Emblemes by Francis Quarles.

LUKE 6. 25.

Woe be to you that laugh now, for ye shall mourn and weep.

THe world's a popular disease, that reignes Within the froward heart and frantick brains Of poore distemper'd mortals, oft arising From ill digestion, through th' unequall poysing Of ill-weigh'd Elements, whose light directs Malignant humours to maligne effects. One raves, and labours with a •…•…oyling liver; Rends hair by handfuls, cursing Cupids quiver: Another with a bloudy-slux of oaths Vowes deep revenge: one dotes; the other loathes: One frisks and sings, and vies a slagon more To drench dry cares, and makes the welkin rore: Another droops; the sunshine makes him sad; Heav'n cannot please: One's mop'd; the tother's mad: One hugs his gold; another lets it slie: He knowing not for whom; nor tother why. One spends his day in plots, his night in play; Another sleeps and slugs both night and day: One laughs at this thing; tother cries for that: But neither one nor tother knowes for what. Wonder of wonders! What we ought t'evite As our disease, we hug as our delight: 'T is held a symptome of approching danger, When disacquainted Sense becomes a stranger,

And takes no knowledge of an old disease; But when a noysome grief begins to please The unresisting sense, it is a fear That death has parli'd, and compounded there: As when the dreadfull Thund'rers awfull hand Powres forth a v•…•…all on th'infected land, At first th' affrighted Mortalls quake and fear: And ev'ry noise is thought the Thunderer: But when the frequent soul-departing bell Has pav'd their ears with her familiar knell, It is reputed but a nine dayes wonder, They neither fear the Thund'rer nor his Thunder: So when the world (a worse disease) began To smart for sinne, poore new-created Man Could seek for shelter, and his gen'rous Sonne Knew by his wages what his hands had done; But bold-fac'd Mortalls in our blushlesse times Can sinne and smile, and make a sport of crim•…•…, Transgresse of custome, and rebell in ease; We false-joy'd fools can triumph in disease, And (as the carelesse Pilgrime, being bit By the Tarantula, begins a sit Of life concluding laughter) wast our breath In lavish pleasure, till we laugh to death.

HUGO de anima.

What profit is there in vain glory, momentany mirth, the worlds power, the •…•…leshes pleasure, •…•…ll riches, noble descent, and great desires? Where is their laughter? Where is their mir•…•…h? Where their insolence? their arrogance? From how much joy to how much sadnesse! Aster how much mirth, how much misery! From how great glory are they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to how great torments! What hath •…•…allen to them, may b•…•…fall thee, because thou art a man: Thou art of earth; thou live•…•…l of earth; thou shalt return to earth. Death expecteth thee every-where; be wise therefore, and expect death every-where.

EPIG. 8.

What ayls the fool to laugh? Does something please His vain conceit? Or is 't a mere disease? Fool, giggle on, and wast thy wanton breath; Thy morning laughter breeds an ev'ning death.