thee Alas we never saw thee Thou bidst us bee fruitfull and we be unprofitable thou commandest us to bee cleansed and wee be polluted when our eyes should be enlightned then our hearts are most darkened when we should be most washed then are we most defiled and when thou callest us to thee even then we fly from thee Wee lost our dignitie when our Father Adam lest his glory he breaking his League with Heaven left us his poore children nothing but our mother Earth who rocks us a while upon her idle knee of ignorance and then layes us to lullaby in eternall darkenesse Yet though wee have lost a Subjects loyalty thou hast not lost thy kingly dignity thou still retainest thy prerogative Royall yea Lord thou still hast power to command though we poore we have no ability to obey Oh that thou wouldst instead of commanding us compell us Oh thou that bidst us follow thee draw us and we shall run after thee Oh thou that commandest us to seeke thee shew thy selfe that wee may finde thee so though the world lies drowned in a sea of vanity yet we that follow thee shall live holily and dye happily forasmuch as our happinesse is wrapt up in heaven and dwells in the light of thy glory Now will I sing a Song to my welbeloved touching his Vineyard my welbeloved hath a Vineyard in a very fruitfull hill And he fenced it and gathered out the stones thereof and planted it with the choycest Vine and built a Tower in the midst of it and also made a Winepresse therein and he looked it should bring forth Grapes and it brought forth wilde Grapes Isa 5. v. 1 2. I. NO more Deluded England foole thy self no more But goe implore The heavens to ope thy dim and slumbring eyes No more Let blinde delusion keep thee shadowed ore And make thee soare Too high in wanton pleasures rarities Ah sin thou oft dost mix our sweets with soure Thou mak'st a Judgement in a short liv'd houre To blast the purest herb and crop the fairest flower II. Away Deluded England with thy workes away A new-borne Ray Begins to dawne and glorifie the aire Away Thou art discover'd poore can miry clay find power to pay Peace offrings no thou art more foule then faire The fig-tree brought forth leaves but we know who Did blast her is this all that thou canst doe Go vail thy Crown in dust lest thou be'st withred too III. Sit downe Ye glorious stars goe in the dust sit downe Whose glory shone Sometimes like Phoebus with his glittering traine Sit downe In silent sorrow goe and quench the frowne Of heaven thy Crowne Being vail'd then shalt thou wear the Crown again Why are we thus befool'd and do not cry To be transplanted Ah Reader thou and I Whose brach is withred here may soon lie down die IV. How soone Oh flouâ—ishing England didst thou swell how soon Thy fairest noone Was darkned o're and turn'd a glimmering day How soone Thou didst grow glorious prodigall and boone As the pale Moone In her blacke throne bids Phoebus flye away Oh it thou wilt have justice to reprieve thee If still thou wouldst have mercy to releive thee Trust not thy hollow self thy self wil but deceive thee V. Arise Oh then and ope thy unregenerate eyes How faire a prize Is there layd up in everlasting glorie Arise And be adorned in vertues rarities whose glory lies Drawne in the Records of this following story But if thy actions shall be still but vaine Led by the folly of a light haird braine Thou wilt be trampled down and withered ore again VI. Then shine For feare thy glimmering torch her light resigne And thou decline From thy first glory to a darkned shade Then shine Like Phoebus in the Equinoctiall line With fire divine Least thou art blasted and thy flower does sade So shalt thou flowrish in th' enlarged store Of wealth and Peace thy temples arched o're In a victorious Orb and war shall be no more The fift SOLILOQUIE A Gloomy Cloud may black the fairest Morne till Phoebus ariseth in his midday Majesty and with his glory cleares the darkned Aire when times black Daughter Night have wrapt her mantle about the virge of day and drowned the World in a forgotten dreame all things seeme alike to all the withered Weede the purest Herbe the comliest Blossome and the fairest flower But when the day starre appeares ushering in the morne and blushing Sol arises as from a bed of Roses whose burning Horses chafe up the Olympick hill and with their fiery fetlocks draw up the Golden Chariot of the day the World lyes then discovered Even thus the Gospel of our Lord Jesus haveing unmantled his glory from behinde a darkened cloud shining in full Majesty discovers the errours of our lower World but because time will bee too short to serve our turne and wee shall tyre the Readers eyes with too large a Soliloquie wee shall therefore looke upon but the latter part of our subject And first by the Vine wee can onely understand the Church of God and then our subject will lye as a stumbling block in the Readers way this seemes to bee strange say some that the Church of God should bee a fruitlesse Vine No this Vine beares pleasant fruit yet there are many worthlesse Branches that sprout among them bearing great show but little substance but when the wise Husbandman shall loppe them off the Branches that remaine shall sprout higher the fruit shall bee the sweeter and the Vine shall flourish the more And first wee shall endeavour to discover eight sorts of Branches that will bee cut from the Vine And they be these 1. The Adulterer 2. The Drunkard 3. The Robber 4. The Lyar. 5. The Sabboth-breaker 6. The Swearer 7. The Usurer 8. The Hypocrite First the Adulterer is a barren branch and shall bee cut off Thou Adulterer whose blood boyles in thy vaines and thy marrow is burnt in thy bones who art scorched in fire and sweltred in flames who swimmest in vanity and art drowned in a forgotten Dreame thy Morning is risen and thy Sunne hath aspired to the top of Noone-day thou seemest to ride upon the wings of Time commanding Pleasure as if shee were thy Captive Come wee will take a short survey of thy life which if the Scripture deceives us not is but the way to death For at the window of my house I looked through my casement and beheld among the simple ones I discerned among the youth a yong man void of understanding passing through the streete neere her corner and hee went the way to her house in the twilight in the evening in the blacke and darke night and behold there met him a woman with the attire of an Harlot and subtle of heart She is lowd and stubborne her feet abide not in her house Now is she without now in the streets and lieth in waite at every corner So she caught him and kissed him and with an
his strength the Souldier of his valour the Schollar of his learning the Germane gloryes that hee can drinke Wine the Usurer sacrifices to the god of gold the Prodigall to his pleasure and the Lover to his Lady and of all the rest the last is the most deluded making his life laborious while hee is tyred with such unacquainted passions Her frownes or smiles give him an earnest of life or death hee spends his yeares in disquietnesse his moneths in frowardnesse the day in fancies the night in dreames hee tyres his passion corrupts his invention deludes his affection disturbes his rest cracks his braine wearies his bed and breaken his sleepe hee makes earth his heaven pleasure his paradise beauty his felicity and prosperity his glory Poore soule hee knows not that bravery is a vanity that beauty is a vision and love a delusion that as Syrens can inchant so Ladies can allure that extremity attends prodigallity and the greatest temptations the strongest affections that the comliest blossome is the soonest blasted and the sweetest Rose the quickliest withered That poyson lyeth by the sweetest herbe and death is mingled in the fairest bait The deluded Lover stands in his owne light he puts out his owne eyes hee stoppes his owne eares hee is cloathed in darkenesse hee wanders in blindnesse lives in lasciviousnes and dyes in forgetfullnesse while these poore rarities fanne him with silken wings of mildest ayre breathed from a whispering winde Looke back fond Lover thou sure hast dreamed all past is but delusion thy sordid affections deserve not the name of love 't is but a morrall blaze a piece of humane glory a glaunce of beauties bravery a sparke of Cupids candle a flame of Vuicans forge a flash of Natures fire hot in a minute and cold in a moment But Oh Divine Love how much art thou abused How strongly neglected who art chiefely to bee beloved Thou indeed art a bed of Roses a mountaine of Spices a Garden of sweetnesse a Type of blessednesse a Messenger of fullnesse a Mirrour of faithfullnesse with thee there is no respect of persons nor no regard of places thou mindest not vanity nor art deceived by folly Thou strivest not for honour thou lookest not after gaine thou thirstest not for revenge but hopest all things believeth all things indureth all things Thou fillest the soule with vertue with vallour humility fidelity love peace joy patience and perseverance thou art hee that preserveth earth that guideth the Heavens and lest the Universe should returne to its first Chaos thou rulest the unruly Elements thou turnest the spheres and commandest the wandring Planets in their several Orbes And when thou smilest upon the soule thou makest earth resemble heaven deformity become purity and dust immortallity how faire and how lovely art thou oh Love for delights ARe they Ministers of Christ I speake as a fooole I am more in labours more abundant in stripes above measure in prisons more frequent in deaths oft Of the Iewes five times received I forty stripes save one Thrice was I beaten with rods once was I stoned thrice I suffered shipwracke a night and a day I have beene in the deepe In journeying often in perils of waters in perils of robbers in perils by mine owne countreymen in perils by the heathen in perils in the city in perils in the wildernesse in perils in the sea in perils amongst false brethren in wearinesse and painefulnesse in watchings often in hunger and thirst infasting often in cold and nakednesse 2 Corinthians chap. 11. vers 24.25.26.27 The SOULE ANd does the pallas of immortall glory Stand by deaths darkned throne Is this story True that many a fiery dart Is shot to wound the tyred travellers heart And yet before he comes into the armes Of love must conquer death and hells alarms Induring many a storme oh where is he That shall arrive at immort allitie CHRIST What 's he that questions heaven or his power And tyes eternity to a short lived houre By words that darken knowledge Canst thou tell His thoughts of love say wortall doest thou well Is mine arme shortned or do'st thou feare Mine eare is heavy that it cannot heare Or is my truth decayed Doe I require Fond man that thou alone shouldst travell through the fire Except I go before whose power can tame The scorching furnace and the fiery flame Have not I power to save that lockt up hell And conquered death Say mortall dost than well Is man more righteous then his maker why Do'st thou then mourne dry up thy watry eye And read thy way to heaven in this story Go on I 'le crowne thee with a crowne of glory SOULE But ah I am intangled in this vale of teares While I sit downe in sorrow numerous fearet Beset me round such rubs lye in my way I looke for deaths embassage every day In which my heart is faint my fears are full My faith is feeble and my senses dull And Sathan triumphs for no power at all Is in fond man since his rebellious fall How hard a taske how short a time have wee And who can wander to eternitio It is enough oh Lord thou knowst that I Am vanity let me lie down and dye CHRIST What meane these murm'rings that doe pierce mine cares Why faithlesse sonle art thou so full of feares Heaven is not gain'd at every idle breath Love attends labour life is gain'd by death This is a debt eternity will not passe Thy glory earth is like the withering grasse Thy soule is too impure till thou dost pay That debt soul how will mine eys indure this day My soule that once was glorious sin hath stain'd My hands are fetter'd and my feet are chain'd How black hath horror made my darkned face Can Heaven love me now can he embrace Me in his Royall armes can he endure A soule that 's so deform'd that 's so impure It is enough O Lord thou knowst that I Am vanity let me lie downe and dye Alas the least temptation throwes me downe CHRIST Yet soule press forward thou shalt have a Crowne Of endlesse Royalty set on thy head In a victorious Orb. Soule 'T is true the dead That dye in thee are happy they are blest Indeed they slumber in eternall rest But I that have not strength enough to strive Through my disasters how shall I arrive At my desired haven when I read 'T is such a difficult way Christ why I will lead Thee through the sea of sorrow till the Cup Of wrath is passed ore I 'le beare thee up In ever lasting armes do but endeavour To conquer death and thou shalt live for ever As pleasure so is torment transitory Strive and I 'le crown thee with a crown of glory The third SOLILOQUIE YOu trayterous thoughts assault my sence no more oh mine eyes whither doe you wander to what great steppe of pleasure to what great pitch of honour to what illustrate sphere to what coelestiall orbe are you hurried in
joyes in thy faire Mistrefle eyes that like foolish Paris bowest to the Shrine of Venus whose happynesse and life lyes in thy Ladyes love remember the Peacock hath faire Feathers but foule feete the Bee hath Honey by her toyle but a sting in her tayle the finest Rose may have pricks at the stalke and the fairest Apple may bee rotten at the Core Nay though thy Lady may bee civill worthy and vertuous yet time may make her lascivious wanton and various the fairest Blossome may bee the soonest blasted and the sweetest Flower the quickliest withered the blustring Windes may swell the mightiest waves and a glorious Morne may turne a gloomy day The Philosophers say the life of man is nothing but opinion Alas thou doest but dreame fond Lover heere are no hallowed Groves no faire Elizium walkes no Palaces of pleasure no high borne Imps of honour no heads archt in Royalty no beauties deckt in glory But wanton Cupids morall blaze which is as a shining flash or a seeming fire hot in a minute and cold in a moment which will blast thee if thou behold it and burne thee if thou come too neare 〈…〉 will come when thou shall dread that which thou dost now adore and loath the thing thou now dost love e're long the stoutest heart shall bee faint and the fairest face begin to waxe pale then pleasantnesse shall turne peevishnesse and kindnesse to coldnesse plenty shall bee poverty and beauty deformity then shalt thou behold the rottennesse of youth when thou commest to the ripenesse of age and see the uncertainty of life when thou receivest the summons of death For all flesh is grasse and the glory of man but as the flower of grasse And thou fond muckworme that servest the gods of gold what needest thou labour for an Inheritance in earth Thou hast too surely earth already go labour for an Inheritance foole that will not faile thee lest either thy Riches flye from thee or thy Money perish with thee lest the rot take thy heart as the rust may eate thy gold lest thy possession bee made a desolation and instead of having a Treasure in Heaven thou purchase with thy Coyne an eternall Tombe in Hell And likewise thou yong man thy morning is but now risen and it promises to bee a Sunne-shine day and thou doest not dreame that all flesh is grasse and the glory of man but as the flower of grasse yet flatter not thy selfe too fairely though thou were not strangled in thy Nativity yet thou mayest bee cut off in thy maturity though thou wert not blowne away in the fondnesse of thy youth yet thou mayest bee cut off in the fullnesse of thine age therefore let this rectifie thy reason and purge thy pollution let it raise thy love and humble thy heart thou knowest thou shalt dye but thou canst not tell when thou art sure thou shalt fall but thou doest not know where Well walke so on earth that death may conduct thee into Heaven expect Death every where but feare it no where for when thy present tense shall bee made a preterimperfect tense as thou hast lived holily so shalt thou dye happily and raigne in immortall blessednesse in the Pallace of high glory Tell mee thou old man I thinke thou art acquainted well with our subject that all flesh is grasse and the glory of man but as the flower of grasse what pleasure hadst thou in those things whereof thou art now ashamed With much paine thou hast past thy pilgrimage and worne thy wearied dayes thy life has beene but a longer prologue to an eternall Tragedy Go look on the Monuments of the old World old man and see how those mighty sonnes of Annak sleepe in earth How death has given them their quâ—â—cus est In the house of darkenesse there is no striving for dignities nor purchasing of places An Army of Souldiers that are there cannot march in Battle Ray not in their Warlick Triumphs thunder about their Tombes The greatest Merchant when hee takes that house hee loses all the richest Usurer that was worth thousands heere if you go to him there hee has not a penny in his pocket but is as poore as hee was sometimes proud The wisest Lawyer and the eloquentest Oratour when they come there give over their practise and will plead no more the Lord is there but a Companion for his Lacky and the Judge on the Bench sleepes safe with the Prisoner at the Barre How dolefull mee thinkes is the alarum of yonder passing Bell ushering Deaths Language in every eare If it goes for an unprepared sinner the sound thereof strikes terrour the night grows horrible and every object showes his blacke actions Oh the Conscience of the lost sinner now how is hee hurryed Now for an houre of life but it will not bee Let the sinner see in all his Inventory what will hee prize or what can give one houre of ease None but Jesus Christ Alas but hee hath no share in him Unhappy soule how hast thou spent thy time and worne out thy pretious dayes Was it in love thou hast spent thy life Oh hadst thou beene acquainted with Heaven how mightest thou have beene swallowed in the Sea of love Tell mee who made the earth so full of variety the Sunne so glorious the Moone so beautious Who made the glittering Starres that aspire the Olympick Hill that the lower Orbes might bee relieved by the spangled spheres when the Sunne has done the day Say sinner must not hee that gives beauty to deformity bee himselfe much more lovely Or what was it profit thou hast laboured for what greater profit then to be a Prince or what higher happinesse then holinesse what greater riches then righteousnesse or what higher gaine then to weare an immortall Crowne Or was it pleasure thou hast sought after I thinke the pleasure of the world is paine remember how often thou hast called thy selfe Foole when thou hast been retired alone when thy fancy hath been wearied in folly and thy Recreation hath gone beyond thy Reason deluded soule what pleasure is like that which dwells in Paradice in those blest Groves which cannot bee described by the pen of the Writer nor exprest by the tongue of an Orator whose glory had any but the Art to paint forth in the language of love t would leave the writer in a Maze or strike the Reader dead But now poore soule in seeking the things that are but momentany thou hast lost thy selfe eternally who now can intercede before the immortall throne that the sinner may be saved none but Jesus Christ and alas the soule is not acquainted with him unhappy soule thou art now struck silent goe drowne thy closed eyes in Teares lye downe in dust forgotten earth for thou shalt rise no more till the Axeltrees of the world shall begin to flame and time shall breake his Charriot wheeles till the Heavens shall passe away with a great noyse and the world shal swelter in flames