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¶ On Vice.
WHen on a Journey, and am weary grown,
I finde an Inne within some Countty-town,
And have observ'd, numbers of Guests do come
First to the Chamberlain to shew a Room;
Perhaps one Chamber doth contain them all,
Yet on the Chamberlain doth each man call:
One to the Table bids him straight attend,
Another doth him to the Window send,
A third unto the Chimney must be led,
A fourth would be conducted to his bed,
A fifth man sends him down for Glass or Cup,
And e're he's down, another calls him up.
Thus he's distracted with a sudden moyl,
Scarce can please all, though tired with his toyl.
Such is the sad condition of my Soul;
In what a cloud of crosses it doth rowl!
By Nature I am born a wretched twin;
To sorrow servant, and a slave to fin.
Unto the Window I am call'd by Pride,
Gluttony next pretends to be my Guide.
By Laziness I'm to the Chimney led,
By Wantonness I'm finely brought to bed.
Ambition calls me up, but I am grown
So coverous, more profit calls me down.
Vices, I see, themselves do contradict;
'Tis only Vertue that doth Vice convict.
Free me, O Lord, from this distracted case:
Vertue it self is Vice, unless thou place
It in a centre, like it self to shine;
A servant unto sin cannot be thine:
For In thy service perfect freedom is:
Sin is a slavery, a dark abyss.
Satan deludes the Soul to acts obscure;
But The commandments of the Lord are pure.
Vice is at best but a diseased Whore
Splendidly painted, making fools adore.