Emblemes by Fra: Quarles

VIII. LVKE. VI.XXV. Woe be to you that laugh now, for yee shall mourne and weepe.

THe world's a popular disease, that raignes Within the froward heart, and frantick braines 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 boyling Liver; Rends haire by handfuls, cursing Cupids Quiver: Another with a Bloody-fluxe of oathes, Vowes deepe Revenge; one dotes: the other loathes: One frisks and sings, and vyes a Flagon more To drench dry cares; and makes the Welkin roare; Another droopes; the sunshine makes him sad; Heav'n cannot please; One's moap'd; the tother's mad; One huggs his Gold; Another let sit flie, 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 hugg as our delight:

Tis held a Symptome of approaching danger, When disacquainted Sense becomes a stranger, And takes no knowledge of an old disease; But when a noysome Griefe begins to please The unresisting sense, it is a feare That death has parlyed, and compounded there: As when the dreadfull Thund'rers awefull hand Powres forth a Viall on th'infected land, At first th'affrighted Mortals, quake, and faeare: And ev'ry noise is thought the Thunderer; But when the frequent Soule-departing Bell Has pav'd their eares with her familiar knell, It is reputed but a nine dayes wonder, They neither feare the Thundre'r, 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 Son Knew by his wages, what his hands had done; But bold-fac'd Mortals in our blushlesse times, Can sin and smile, and make a sport of Crimes, Transgresse of Custome, and rebell in ease; We false-joy'd fooles can triumph in disease, And (as the carelesse Pilgrim, being bit By the Tarantula, begins a Fit Of life-concluding laughter) wast our breath In lavish pleasure, till we laugh to death.

HUGO de anima.

What profit is there in vaine Glory••, momentary mirth, the worlds power, the fleshes pleasure, full riches, noble descent, and great desires? Where is their laughter? Where is their mirth? Where their Insolence? their Arrogance? From how much joy to how much sadnesse! After how much mirth, how much misery! From how great glory are they fallen, to how great torments! What hath fallen to them, may befal thee, because thou art a man: Thou art of earth; thou livest of earth; thou shalt returne to earth. Death expects thee every where; be wise therefore, and expect death every where.

EPIG. 8.

What ayles the foole to laugh? Does somthing please His vaine conceit? Or is 't a meere disease? Foole, giggle on, And wast thy wanton breath; Thy morning laughter breeds an ev'ning death.