Selected quad for the lemma: order_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
order_n	grace_n	young_a	youth_n	29	3	8.2244	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A51310	Philosophical poems by Henry More ...; Psychōdia platonica	More, Henry, 1614-1687.	1647 (1647)	Wing M2670; ESTC R14921	253,798	486

spirits wrought To better temper and of old hath blest My loftie soul with more divine aspires Then to be touchd with such vile low desires I hate and highly scorn that Kestrell kind Of bastard scholars that subordinate The precious choice induements of the mind To wealth or worldly good Adulterate And cursed brood Your wit and will are born Of th' earth and circling thither do return Profit and honour be those measures scant Of your slight studies and endeavours vain And when you once have got what you did want You leave your learning to enjoy your gain Your brains grow low your bellies swell up high Foul sluggish fat ditts up your dulled eye Thus what the earth did breed to th' earth is gone Like fading hearb or feeble drooping flower By feet of men and beast quite trodden down The muck-sprung learning cannot long endure Back she returns lost in her filthy source Drown'd chok'd or slocken by her cruell nurse True virtue to her self 's the best reward Rich with her own and full of lively spirit Nothing cast down for want of due regard Or ' cause rude men acknowledge not her merit She knows her worth and stock from whence she sprung Spreads fair without the warmth of earthly dung Dew'd with the drops of Heaven shall flourish long As long as day and night do share the skie And though that day and night should fail yet strong And steddie fixed on Eternitie Shall bloom for ever So the soul shall speed That loveth virtue for no worldly meed Though sooth to say the worldly meed is due To her more then to all the world beside Men ought do homage with affections true And offer gifts for God doth there reside The wise and virtuous soul is his own seat To such what 's given God himself doth get But earthly minds whose sight 's seal'd up with mud Discern not this flesh-clouded Deity Ne do acknowledge any other good Then waht their mole-warp hands can feel and trie By groping touch thus worth of them unseen Of nothing worthy that true worth they ween Wherefore the prudent Law-givers of old Even in all Nations with right sage foresight Discovering from farre how clums and cold The vulgar wight would be to yield what 's right To virtuous learning did by law designe Great wealth and honour to that worth divine But nought's by law to Poesie due said he Ne doth the solemn Statesmans head take care Of those that such impertinent pieces be Of common-weals Thou'd better then to spare Thy uselesse vein Or tell else what may move Thy busie Muse such fruitlesse pains to prove No pains but pleasure to do th' dictates dear Of inward living nature What doth move The Nightingall to sing so sweet and clear The Thrush or Lark that mounting high above Chants her shrill notes to heedlesse ears of corn Heavily hanging in the dewy Morn When Life can speak it cannot well withold T' expresse its own impressions and hid life Or joy or greif that smoothered lie untold Do vex the heart and wring with restlesse strife Then are my labours no true pains but ease My souls unrest they gently do appease Besides that is not fruitlesse that no gains Brings to my self I others profit deem Mine own and if at these my heavenly flames Others receiven light right well I ween My time 's not lost Art thou now satisfide Said I to which the scoffing boy replide Great hope indeed thy rhymes should men enlight That be with clouds and darknesse all o'recast Harsh style and harder sense void of delight The Readers wearied eye in vain do wast And when men win thy meaning with much pain Thy uncouth sense they coldly entertain For wotst thou not that all the world is dead Unto that Genius that moves in thy vein Of poetrie But like by like is fed Sing of my Trophees in triumphant strein Then correspondent life thy powerfull verse Shall strongly strike and with quick passion pierce The tender frie of lads and lasses young With thirstie eare thee compassing about Thy Nectar-dropping Muse thy sugar'd song Will swallow down with eager hearty draught Relishing truly what thy rhymes convey And highly praising thy soul-smiting lay The mincing maid her mind will then bewray Her heart-bloud flaming up into her face Grave matrons will wax wanton and betray Their unresolv'dnesse in their wonted grace Young boyes and girls would feel a forward spring And former youth to eld thou back wouldst bring All Sexes Ages Orders Occupations Would listen to thee with attentive ear And eas'ly moved with thy sweet perswasions Thy pipe would follow with full merry chear While thou thy lively voice didst loud advance Their tickled bloud for joy would inly dance But now alas poore solitarie man In lonesome desert thou dost wander wide To seek and serve thy disappearing Pan Whom no man living in the world hath eyde For Pan is dead but I am still alive And live in men who honour to me give They honour also those that honour me With sacred songs But thou now singst to trees To rocks to Hills to Caves that senselesse be And mindlesse quite of thy hid mysteries In the void air thy idle voice is spread Thy Muse is musick to the deaf or dead Now out alas said I and wele-away The tale thou tellest I confesse too true Fond man so doteth on this living clay His carcase dear and doth its joyes pursue That of his precious soul he takes no keep Heavens love and reasons light lie fast asleep This bodies life vain shadow of the soul With full desire they closely do embrace In fleshly mud like swine they wallow and roll The loftiest mind is proud but of the face Or outward person if men but adore That walking sepulchre cares for no more This is the measure of mans industry To wexen some body and getten grace To 's outward presence though true majestie Crownd'd with that heavenly light and lively rayes Of holy wisdome and Seraphick love From his deformed soul he farre remove Slight knowledge and lesse virtue serves his turn For this designe If he hath trod the ring Of pedling arts in usuall pack-horse form Keeping the rode O! then 't's a learned thing If any chanc'd to write or speak what he Conceives not 't were a foul discourtesie To cleanse the soul from sinne and still diffide Whether our reasons eye be clear enough To intromit true light that fain would glide Into purg'd hearts this way 's too harsh and rough Therefore the clearest truths may well seem dark When sloathfull men have eyes so dimme and stark These be our times But if my minds presage Bear any moment they can ne're last long A three branch'd Flame will soon sweep clean the stage Of this old dirty drosse and all wex young My words into this frozen air I throw Will then grow vocall at that generall thaw Nay now thou' rt perfect mad said he with scorn And full of foul derision