Emblemes by Francis Quarles.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 120. 5.

Wo is to me, that I remain in Meshech, and dwell in the tents of Kedar!

IS Natures course dissolv'd? doth Times glasse stand? Or hath some frolick heart set back the hand Of Fates perpetuall Clock? will't never strike? Is crazy Time grown lazy, faint or sick With very Age? or hath that great Pairroyall Of Adamantine sisters late made triall Of some new trade? shall mortall hearts grow old In sorrow? snail my weary arms infold And underprop my panting sides for ever? Is there no charitable hand will sever My well-spun thred, that my imprison'd soul May be deliver'd from this dull dark hole Of dungeon flesh? O shall I, shall I never Be ransom'd, but remain a slave for ever? It is the lot of man but once to die, But ere that death how many deaths have I? What humane madnesse makes the world affraid To entertein Heav'ns joy, because convey'd By th' hand of death? will nakednesse refuse Rich change of robes, because the man's not spruse That brought them? or will povertie send back Full bags of gold, because the bringer's black? Life is a bubble, blown with whining breaths, Fill'd with the torments of a thousand deaths;

Which, being prickt by death (while death deprives One life) presents the soul a thousand lives: O frantick mortall, how hath earth bewitch'd Thy Bedlam soul, which hath so fondly pitch'd Upon her false delights! Delights that cease Before enjoyment finds a time to please: Her fickle joyes breed doubtfull fears; her fears Bring hopefull griefs; her griefs weep fearfull tears; Tears coyn deceitfull hopes; hopes, carefull doubt, And surly passion justles passion out: To day we pamper with a full repast Of lavish mirth; at night we weep as fast: To night we swim in wealth, and lend; to morrow, We sink in want, and find no friend to borrow. In what a climate doth my soul reside! Where pale-fac'd murder, the first-born of pride, Sets up her kingdome in the very smiles, And plighted faiths of men-like Crocodiles; A land, where each embroyd'red sattin word Is lin'd with fraud; where Mars his law lesse sword Exiles 〈◊〉〈◊〉 balance; where that hand Now slayes his brother, that new-sow'd his land: O that my dayes of bondage would expire In this lewd soyl! Lord, how my soul's on fire To be dissolv'd, that I might once obtain These long'd for joyes, long'd for so oft in vain! If Moses-like I may not live possest Of this fair land; Lord, let me see't at least.

S. AUGUST. 〈◊〉〈◊〉. cap. 12.

My life is a frail life; a corruptible life; a life, which the more it increaseth, the more it decreaseth: The farther it goeth, the nearer it cometh to death. A deceitfull life, and like a shadow, full of the snares of death: Now I rejoyce, now I lan∣guish, now I flourish, now infirm, now I live, and straight I die; now I seem happy, alwayes miserable; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I laugh, now I weep: Thus all things are subject to mutabilitie, that no∣thing continueth an 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in one state: O joy above joy, ex∣ceeding all joy, without which there is no joy, when shall I enter into thee, that I may see my God that dwelleth in thee?

EPIG. 7.

Art thou so weak? O canst thou not digest An houre of travel for a night of rest? Chear up, my soul; call home thy spirits, and bear One bad good-friday; full-mouth'd Easter's near.