Poems, Poem 70
OF THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE.
Wherein, By occaſion of the Religious death of Miſtris ELIZABETH DRVRY, the incommodities of the Soule in this life, and her exaltation in the next, are contemplated.
The ſecond Anniverſary.
The Harbinger to the PROGRESSE.
TWo Soules move here, and mine (a third) muſt move
Paces of admiration, and of love;
Thy Soule (deare virgin) whoſe this tribute is,
Mov'd from this mortall Spheare to lively bliſſe;
And yet moves ſtill, and ſtill aſpires to ſee
The worlds laſt day, thy glories full degree:
Like as thoſe ſtarres which thou o'r-lookeſt farre,
Are in their place, and yet ſtill moved are:
No ſoule (whiles with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is) can follow thee halfe way;
Or ſee thy flight, which doth our thoughts outgoe
So faſt, that now the lightning moves but ſlow:
But now thou art as high in heaven flowne
As heaven's from us; what ſoule beſides thine owne
Can tell thy joyes, or ſay he can relate
Thy glorious Journals in that bleſſed ſtate?
I envie thee (Rich ſoule) I envy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory ſee:
And thou (great ſpirit) which hers follow'd haſt
So faſt, as none can follow thine ſo faſt;
So far, as none can follow thine ſo farre,
(And if this fleſh did not the paſſage barre
Hadſt caught her) let me wonder at thy flight
Which long agone hadſt loſt the vulgar ſight,
And now mak'ſt proud the better eyes, that they
Can ſee thee leſs'ned in thine ayery way;
So while thou mak'ſt her ſoule by progreſſe knowne
Thou mak'ſt a noble progreſſe of thine owne.
From this worlds carkaſſe having mounted high
To that pure life of immortalitie;
Since thine aſpiring thoughts themſelves ſo raiſe
That more may not beſeeme a creatures praiſe,
Yet ſtill thou vow'ſt her more; and every yeare
Mak'ſt a new progreſſe, while thou wandreſt here;
Still upward mount; and let thy Makers praiſe
Honor thy Laura, and adorne thy laies.
And ſince thy Muſe her head in heaven ſhrouds,
Oh let her never ſtoope below the clouds:
And if thoſe glorious ſainted ſoules may know
Or what wee doe, or what wee ſing below,
Thoſe acts, thoſe ſongs ſhall ſtill content them beſt
Which praiſe thoſe awfull Powers that make them bleſt.
OF THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE.
The ſecond Anniverſarie.
NOthing could make me ſooner to confeſſe
That this world had an everlaſtingneſſe,
Then to conſider, that a yeare is runne,
Since both this lower world's, and the Sunnes Sunne,
The Luſtre, and the vigor of this all,
Did ſet; 'twere blaſphemie to ſay, did fall.
But as a ſhip which hath ſtrooke ſaile, doth runne
By force of that force which before, it wonne:
Or as ſometimes in a beheaded man,
Though at thoſe two Red ſeas, which freely ranne,
One from the Trunke, another from the Head,
His ſoule he ſail'd, to her eternall bed,
His eyes will twinckle, and his tongue will roll,
As though he beckned, and cal'd backe his ſoule,
He graſpes his hands, and he pulls up his feet,
And ſeemes to reach, and to ſtep forth to meet
His ſoule; when all theſe motions which we ſaw,
Are but as Ice, which crackles at a thaw:
Or as a Lute, which in moiſt weather, rings
Her knell alone, by cracking of her ſtrings.
So ſtruggles this dead world, now ſhee is gone;
For there is motion in corruption.
As ſome daies are, at the Creation nam'd,
Before the Sunne, the which fram'd daies, was fram'd:
So after this Sunne's ſet, ſome ſhew appeares,
And orderly viciſſitude of yeares.
Yet a new deluge, and of Lethe flood,
Hath drown'd us all, All have forgot all good,
Forgetting her, the maine reſerve of all,
Yet in this deluge, groſſe and generall,
Thou ſeeſt me ſtrive for life; my life ſhall bee,
To be hereafter prais'd, for prayſing thee;
Immortall maid, who though thou would'ſt refuſe
The name of Mother, be unto my Muſe
A Father, ſince her chaſt Ambition is
Yearely to bring forth ſuch a child as this.
Theſe Hymnes may worke on future wits, and ſo
May great Grand children of thy prayſes grow.
And ſo, though not revive, embalme and ſpice
The world, which elſe would putriſie with vice.
For thus, Man may extend thy progeny,
Untill man doe but vaniſh, and not die.
Theſe Hymnes thy iſſue, may encreaſe ſo long,
As till Gods great Venite change the ſong.
A iuſt diſeſtimation of this world.Thirſt for that time, O my inſatiate ſoule,
And ſerve thy thirſt, with Gods ſafe-fealing Bowle.
Be thirſtie ſtill, and drinke ſtill till thou goe
To th'only Health, to be Hydroptique ſo,
Forget this rotten world; And unto thee
Let thine owne times as an old ſtorie bee
Be not concern'd: ſtudie not why nor when;
Doe not ſo much as not beleeve a man.
For though to erre, be worſt, to try truths forth,
Is far more buſineſſe, then this world is worth.
The world is but a carkaſſe; thou art fed
By it, but as a worme, that carkaſſe bred;
And why ſhould'ſt thou, poore worme, conſider more
When this world will grow better then before,
Then thoſe thy fellow wormes doe thinke upon
That carkaſſes laſt reſurrection.
Forget this world, and ſcarce thinke of it ſo,
As of old clothes, caſt off a yeare agoe.
To be thus ſtupid is Alacritie;
Men thus Lethargique have beſt Memory.
Look upward; that's towards her, whoſe happy ſtate
We now lament not, but congratulate.
Shee, to whom all this world was but a ſtage,
Where all ſat harkning how her youthfull age
Should be emploi'd, becauſe in all ſhee did,
Some Figure of the Golden times was hid.
Who could not lacke, what e'r this world could give,
Becauſe ſhee was the forme, that made it live;
Nor could complaine, that this world was unfit
To be ſtaid in, then when ſhee was in it;
Shee that firſt tried indifferent deſires
By vertue, and vertue by religious fires,
Shee to whoſe perſon Paradiſe adher'd,
As Courts to Princes, ſhee whoſe eyes enſphear'd
Star-light enough, t'have made the South controule,
(Had ſhee beene there) the Star-full Northerne Pole,
Shee, ſhe is gone; ſhe is gone; when thou knoweſt this,
What fragmentary rubbidge this world is
Thou knoweſt, and that it is not worth a thought;
He honors it too much that thinkes it nought.
Contemplation of our ſtate in our deathbed.Thinke then, my ſoule, that death is but a Groome,
Which brings a Taper to the outward roome,
Whence thou ſpieſt firſt a little glimmering light,
And after brings it nearer to thy ſight:
For ſuch approaches doth heaven make in death.
Thinke thy ſelfe labouring now with broken breath,
And thinke thoſe broken and ſoft Notes to bee
Diviſion, and thy happyeſt Harmonie.
Thinke thee laid on thy death-bed, looſe and ſlacke;
And thinke that, but unbinding of a packe,
To take one precious thing, thy ſoule from thence.
Thinke thy ſelfe patch'd with fevers violence,
Anger thine ague more, by calling it
Thy Phyſicke; chide the ſlackneſſe of the fit.
Thinke that thou hear'ſt thy knell and think no more,
But that, as Bels cal'd thee to Church before,
So this, to the Triumphant Church, calls thee.
Thinke Satans Sergeants round about thee bee,
And thinke that but for Legacies they thruſt;
Give one thy Pride, to'another give thy Luſt:
Give them thoſe ſinnes which they gave thee before,
And truſt th'immaculate blood to waſh thy ſcore.
Thinke thy friends weeping round, & thinke that they
Weepe but becauſe they goe not yet thy way.
Thinke that they cloſe thine eyes, and thinke in this,
That they confeſſe much in the world, amiſſe,
Who dare not truſt a dead mans eye with that,
Which they from God, and Angels …er not.
Thinke that they ſhroud thee up, & think from thence
They reinveſt thee in white innocence.
Thinke that thy body rots, and (if ſo low,
Thy ſoule exalted ſo, thy thoughts can goe,)
Think thee a Prince, who of themſelves create
Wormes which inſenſibly devoure their State.
Thinke that they bury thee, and thinke that right
Laies thee to ſleepe but a Saint Lucies night.
Thinke theſe things cheerefully: and if thou bee
Drowſie or ſlacke, remember then that ſhee,
Shee whoſe complexion was ſo even made,
That which of her ingredients ſhould invade
The other three, no Feare, no Art could gueſſe:
So far were all remov'd from more or leſſe.
But as in Mithridate, or juſt perfumes,
Where all good things being met, no one preſumes
To governe, or to triumph on the reſt,
Only becauſe all were, no part was beſt.
And as, though all doe know, that quantities
Are made of lines, and lines from Points ariſe,
None can theſe lines or quantities unjoynt,
And ſay this is a line, or this a point:
So though the Elements and Humors were
In her, one could not ſay, this governes there,
Whoſe even conſtitution might have woon
Any diſeaſe to venter on the Sunne,
Rather then her: and make a ſpirit feare,
That hee too diſuniting ſubject were.
To whoſe proportions if we would compare
Cubes, th'are unſtable; Circles, Angular;
She who was ſuch a chaine as Fate employes
To bring mankinde all Fortunes it enjoyes;
So faſt, ſo even wrought, as one would thinke,
No accident could threaten any linke;
Shee, ſhee embrac'd a ſickneſſe, gave it meat,
The pureſt blood, and breath, that e'r it eate;
And hath taught us, that though a good man hath
Title to heaven, and plead it by his Faith,
And though he may pretend a conqueſt, ſince
Heaven was content to ſuffer violence,
Yea though hee plead a long poſſeſſion too,
(For they're in heaven on earth who heavens workes do)
Though hee had right and power and place, before,
Yet death muſt uſher, and unlocke the doore.
Thinke further on thy ſelfe, my Soule, and thinke
How thou at firſt waſt made but in a ſinke;
Thinke that it argued ſome infirmitie,
That thoſe two ſoules, which then thou foundſt in me,
Thou fedſt upon, and drewſt into thee both
My ſecond ſoule of ſenſe, and firſt of growth.
Thinke but how poore thou waſt, how obnoxious;
Whom a ſmall lumpe of fleſh could poyſon thus.
This curded milke, this poore unlittered whelpe
My body, could, beyond eſcape or helpe,
Infect thee with Originall ſinne, and thou
Couldſt neither then refuſe, nor leave it now.
Thinke that no ſtubborne ſullen Anchorit,
Which fixt to a pillar, or a grave, doth ſit
Bedded, and bath'd in all his ordures, dwels
So fowly as our Soules in their firſt built Cels.
Thinke in how poore a priſon thou didſt lie
After, enabled but to ſuck, and crie.
Thinke, when 'twas growne to moſt, 'twas a poore Inne,
A Province pack'd up in two yards of skinne,
And that uſurp'd or threatned with a rage
Of ſickneſſes, or their true mother, Age.
But thinke that death hath now enfranchis'd thee,
Her liberty by death.Thou haſt thy'expanſion now, and libertie;
Thinke that a ruſtie Peece diſcharg'd is flowne
In peeces, and the bullet is his owne,
And freely flies: this to thy Soule allow,
Thinke thy ſhell broke, thinke thy Soule hatch'd but now.
And think this ſlow-pac'd ſoule which late did cleave
To'a body, and went but by the bodies leave,
Twenty perchance or thirty mile a day,
Diſpatches in a minute all the way
Twixt heaven, and earth; ſhe ſtayes not in the ayre,
To looke what Meteors there themſelves prepare;
She carries no deſire to know, nor ſenſe,
Whether th'ayres middle region be intenſe;
For th'Element of fire, ſhe doth not know,
Whether ſhe paſt by ſuch a place or no;
She baits not at the Moone, nor cares to trie
Whether in that new world, men live, and die.
Venus retards her not, to'enquire, how ſhee
Can, (being one ſtarre) Heſper, and Veſper bee;
Hee that charm'd Argus eyes, ſweet Mercury,
Workes not on her, who now is growne all eye;
Who if ſhe meet the body of the Sunne,
Goes through, not ſtaying till his courſe be runne;
Who findes in Mars his Campe no corps of Guard;
Nor is by Iove, nor by his father bard;
Bee ere ſhe can conſider how ſhe went,
At once is at, and through the Firmament.
And as theſe ſtarres were but ſo many beads
Strung on one ſtring, ſpeed undiſtinguiſh'd leads
Her through thoſe Spheares, as through the beads, a ſtring,
Whoſe quick ſucceſſiō makes it ſtill one thing:
As doth the pith, which, leſt our bodies ſlacke,
Strings faſt the little bones of necke, and backe;
So by the Soule doth death ſtring Heaven and Earth;
For when our Soule enjoyes this her third birth,
(Creation gave her one, a ſecond, grace,)
Heaven is as neare, and preſent to her face,
As colours are, and objects, in a roome
Where darkneſſe was before, when Tapers come.
This muſt, my Soule, thy long-ſhort Progreſſe bee,
To'advance theſe thoughts; Remember then that ſhe,
She, whoſe faire body no ſuch priſon was,
But that a Soule might well be pleas'd to paſſe
An age in her; ſhe whoſe rich beauty lent
Mintage to other beauties, for they went
But for ſo much as they were like to her;
Shee, in whoſe body (if we dare preferre
This low world, to ſo high a marke as ſhee,)
The Weſterne treaſure, Eaſterne ſpicetie,
Europe, and Afrique, and the unknowne reſt
Were eaſily found, or what in them was beſt;
And when w'have made this large diſcoverie
Of all, in her ſome one part then will bee
Twenty ſuch parts, whoſe plenty and riches is
Enough to make twenty ſuch worlds as this;
Shee, whom had they knowne who did firſt betroth
The Tutelar Angels, and aſſigned one, both
To Nations, Cities, and to Companies,
To Functions, Offices, and dignities,
And to each ſeverall man, to him, and him,
They would have given her one for every limbe;
She, of whoſe ſoule, if wee may ſay, 'twas gold,
Her body was th'Electrum, and did hold
Many degrees of that; wee underſtood
Her by her ſight; her pure, and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheekes, and ſo diſtinctly wrought,
That one might almoſt ſay, her body thought;
Shee, ſhee, thus richly and largely hous'd, is gone:
And chides us ſlow-pac'd ſnailes who crawle upon
Our priſons priſon, earth, nor thinke us well,
Longer, then whil'ſt wee beare our brittle ſhell.
But 'twere but little to have chang'd our roome,
If, as we were in this our living Tombe
Oppreſs'd with ignorance, wee ſtill were ſo.
Poore ſoule, in this thy fleſh what doſt thou know?
Thou know'ſt thy ſelfe ſo little, as thou know'ſt not,
How thou didſt die, nor how thou waſt begot.
Thou neither know'ſt, how thou at firſt cam'ſt in,
Nor how thou took'ſt the poyſon of mans ſinne.
Nor doſt thou, (though thou know'ſt, that thou art ſo)
By what way thou art made immortall, know.
Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend
Even thy ſelfe. yea though thou wouldſt but bend
To know thy body. Have not all ſoules thought
For many ages, that our body, is wrought
Of aire, and fire, and other Elements?
And now they thinke of new ingredients.
And one Soule thinkes one, and another way
Another thinkes, and 'tis an even lay.
Knowſt thou but how the ſtone doth enter in
The bladders cave, and never brake the skinne?
Know'ſt thou how blood, which to the heart doth flow,
Doth from one ventricle to th'other goe?
And for the putrid ſtuffe, which thou doſt ſpit,
Know'ſt thou how thy lungs have attracted it?
There are no paſſages, ſo that there is
(For ought thou know'ſt) piercing of ſubſtances.
And of thoſe many opinions which men raiſe
Of Nailes and Haires, doſt thou know which to praiſe?
What hope have wee to know our ſelves, when wee
Know not the leaſt things, which for our uſe be?
Wee ſee in Authors, too ſtiffe to recant,
A hundred controverſies of an Ant;
And yet one watches, ſtarves, freeſes, and ſweats,
To know but Catechiſmes and Alphabets
Of unconcerning things, matters of fact;
How others on our ſtage their parts did Act;
What Caeſar did, yea, and what Cicero ſaid,
Why graſſe is greene, or why our blood is red,
Are myſteries which none have reach'd unto
In this low forme, poore ſoule, what wilt thou doe?
When wilt thou ſhake off this Pedantery,
Of being taught by ſenſe, and Fantaſie?
Thou look'ſt through ſpectacles; ſmall things ſeeme great
Below; But up unto the watch-towre get,
And ſee all things deſpoyl'd of fallacies:
Thou ſhalt not peepe through lattices of eyes,
Nor heare through Labyrinths of eares, nor learne
By circuit, or collections to diſcerne.
In heaven thou ſtraight know'ſt all, concerning it,
And what concernes it not, ſhalt ſtraight forget.
There thou (but in no other ſchoole) maiſt bee
Perchance, as learned; and as full, as ſhee,
Shee who all libraries had throughly read
At home in her owne thoughts, and practiſed
So much good as would make as many more:
Shee whoſe example they muſt all implore,
Who would or doe, or thinke well, and confeſſe
That all the vertuous Actions they expreſſe,
Are but a new, and worſe edition
Of her ſome one thought, or one action:
She who in th'art of knowing Heaven, was growne
Here upon earth, to ſuch perfection,
That ſhe hath, ever ſince to Heaven ſhe came,
(In a far fairer point,) but read the ſame:
Shee, ſhee not ſatisfied with all this waight,
(For ſo much knowledge, as would over-fraight
Another, did but ballaſt her) is gone
As well t'enjoy, as get perfection.
And cals us after her, in that ſhee tooke,
(Taking her ſelfe) our beſt, and worthieſt booke.
Of our company in this life, and in the next.Returne not, my Soule, from this extaſie,
And meditation of what thou ſhalt bee,
To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appeare,
With whom thy converſation muſt be there,
With whom wilt thou converſe? what ſtation
Canſt thou choſe out, free from infection,
That will not give thee theirs, nor drinke in thine?
Shalt thou not finde a ſpungie ſlacke Divine,
Drinke and ſucke in th'inſtructions of great men,
And for the word of God, vent them agen?
Are there not ſome Courts (and then, no things bee
So like as Courts) which, in this let us ſee,
That wits, and tongues of Libellers are weake,
Becauſe they do more ill, then theſe can ſpeake?
The poyſon's gone through all, poyſons affect
Chiefly the chiefeſt parts, but ſome, effect
In nailes, and haires, yea excrements, will ſhow;
So lyes the poyſon of ſinne in the moſt low.
Up, up, my drowſie Soule, where thy new eare
Shall in the Angels ſongs no diſcord heare;
Where thou ſhalt ſee the bleſſed Mother-maid
Joy in not being that, which men have ſaid.
Where ſhe is exalted more for being good,
Then for her intereſt of Mother-hood.
Up to thoſe Patriarchs, which did longer ſit
Expecting Chriſt, then they'have enjoy'd him yet.
Up to thoſe Prophets, which now gladly ſee
Their Propheſies growne to be Hiſtorie.
Up to th'Apoſtles, who did bravely runne
All the Suns courſe, with more light then the Sunne.
Up to thoſe Martyrs, who did calmly bleed
Oyle to th'Apoſtles Lamps, dew to their ſeed.
Up to thoſe Virgins, who thought, that almoſt
They made joyntenants with the Holy Ghoſt,
If they to any ſhould his Temple give.
Up, up, for in that ſquadron there doth live
She, who hath carried thither new degrees
(As to their number) to their dignities.
Shee, who being to her ſelfe a State, injoy'd
All royalties which any State employ'd;
For ſhee made warres, and triumph'd; reaſon ſtill
Did not o'rthrow, but rectifie her will:
And ſhe made peace, for no peace is like this,
That beauty, and chaſtity together kiſſe:
She did high juſtice, for ſhe crucified
Every firſt motion of rebellious pride:
And ſhe gave pardons, and was liberall,
For, onelyonly her ſelfe except, ſhe pardon'd all:
Shee coy'nd, in this, that her impreſſion gave
To all our actions all the worth they have:
She gave protections; the thoughts of her breſt
Satans rude Officers could ne'r arreſt.
As theſe prerogatives being met in one,
Made her a ſoveraigne State; religion
Made her a Church; and theſe two made her all.
She who was all this All, and could not fall
To worſe, by company, (for ſhe was ſtill
More Antidote, then all the world was ill,
Shee, ſhee doth leave it, and by Death, ſurvive
All this, in Heaven; whether who doth not ſtrive
The more, becauſe ſhees there, he doth not know
That accidentall joyes in Heaven doe grow.
But pauſe, my ſoule; And ſtudy ere thou fall
Of eſſentiall joy in this life and in the next.On accidentall joyes, th'eſſentiall.
Still before Acceſſories doe abide
A triall, muſt the principall be tride.
And what eſſentiall joy can'ſt thou expect
Here upon earth? what permanent effect
Of tranſitory cauſes? Doſt thou love
Beauty? (And beauty worthy'ſt is to move)
Poore couſened couſenor, that ſhe, and that thou,
Which did begin to love, are neither now;
You are both fluid, chang'd ſince yeſterday;
Next day repaires, (but ill) laſt dayes decay.
Nor are, (although the river keepe the name)
Yeſterdaies waters, and to daies the ſame.
So flowes her face, and thine eyes; neither now
That Saint nor Pilgrime, which your loving vow
Concern'd, remaines; but whil'ſt you thinke you bee
Conſtant, you'are hourely in inconſtancie.
Honour may have pretence unto our love,
Becauſe that God did live ſo long above
Without this Honour, and then lov'd it ſo,
That he at laſt made creatures to beſtow
Honour on him; not that he needed it,
But that, to his hands, man might grow more fit.
But ſince all Honours from inferiours flow,
(For they doe give it; Princes doe but ſhew
Whom they would have ſo honor'd) and that this
On ſuch opinions, and capacities
Is built, as riſe and fall, to more and leſſe:
Alas, 'tis but a caſuall happineſſe.
Hath ever any man to'himſelfe aſſign'd
This or that happineſſe to'arreſt his minde,
But that another man which takes a worſe,
Thinks him a foole for having tane that courſe?
They who did labour Babels tower to'erect,
Might have conſidered, that for that effect,
All this whole ſolid Earth could not allow
Nor furniſh forth materialls enough;
And that his Center, to raiſe ſuch a place
Was farre too little, to have beene the Baſe;
No more affords this world, foundation
To erect true joy, were all the meanes in one.
But as the Heathen made them ſeverall gods,
Of all Gods benefits, and all his rods,
(For as the Wine, and Corne, and Onions are
Gods unto them, ſo Agues bee, and warre)
And as by changing that whole precious Gold
To ſuch ſmall Copper coynes, they loſt the old,
And loſt their only God, who ever muſt
Be ſought alone, and not in ſuch a thruſt:
So much, mankinde true happineſſe miſtakes;
No Joy enjoyes that man, that many makes.
Then, Soule, to thy firſt pitch worke up againe;
Know that all lines which circles doe containe,
For once that they the Center touch, doe touch
Twice the circumference; and be thou ſuch;
Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth emploid;
All will not ſerve; Only who have enjoy'd
The ſight of God, in fulneſſe, can thinke it;
For it is both the object, and the wit.
This is eſſentiall joy, where neither hee
Can ſuffer diminution, nor wee;
'Tis ſuch a full, and ſuch a filling good;
Had th'Angels once look'd on him, they had ſtood.
To fill the place of one of them, or more,
Shee whom wee celebrate, is gone before.
She, who had here ſo much eſſentiall joy,
As no chance could diſtract, much leſſe deſtroy;
Who with Gods preſence was acquainted ſo,
(Hearing, and ſpeaking to him) as to know
His face in any naturall Stone, or Tree,
Better then when in Images they bee:
Who kept by diligent devotion,
Gods Image, in ſuch reparation,
Within her heart, that what decay was growne,
Was her firſt Parents fault, and not her owne:
Who being ſolicited to any act,
Still heard God pleading his ſafe precontract;
Who by a faithfull confidence, was here
Betroth'd to God, and now is married there;
Whoſe twilights were more cleare, then our mid-day;
Who dreamt devoutlier, then moſt uſe to pray;
Who being here fil'd with grace, yet ſtrove to bee,
Both where more grace, and more capacitie
At once is given: ſhe to Heaven is gone,
Who made this world in ſome proportion
A heaven, and here, became unto us all,
Joy, (as our joyes admit) eſſentiall.
Of accidentall joyes in both places.But could this low world joyes eſſentiall touch,
Heavens accidentall joyes would paſſe them much.
How poore and lame, muſt then our caſuall bee?
If thy Prince will his ſubjects to call thee
My Lord, and this doe ſwell thee, thou art than,
By being greater, growne to bee leſſe Man.
When no Phyſitian of redreſſe can ſpeake,
A joyfull caſuall violence may breake
A dangerous Apoſtem in thy breaſt;
And whil'ſt thou joyeſt in this, the dangerous reſt,
The bag may riſe up, and ſo ſtrangle thee.
What e'r was caſuall, may ever bee.
What ſhould the nature change? Or make the ſame
Certaine, which was but caſuall, when it came?
All caſuall joy doth loud and plainly ſay,
Only by comming, that it can away.
Only in Heaven joyes ſtrength is never ſpent;
And accidentall things are permanent.
Joy of a ſoules arrivall ne'r decaies;
For that ſoule ever joyes and ever ſtaies.
Joy that their laſt great Conſummation
Approaches in the reſurrection;
When earthly bodies more celeſtiall
Shall be, then Angels were, for they could fall;
This kinde of joy doth every day admit
Degrees of growth, but none of loſing it.
In this freſh joy, 'tis no ſmall part, that ſhee,
Shee, in whoſe goodneſſe, he that names degree,
Doth injure her; ('Tis loſſe to be cal'd beſt,
There where the ſtuffe is not ſuch as the reſt)
Shee, who left ſuch a bodie, as even ſhee
Only in Heaven could learne, how it can bee
Made better; for ſhee rather was two ſoules,
Or like to full on both ſides written Rols,
Where eyes might reade upon the outward skin,
As ſtrong Records for God, as mindes within,
Shee, who by making full perfection grow,
Peeces a Circle, and ſtill keepes it ſo,
Long'd for, and longing for it, to heaven is gone,
Where ſhee receives, and gives addition.
Concluſion.Here in a place, where miſ-devotion frames
A thouſand Prayers to Saints, whoſe very names
The anciēt Church knew not, Heaven knows not yet:
And where, what lawes of Poetry admit,
Lawes of Religion have at leaſt the ſame,
Immortall Maide, I might invoke thy name.
Could any Saint provoke that appetite,
Thou here ſhould'ſt make me a french convertite.
But thou would'ſt not; nor would'ſt thou be content,
To take this, for my ſecond yeares true Rent.
Did this Coine beare any other ſtampe, then his,
That gave thee power to doe, me, to ſay this.
Since his will is, that to poſteritie,
Thou ſhould'ſt for life, and death, a patterne bee,
And that the world ſhould notice have of this,
The purpoſe, and th'authoritie is his;
Thou art the Proclamation; and I am
The Trumpet, at whoſe voyce the people came.