Satyre III

Kinde pitty chokes my spleene; brave scorn forbidsThose teares to issue which swell my eye-lids;I must not laugh, nor weepe sinnes, and be wise,Can railing then cure these worne maladies?Is not our Mistresse faire Religion,As worthy of all our Soules devotion,As vertue was to the first blinded age?Are not heavens joyes as valiant to asswageLusts, as earths honour was to them? Alas,As wee do them in meanes, shall they surpasseUs in the end, and shall thy fathers spiritMeete blinde Philosophers in heaven, whose meritOf strict life may be imputed faith, and heareThee, whom hee taught so easie wayes and neareTo follow, damn'd? O if thou dar'st, feare this;This feare great courage, and high valour is.Dar'st thou ayd mutinous Dutch, and dar'st thou layThee in ships woodden Sepulchers, a preyTo leaders rage, to stormes, to shot, to dearth?Dar'st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?Hast thou couragious fire to thaw the iceOf frozen North discoueries? and thriseColder then Salamanders, like divineChildren in th'oven, fires of Spaine, and the line,Whose countries limbecks to our bodies bee,Canst thou for gaine beare? and must every heeWhich cryes not, Goddesse, to thy Mistresse, draw,Or eate thy poysonous words? courage of straw!O desperate coward, wilt thou seeme bold, andTo thy foes and his (who made thee to standSentinell in his worlds garrison) thus yeeld,And for forbidden warres, leave th'appointed field?Know thy foes: The foule Devill (whom thouStrivest to please,) for hate, not love, would allowThee faine, his whole Realme to be quit; and asThe worlds all parts wither away and passe,So the worlds selfe, thy other lov'd foe, isIn her decrepit wayne, and thou loving this,Dost love a withered and worne strumpet; last,Flesh (it selfes death) and joyes which flesh can taste,Thou loveft; and thy faire goodly soule, which dothGive this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loath.Seeke true religion. O where? MirreusThinking her unhous'd here, and fled from us,Seekes her at Rome; there, because hee doth knowThat shee was there a thousand yeares agoe,He loves her ragges so, as wee here obeyThe statecloth where the Prince sate yesterday.Crantz to such brave Loves will not be inthrall'd,But loves her onely, who at Geneva is call'dReligion, plaine, simple, sullen, yong,Contemptuous, yet unhansome; As amongLecherous humors, there is one that judgesNo wenches wholsome, but course country drudges.Graius stayes still at home here, and becauseSome Preachers, vile ambitious bauds, and lawesStill new like fashions, bid him thinke that sheeWhich dwels with us, is onely perfect, heeImbraceth her, whom his Godfathers willTender to him, being tender, as Wards stillTake such wives as their Guardians offer, orPay valewes. Carelesse Phrygius doth abhorreAll, because all cannot be good, as oneKnowing some women whores, dares marry none.Graccus loves all as one, and thinkes that soAs women do in divers countries goeIn divers habits, yet are still one kinde,So doth, so is Religion; and this blind-nesse too much light breeds; but unmoved thouOf force must one, and forc'd but one allow;And the right; aske thy father which is shee,Let him aske his; though truth and falshood beeNeare twins, yet truth a little elder is;Be busie to seeke her, beleeve mee this,Hee's not of none, nor worst, that seekes the best.To adore, or scorne an image, or protest,May all be bad; doubt wisely; in strange wayTo stand inquiring right, is not to stray;To sleepe, or runne wrong, is. On a huge hill,Cragged, and steep, Truth stands, and hee that willReach her, about must, and about must goe;And what the hills suddennes resists, winne so;Yet strive so, that before age, deaths twilight,Thy Soule rest, for none can worke in that night.To will, implyes delay, therefore now doe:Hard deeds, the bodies paines; hard knowledge tooThe mindes indeavours reach, and mysteriesAre like the Sunne, dazling, yet plaine to all eyes.Keepe the truth which thou hast found; men do not standIn so ill case here, that God hath with his handSign'd Kings blanck-charters to kill whom they hate,Nor are they Vicars, but hangmen to Fate.Foole and wretch, wilt thou let thy Soule be tyedTo mans lawes, by which she shall not be tryedAt the last day? Oh, will it then boot theeTo say a Philip, or a Gregory,A Harry, or a Martin taught thee this?Is not this excuse for mere contraries,Equally strong? cannot both sides say so?That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know;Those past, her nature, and name is chang'd; to beThen humble to her is idolatrie.As streames are, Power is; those blest flowers that dwellAt the rough streames calme head, thrive and do well,But having left their roots, and themselves givenTo the streames tyrannous rage, alas, are drivenThrough mills, and rockes, and woods, and at last, almostConsum'd in going, in the sea are lost:So perish Soules, which more chuse mens unjustPower from God claym'd, then God himselfe to trust.

Know thy foes; the foule Devell whom thouStrivest to please &c.

P, W:

Know thy foe, the soule devill h'is, whom thouStrivest to please: for hate, not love, would allow