Emblemes by Fra: Quarles

X IOH. VIII.XLIV. Yee are of your father the devill, and the lusts of your Father yee will doe.

HEre's your right ground: Wagge gently ore this Black; Ti's a short cast; y'are quickly at the Iack: Rubbe, rubbe an Inch or two; Two Crownes to one On this Boules side; blow wind; T's fairely throwne; The next Boul's worse that comes; Come boule away; Mammon, you know the ground untutor'd, Play; Your last was gone; a yard of strength, well spar'd, Had touch'd the Block; your hand is still too hard. Brave pastime, Readers, to consume that day, Which, without pastime, flyes too swift away! See how they labour; as if day and night Were both too short, to serve their loose delight▪ See how their curved bodies wreath, and skrue Such antick shapes as Proteus never knew: One raps an oath: another deales a curse; Hee never better bould; this, never worse: One rubbes his itchlesse Elbow, shrugges, and laughs; The tother bends his beetle-browes, and chafes, Sometime they whoope; sometimes their Stigian cries Send their Black-Santos to the blushing Skies: Thus, mingling Humors in a mad confusion, They make bad Premises, and worse conclusion:

But wher's the Palme that Fortunes hand allowes To blesse the victors honourable Browes? Come, Reader come; Ile light thine eye the way To view the Prize, the While the Gamesters play; Close by the Iack, Behold Gill fortune stands To wave the game, see, in her partiall hands The glorious Garland's held in open show, To cheare the Ladds, and crowne the Conq'rers brow: The world's the Jack; The Gamsters that contend, Are Cupid, Mammon: That juditious Friend, That gives the ground, is Satan; and the Boules Are sinfull Thoughts: The Prize, a Crowne for Fooles. Who breathes that boules not? what bold tongue can say Without a blush, he hath not bould to day? It is the trade of man; and every Sinner Has plaid his Rubbers; Every Soule's a winner. The vulgar Proverb's crost: He hardly can Be a good Bouler and an honest man Good God, turne thou my Brazil thoughts a new; New soale my Boules, and make their Bras true: I'le cease to game, till fairer Ground be given, Nor wish to winne untill the Marke be heaven.

S. BERNARD lib. de Consid.

O you Sonnes of Adam, you covetous Generation, what have yee to do with earthly Riches, which are neither true, nor yours. Gold and silver are reall earth, red and white, which the onely error of man makes, or rather reputes pretious: Jn short, if they be yours carry them with you.

S. HIEROME. in Ep.

O Lust, thou infernall fire, whose Fuell is Gluttony; whose Flame is Pride; wose sparkles are wanton words; whose smoke is Infamie; whose Ashes are uncleanesse; whose end is Hell.

EPIG. 10.

Mammon, wel follow'd: Cupid brauely ledde•• oth Touchers; Equall Fortunes makes a dead•• No Reed can measure where the Conquest lies; Take my advise; Compound, and share the Prize;