings, others with one ſhoo,
Yet all reſolve the race to hobble through;
One up Diana ſhouted; th' other cries,
Down with all Taxes and Monopolies.
A third with loud and fearful far-fetcht Oaths
Curſed the Senators as th' publick foes.
A fourth ſteps out, asking what all this meant?
'Twas ſaid, becauſe a good mans cloak was rent.
Others more gravely would the cauſe unfold,
Telling demurely that two women ſcold,
Began the fray; that firſt by words, then blows,
They pull'd and tugg'd, and nimbly in they cloſe;
Down they both fell: to whom a ſtander-by
Said, it was no ſuch matter, he did lye.
He would have told his ſtory, but the rout
All on a ſudden up the ſtreets they ſcout,
Yelping and yawling what each thought the beſt,
Though all did ſtrangely differ from the reſt.
As they were running, 't happen'd that a Lad
In a black ſhirt, and a long apron clad;
I gueſt him Prentice to ſome Copperſmith:
In galloping his legs being tangled with
His longer apron, which did hang before him,
Tript up his heels, another ſtraight fell o're him;
A third o're him, and ſo in heaps they lay;
All chang'd their notes to cry, Oh ſtay! ſtay! ſtay!
My arm! my leg! another, Oh my thigh!
You are too heavy on my back that lie.
Oh where's my ſhoo's? you-ſir have torn my ſhirt.
Another, You-ſir 'twas that did me hurt.
Oh where's my cap? look there in kennel 'tis:
Oh that's not mine, but that Fur'd cap is his.
As they got up one crys unto the other,
I prithee take thy knife and ſcrape me, brother.
One toting fellow, ſtreet-yarn oft that reels,
Came crawling out with breeches 'bout his heels;
When the reſt ſaw that pitiful diſaſter,
They held their ſides, and fell to a loud laughter;
This ſtopt the rout a while in their ſwift race,
But up they get, away they run apace.
Now up their throats they raiſe, and do begin
Agen to fill the City with a din.
For two hours time this mad rout thus did hold,
Till that the Town-Clark came and it controul'd,
Telling Demetrius and the reſt, that they
To right all wrongs by juſtice had their way;
And that their foul fault to ſuch height did mount,
Of which he's ſure they could give no account:
So he diſmiſt them, and they went their way,
Moſt knowing not for what they met that day.
The FLINT.
THey ſay my ſoul's a Flint,
My thoughts are ſparks of reaſon,
Which her ſmall cells do ſtint
Unto an atoms priſon.
They ſay this fire's divine
That from this flint doth flow,
Which will our eyes refine,
And God and nature ſhow.
This moſt myſterious flame
I did deſire to know;
I to this flint ſtraight came,
To ſee if it were ſo.
For heat I grope't about,
The Priſon-walls felt cold,
Then I began to doubt
The truth of what was told.
At length I did begin
Their gates with ſtrokes to ſhake,
I found then fire within;
For th' priſon-doors I brake.
I ſtruck agen and place't
My breaſt, the tinder-box
Under which ſoon embrace't
The fire that fell with knocks.
The candle of the Lord
I then took up to light,
Which flame it did afford
That it did burn out bright.
On this pure ſtream of flame
Mine eye row'd to and fro,
And at the length I came
Of fuel within to know.
Within my breaſt I found
Loves taper without fire,
I ſoon with beams it crown'd,
So now my flame grew higher.
O what a warmth I felt!
Each pow'r about did glow,
My ſoul began to melt,
And round my body flow.
Lord! cri'd I, what a bliſs!
What laviſh glory's this,
We feel when thou doſt ſhake,
And doſt our hearts to fitters break!
A Divine SONG.
I.
COME, O ye winged Angels from above,
Can you not tell me news of him I love!
Where he aſcended
When the Clouds him took,
And wafted him
Beyond what we could look?
Did he not paſs the Sun, and pierce the sky!
Tell me:
Tell me:
For it's the ſame that here did die.
II.
What did he when within your gates he came?
Did he ſtrip off his rags, or wear the ſame?
Yea, but much mended:
Each jag glory wore:
They are the ſame;
But brighter than before.
That very torn fleſh now wears Majeſty:
And ſhall,
And ſhall,
When time yields to eternity.
III.
Go ſearch the Thrones, and tell me where's his place:
You may him know by th' ſhinings of his face.
Is'nt he ſet higher
Then all your degrees
Of Seraphims,
Or Cherubs, if you pleaſe?
Doth not his brightneſs
Put your glory out?
And you,
And you,
Fall down to worſhip round about.
IV.
Can you inform me what's his buſineſs there?
Whether of us he taketh any care?
Doth there burn incenſe?
Are perfumes there ſweet?
Are there the prayers
Which we lay at his feet?
Doth he accept them? and his Father too?
Tell me,
Tell me,
But nought but what you know is true.
V.
You flaming fires that attend his will,
Can you inform how long 'twill be until
The winged winds ſhall
Bring their Royal load?
Or how long he
Will make with you his 'bode?
Are you preparing clouds whereon to ride?
Oh when,
Oh when,
Will you come flaming by his ſide?
VI.
If you him ſee, pray tell, his longing bride
Begs that he comes, the world his ſtay deride:
We groan for freedom,
Their ſins vengeance cries:
Since we are fit,
O will the Lord ariſe?
Will he come crown us, and the wicked burn,
Or ſtay,
Or ſtay,
Till more ſtray-ſouls unto him turn?
VII.
If that's his meaning, tell him then that we
Wait ſtill believing, and will patient be.
We know he will not
Quite forget us here:
We are belov'd,
Which will at length appear.
Let him but purge us, ſcowr off our ruſt,
And then,
And then
Let him but haſte us to the duſt.
A wounded Conſcience.
I.
CHide, chide no longer, I do ſmart,
Thy words, my Soveraign! they are keen,
They plow deep ſurrows in my heart,
And ſcatter ſeeds of wrath between.
Oh! what an harveſt is here like to be!
Thou maiſt reap glory, but I miſery.
II.
My ſin is poyſon rank enough:
Do not with it thine anger blend,
If thou wilt force me drink it up,
It will it ſelf work out my end.
If thou would'ſt have me die, thou need'ſt not go
But to my Conſcience, whence doth venom flow,
III.
If thou intendeſt to torment,
Thou need'ſt not ſend me down to hell;
Keep thou but up an angry look,
It's pain enough where e're I dwell.
Where thy beams ſhine not, but keen angers flame,
Muſt make hell-torment, or a pain wants name.
IV.
Guns, fire, nor ſword, doth Soldier fright;
The Mariner laughs in a ſtorm;
The Shepherd fearleſs is by night,
The Martyr counts his fire but warm.
If thou but caſt'ſt a frown, my ſpirits fail,
My heart it panteth, and my looks wax pale.
V.
Though my Spirit doth rocky ſeem,
If thou in anger doſt it ſmite,
It guſheth forth in briny ſtream,
That even ſuffocates my light.
Thy frowns may well cauſe dews in flinty mind,
When at thy blows hard marble tears can find.