Heavenly pastime, or, Pleasant observations on all the most remarkable passages throughout the Holy Bible of the Old and New Testament newly allegoriz'd in several delightful dialogues, poems, similitudes, and divine fancies / by John Dunton, author of The sickmans passing-bell.

Psal. 6.2.

Have mercy Lord, upon me, for I am weak: O Lord, Heal me, for my Bones are vexed.

Soul. Jesus.

Soul.

Ah! Son of David, help;

Iesus.

What sinfu•••• Crie Implores the Son of David?

Soul.

It is I.

Jesus.

Who art thou?

Soul.

Oh! a deeply wounded Breast, That's heavie loaden and would sain have rest.

Jesus.

I have no Scraps, and Dogs must not be fed Like Houshold Children, with the Childrens Bread.

Soul.

True Lord, yet tolerate a hungry whelp To lick your Crumbs: O Son of David, help▪

Jesus.

Poor Soul, what ail'st thou?

Soul.

O I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I sry, I cannot rest, I know not where to fly To find some ease; I turn'd my blubber'd Face From Man to Man; I roll from place to place T' avoid my tortures, to obtain relief, But still I am dog'd and haunted with my grief, My Mid-night torments call the sluggish Light And when the Mornings come, they woo the Night.

Jesus.

Sir cease thy Tears, and speak thy free desires.

Soul.

Quench, quench my flames, and swage these scorching Fires.

Jesus.

Ca••st thou believe, my Ha••d can Cur•• thy Grief?

Soul.

Lord I believe; Lord help my unbelief.

J••sus.

Hol•• forth thy Arm, and let my Fingers tr•• Thy Pulse, where chiefly doth thy torment lye?

Soul.

From Head to Foot, it reigns in every part, But play's the self-law'd tyrant in my Heart.

Jesus.

Canst thou Digest? canst Relish wholsome Food? How stands thy tast?

Soul.

To nothing that is good: All sinfull trash, and Earths unsav'ry stuff I can dig'st, and relish well enough.

Jesus.

Is not thy Blood as cool, as hot by turns?

Soul.

Cold to what's good, to what is bad i•• burns.

Jesus.

How old's thy Grief?

Soul.

I took't at the fall With eating Fruit.

Jesus.

T'is Epidemical: Thy Blood's infected, and the infection sprung From a bad Liver: 'tis a Feaver strong And full of Death, unless with present speed A vein be opened, thou must dye or Bleed.

Soul.

O I am faint and spent, that L••unce that shall Let forth my Blood, lets forth my life withall: My Soul wants Cordialls, and has greater need Of Blood, I (being spent so far) to bleed I faint allready, if I bleed, I dye.

Jesus.

Tis either thou must bleed, Sick Soul or I: My blood's a Cordiall. He that sucks my Veins, Shall cleanse his own, and conquer greater pains Then these: Chear up, this precious blood of mine Shall cure thy Grief; my Heart shall bleed thine: Believe and view me with a faithfull Eye, Thy Soul shall neither Languish, Bleed, nor Dye.

Epigram.

Canst thou be Sick▪ and such a Doctor by? Thou canst not live unless thy Doctor dye. Strange kind of Grief, that finds no Medicine go•• To swage her pains, but the Physicians Blood!