Divine meditations upon several subjects whereunto is annexed Gods love and man's unworthiness, with several divine ejaculations / written by John Quarles.

Gods Reply.

Thou Skelleton of baseness, hie thee hence, Disturb me not; return, I say, from whence Thou cam'st at first; thou shalt as soon remove A mountain, as my mind: I cannot love, No nor I will not, nothing shall intreat My resolutions, for my fury's great. Begone, proud Rebel, do not think thy prayers, Thy vows, thy groans, thy sighs, thy sobs, thy tears

Shall make my brest their receptacle; No: How can I be a friend to such a foe? Surcease thy importunities, let fall Thy high desires, I will not hear thee call, Thy Sins have bart'd my ears; I'le not be won With thy base airy words, for thou hast spun The thread of thy destruction, therefore wear What thou hast labour'd for, and so forbear T'intrench upon my patience; 'tis in vain To seek for that which thou shalt not obtain. And is it thus, that Heav'n will not regard My cryes? Ah me! and must my groans be heard With disrespect by him, whose tongue affords Nothing, but grief, involv'd with bitter words? Alas, alas! what greater woe can crowd Into a brest than to be disavow'd By Gods high voice, whose most enraged breath Darts forth the Arrows of eternal death? What shall I do? Oh, whither shall I run To hide my self, until the glorious Sun Of his affections usher in the day Of welcom Joy? Oh, whither shall I stray? If I am silent, then my, silence turns My thoughts to fire; If speak, my speech returns Trebl'd with wo, into the brazen Tower Of my sad heart, my language has no power

To work upon his ears, my words (like balls Banded, and thrown against th' obdurate walls Unyielding brest) bounds back again, and breaks Into my heart, and every sorrow speaks A volume at a word; yet, yet must I Return unheard; 'tis misery to dye, And pain to live; thus in despair I draw The loathsom air: Destruction knows no Law. Grief rains a flood of doubt into my Soul; Ah me! I can do nothing but condole: I am despis'd; and if I bend the force Of my desires to him, he will divorce All thoughts of pity, and with rage re-double Th'unsum'd up sums of my infringing trouble. I sail into the Straits, both wind and tyde Prevail against me, and I have no guide To Pilot me unto the long'd-for Port Of pleasing happiness; I am a sport To threatning Ruine, whose presumptuous waves Out-dares my Soul, whilst every blast enslaves My reeling Pinnace: If I strive to go Towards Scylla, Scylla will contemn my wo, Alas in vain I can expect relief, Scylla will bark at my unbridled grief; Or if my head-long vessel chance to hit Against Charybdis, I am torn and split

Into ten thousand peices; Oh hard hap! Thus am I tossed in Destructions lap. Where shall I find a heart that will advise My friendless Soul, and audiate my cries? I will not thus desist, I must implore, He that's lost once, sure can be lost no more.