Emblemes by Francis Quarles.

XV.

[illustration]

PSALM 137. 4.

How shall we sing a song of the Lord in a strange land?

URge me no more: this aity mirth belongs To better times: these times are not for songs. The sprightly twang of the melodious Lute 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not with my voice; and both unsuit My untun'd fortunes: the affected measure Of strains that are constrain'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 no pleasure. Musick's the Child of mirth; where griefs assail The troubled soul, both voyce and fingers fail: Let such as ravil out their lavish dayes In honourable riot; that can raise Dejected hearts, and conjure up a sprite Of madnesse by the Magick of delight; Let those of Cupids hospitall, that lie Impatient Patients to a smiling eye, That cannot rest, untill vain hope beguile Their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 torments with a wanton smile; Let such redeem their peace, and salve the wrongs Of froward Fortune with their frolick songs: My grief, my grief's too great for smiling eyes To cure, or counter-〈◊〉〈◊〉 to 〈◊〉〈◊〉. The Ravens dismall croaks; the midnight bowls Of empty Wolues, mixt with the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 The nine sad knowls of a dull passing Bell, With the loud language of a nightly knell,

And horrid out-cries of revenged crimes, Joyn'd in a medley's musick for these times: These are no times to touch the merry string Of Orpheus; no, these are no times to sing. Can hide-bound Prisners, that have spent their souls And famish'd bodies in the noysome holes Of hell-black dungeons, apt their rougher throats, Grown hoarse with begging alms, to warble notes? Can the sad Pilgrime, that hath lost his way In the vast desart; there condemn'd a prey To the wild subject, or his savage King, Rouze up his palsey smitten spir'ts, and sing? Can I a Pilgrime, and a Prisner too, (Alas) where I am neither known, nor know Ought but my torments, an unransom'd stranger In this strange climate, in a land of danger? O, can my voyce be pleasant, or my hand, Thus made a Prisner to a forrein land? How can my musick relish in your cars, That cannot speak for sobs, nor sing for tears? Ah, if my voyce could, Orpheus-like, unspell My poore Eurydice, my soul from hell Of earths misconstru'd Heav'n, O then my breast Should warble airs, whose rhapsodies should feast The ears of Seraphims, and entertain Heav'ns highest Deity with their lofty strain, A strain well drencht in the true Thespian Well, Till then, earths Semiquaver, mirth, farewell.

S. AUGUST. Med. cap. 33.

O infinitely happy are those Heavenly virtues which are able 〈◊〉〈◊〉 praise thee in holinesse and puritie, with excessive sweetnesse 〈◊〉〈◊〉 able exultation! From thence they praise thee, from whence they rejoyce, because they continually see for what they rejoyce, for what they praise thee: But we prest down with this burden of flesh, far removed from thy countenance in this pilgrimage, and blown up with worldly vanities, cannot wor∣thily praise thee: We praise thee by faith; nor sace to face: but those Angelicall spirits praise thee face to face, and not by saith.

EPIO. 15.

Did I refuse to sing? said I these times Were not for songs? nor musick for these climes? It was my errour: are not grones and tears Harmonious raptures in th' Almighties ears?