Fons lachrymarum, or, A fountain of tears from whence doth flow Englands complaint, Jeremiah's lamentations paraphras'd, with divine meditations, and an elegy upon that son of valor Sir Charles Lucas / written by John Quarles.

A DISCOURSE between the SOƲL and WORLD.

Wo.

HOw now sad Soul; from whence proceeds those clouds Which still eclipse my fancy thus, & shrouds Thy splendent glory? what contentious Fate Hath bred disturbance in thy quiet State? Tell me, come tell me, that my studious care May be imploy'd to serve thee: Why, or where Art thou opprest? Come, never fear to tell Thy grief to me, thou know'st I love thee well.

So.

Oh I am sick, canst thou be my Physician?

Wo.

I can, sick Soul: Come tell me thy condition.

So.

Draw nearer then, for ah my spirits fail; I'm sick because I know not what I ail.

Wo.

If thou art sick, and canst not find thy grief, How canst thou be a suitor to relief?

So.

Were it a single sorrow that opprest My wearied mind, 'twere easily exprest;

But when pluralities shall circumvent A troubled mind, how can that mind have vent▪

Wo.

Come, leave these vain exordiums, let my ear Be heir to thy discourse, I long to hear; Conceal not that, which if reveal'd may bring A remedy: Come, tell me what's the thing That thus corrodes thy brest; 'tis I alone Must give thy heart refreshment, or else none.

So.

Alas, fond World! how justly may I stile Thy help a hinderance, thy treasures vile! What answer shall I now retort, that may Expresly satisfie? I cannot say What I desire; for when I strive to speak, My passion grows too strong, my tongue too weak; My numerous pains infatuate my wit.

Wo.

Pish, this is but a melancholly fit: Clear up thy clouded thoughts, such fits as these Are incident to all; learn to appease Thy instigating passion, and advise With me; I'le make thee well, I'le make thee wise: My bounteous treasure shall increase thy store With great abundance: Come, let's have no more Of these thy petulant discourses, be Prescrib'd by none (dear Soul) except by me; I'le cure thy pain. Sou: Fond World, forbear To urge my resolution, or insnare My yeelding spirits; let thy language be Reserv'd for them that will be fool'd by thee: Thy elevating joys, which did before Inrich my vacant senses, make them poor:

And now I find the greatest plague that can Concomitate poor miserable man, Is to be happy. Wor: That's a paradox, Is happiness a crime?

So.

Mistake me not, rash fool, for my pretence Is good, if not corrupted by the sence You take it in: For tell me, what canst thou Insinuating wretch vouchsafe t'allow, That will perpetuate? hast thou the power T'assure a happiness for one half hour? If so, I will obsequiously confine My self to thy directions, and be thine.

Wo.

I tell thee Soul, thy fancy thus disturb'd Will ruinate thy senses, if not curb'd. Convince thy self, and be not thus averse To Reason; after folly comes a curse.

So.

But what is this to my demands? I see Thou lov'st to hear thy self declare, not me. Answer to my objections, then I'le rest, A quiet Soul, in a resolved brest.

Wo.

On that I were so blest to know the state Of thy condition. Sou: Wilt thou still deviate, And ramble from thy text? Wor: Believe't dear soul There is no friend more strongly can condole Thy weakness, then my self; I sympathize, And truly grieve for thy infirmities: Witness these falling tears; Oh, may't be known, Sick Soul, I weep thy sorrows, not mine own: Sorrow forbids my gentle lips to smile; For ah I am: Soul: A woful crocodile:

I, I, a woful Exile. Wor: For thy sake I'le suffer thousand griefs, and undertake Ten thousand more, that I at last may prove How much I've merited thy truest love.

So.

What voyce is this that penetrates my ear? What do I hear, or do I seem to hear? Or is't a dream? Wor: No, no, (blest Soul) 'tis true, 'Tis I that suffer these extreams for you.

So.

Reserve thy tears: Alas! I did but try Thy love, and now I find th' art Constancy It self: But tell me World, wilt thou content My greedy mind with wealth? when that is spent Will't give me more? and when that more is gone Wilt thou be sure to heap one bag upon Another? Wilt thou make me to out-vy The sons of men in prodigality? Dost hear me World? Wor: I do, and I am sore Opprest, because thou canst not ask no more: Honour, Wealth, Dignities, and all shall stand, Like subjects proud, to kiss their Princes hand. I'le hug thee in mine arms, and thou shalt sleep In gold surrounded beds: whil'st others weep At fortunes gates, upon their bended knees, Thou, thou shalt sit and read sad Elegies, Imprinted on their meagre cheeks; I, I, These are true symptomes of Eternity. What, melancholy yet? cannot these charms Induce thee to my Soul-inviting arms? Speak Soul, are these not joys? are these not plea∣sures To be imbrac'd? speak, are not these rare tresures?

So.

Base World, th' art truly base; now I perceive Thy lab'ring policy is to deceive. What, didst thou think my heart begun to dote, When I, to make a concord, chang'd my note? Oh no, vile varlet; no, I did but try Thy craft, by learning what thou wouldst reply To my demands: Divinest language could Move no reply, when baser language would: But now thou nothing, made of nothing, know, Th' ast lost a friend by me, and found a foe. Here I declare my self, and do protest Before just Heav'n, that whilest I live possest Of vital breath, I will employ my heart T'oppose thy flatt'ring folly; for thou art A perjur'd Traytor to the Souls divine And sacred Majesty, and wilt incline Thy ears to nothing but to antick tricks, And call'st divine thoughts, melancholly fits. And so farewell, false Traytor; now 'tis known, The more we are thine, the less we are our own.

Wo.

And is this all? Sou: 'Tis all. Wor: Then Soul adue.

So.

Oh may I ne'r prove false, till thou prov'st true.