The second Anniversarie

Nothing could make me sooner to confesseThat this world had an everlastingnesse,Then to consider, that a yeare is runne,Since both this lower world's, and the Sunnes Sunne,The Lustre, and the vigor of this All,Did set; 'twere blasphemie to say, did fall.But as a ship which hath strooke saile, doth runneBy force of that force which before, it wonne:Or as sometimes in a beheaded man,Though at those two Red seas, which freely ranne,One from the Trunke, another from the Head,His soule be sail'd, to her eternall bed,His eyes will twinckle, and his tongue will roll,As though he beckned, and cal'd backe his soule,He graspes his hands, and he pulls up his feet,And seemes to reach, and to step forth to meetHis soule; when all these motions which we saw,Are but as Ice, which crackles at a thaw:Or as a Lute, which in moist weather, ringsHer knell alone, by cracking of her strings:So struggles this dead world, now shee is gone;For there is motion in corruption.As some daies are at the Creation nam'd,Before the Sunne, the which fram'd daies, was fram'd,So after this Sunne's set, some shew appeares,And orderly vicissitude of yeares.Yet a new Deluge, and of Lethe flood,Hath drown'd us all, All have forgot all good,Forgetting her, the maine reserve of all.Yet in this deluge, grosse and generall,Thou seest me strive for life; my life shall bee,To be hereafter prais'd, for praysing thee;Immortall Maid, who though thou would'st refuseThe name of Mother, be unto my MuseA Father, since her chast Ambition is,Yearely to bring forth such a child as this.These Hymnes may worke on future wits, and soMay great Grand children of thy prayses grow.And so, though not revive, embalme and spiceThe world, which else would putrifie with vice.For thus, Man may extend thy progeny,Untill man doe but vanish, and not die.These Hymnes thy issue, may encrease so long,As till Gods great Venite change the song.Thirst for that time, O my insatiate soule,And serve thy thirst, with Gods safe-sealing Bowle.Be thirstie still, and drinke still till thou goeTo th'only Health, to be Hydroptique so.Forget this rotten world; And unto theeLet thine owne times as an old storie bee.Be not concern'd: studie not why, nor when;Doe not so much as not beleeve a man.For though to erre, be worst, to try truths forth,Is far more businesse, then this world is worth.The world is but a carkasse; thou art fedBy it, but as a worme, that carkasse bred;And why should'st thou, poore worme, consider more,When this world will grow better then before,Then those thy fellow wormes doe thinke uponThat carkasses last resurrection.Forget this world, and scarce thinke of it so,As of old clothes, cast off a yeare agoe.To be thus stupid is Alacritie;Men thus Lethargique have best Memory.Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy stateWe now lament not, but congratulate.Shee, to whom all this world was but a stage,Where all sat harkning how her youthfull ageShould be emploi'd, because in all shee did,Some Figure of the Golden times was hid.Who could not lacke, what e'r this world could give,Because shee was the forme, that made it live;Nor could complaine, that this world was unfitTo be staid in, then when shee was in it;Shee that first tried indifferent desiresBy vertue, and vertue by religious fires,Shee to whose person Paradise adher'd,As Courts to Princes, shee whose eyes ensphear'dStar-light enough, t'have made the South controule,(Had shee beene there) the Star-full Northerne Pole,Shee, shee is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,What fragmentary rubbidge this world isThou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;He honors it too much that thinkes it nought.Thinke then, my soule, that death is but a Groome,Which brings a Taper to the outward roome,Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,And after brings it nearer to thy sight:For such approaches doth heaven make in death.Thinke thy selfe labouring now with broken breath,And thinke those broken and soft Notes to beeDivision, and thy happyest Harmonie.Thinke thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slacke;And thinke that, but unbinding of a packe,To take one precious thing, thy soule from thence.Thinke thy selfe parch'd with fevers violence,Anger thine ague more, by calling itThy Physicke; chide the slacknesse of the fit.Thinke that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more,But that, as Bels cal'd thee to Church before,So this, to the Triumphant Church, calls thee.Thinke Satans Sergeants round about thee bee,And thinke that but for Legacies they thrust;Give one thy Pride, to'another give thy Lust:Give them those sinnes which they gave thee before,And trust th'immaculate blood to wash thy score.Thinke thy friends weeping round, and thinke that theyWeepe but because they goe not yet thy way.Thinke that they close thine eyes, and thinke in this,That they confesse much in the world, amisse,Who dare not trust a dead mans eye with that,Which they from God, and Angels cover not.Thinke that they shroud thee up, and think from thenceThey reinvest thee in white innocence.Thinke that thy body rots, and (if so low,Thy soule exalted so, thy thoughts can goe,)Think thee a Prince, who of themselves createWormes which insensibly devoure their State.Thinke that they bury thee, and thinke that rightLaies thee to sleepe but a Saint Lucies night.Thinke these things cheerefully: and if thou beeDrowsie or slacke, remember then that shee,Shee whose Complexion was so even made,That which of her Ingredients should invadeThe other three, no Feare, no Art could guesse:So far were all remov'd from more or lesse.But as in Mithridate, or just perfumes,Where all good things being met, no one presumesTo governe, or to triumph on the rest,Only because all were, no part was best.And as, though all doe know, that quantitiesAre made of lines, and lines from Points arise,None can these lines or quantities unjoynt,And say this is a line, or this a point,So though the Elements and Humors wereIn her, one could not say, this governes there.Whose even constitution might have wonneAny disease to venter on the Sunne,Rather then her: and make a spirit feare,That hee to disuniting subject were.To whose proportions if we would compareCubes, th'are unstable; Circles, Angular;She who was such a chaine as Fate employesTo bring mankinde all Fortunes it enjoyes;So fast, so even wrought, as one would thinke,No Accident could threaten any linke;Shee, shee embrac'd a sicknesse, gave it meat,The purest blood, and breath, that e'r it eate;And hath taught us, that though a good man hathTitle to heaven, and plead it by his Faith,And though he may pretend a conquest, sinceHeaven was content to suffer violence,Yea though hee plead a long possession too,(For they're in heaven on earth who heavens workes do)Though hee had right and power and place, before,Yet Death must usher, and unlocke the doore.Thinke further on thy selfe, my Soule, and thinkeHow thou at first wast made but in a sinke;Thinke that it argued some infirmitie,That those two soules, which then thou foundst in me,Thou fedst upon, and drewst into thee, bothMy second soule of sense, and first of growth.Thinke but how poore thou wast, how obnoxious;Whom a small lumpe of flesh could poyson thus.This curded milke, this poore unlittered whelpeMy body, could, beyond escape or helpe,Infect thee with Originall sinne, and thouCouldst neither then refuse, nor leave it now.Thinke that no stubborne sullen Anchorit,Which fixt to a pillar, or a grave, doth sitBedded, and bath'd in all his ordures, dwelsSo fowly as our Soules in their first-built Cels.Thinke in how poore a prison thou didst lieAfter, enabled but to suck, and crie.Thinke, when'twas growne to most,'twas a poore Inne,A Province pack'd up in two yards of skinne,And that usurp'd or threatned with the rageOf sicknesses, or their true mother, Age.But thinke that Death hath now enfranchis'd thee,Thou hast thy'expansion now, and libertie;Thinke that a rustie Peece, discharg'd, is flowneIn peeces, and the bullet is his owne,And freely flies: This to thy Soule allow,Thinke thy shell broke, thinke thy Soule hatch'd but now.And think this slow-pac'd soule, which late did cleaveTo'a body, and went but by the bodies leave,Twenty, perchance, or thirty mile a day,Dispatches in a minute all the wayTwixt heaven, and earth; she stayes not in the ayre,To looke what Meteors there themselves prepare;She carries no desire to know, nor sense,Whether th'ayres middle region be intense;For th'Element of fire, she doth not know,Whether she past by such a place or no;She baits not at the Moone, nor cares to trieWhether in that new world, men live, and die.Venus retards her not, to'enquire, how sheeCan, (being one starre) Hesper, and Vesper bee;Hee that charm'd Argus eyes, sweet Mercury,Workes not on her, who now is growne all eye;Who, if she meet the body of the Sunne,Goes through, not staying till his course be runne;Who findes in Mars his Campe no corps of Guard;Nor is by Iove, nor by his father barr'd;But ere she can consider how she went,At once is at, and through the Firmament.And as these starres were but so many beadsStrung on one string, speed undistinguish'd leadsHer through those Spheares, as through the beads, a string,Whose quick succession makes it still one thing:As doth the pith, which, lest our bodies slacke,Strings fast the little bones of necke, and backe;So by the Soule doth death string Heaven and Earth;For when our Soule enjoyes this her third birth,(Creation gave her one, a second, grace,)Heaven is as neare, and present to her face,As colours are, and objects, in a roomeWhere darknesse was before, when Tapers come.This must, my Soule, thy long-short Progresse bee;To'advance these thoughts, remember then, that she,She; whose faire body no such prison was,But that a Soule might well be pleas'd to passeAn age in her; she whose rich beauty lentMintage to other beauties, for they wentBut for so much as they were like to her;Shee, in whose body (if we dare preferreThis low world, to so high a marke as shee,)The Westerne treasure, Easterne spicerie,Europe, and Afrique, and the unknowne restWere easily found, or what in them was best;And when w'have made this large discoverieOf all, in her some one part then will beeTwenty such parts, whose plenty and riches isEnough to make twenty such worlds as this;Shee, whom had they knowne who did first betrothThe Tutelar Angels, and assign'd one, bothTo Nations, Cities, and to Companies,To Functions, Offices, and Dignities,And to each severall man, to him, and him,They would have given her one for every limbe;She, of whose soule, if wee may say, 'twas Gold,Her body was th'Electrum, and did holdMany degrees of that; wee understoodHer by her sight; her pure, and eloquent bloodSpoke in her cheekes, and so distinctly wrought,That one might almost say, her body thought;Shee, shee, thus richly and largely hous'd, is gone:And chides us slow-pac'd snailes who crawle uponOur prisons prison, earth, nor thinke us well,Longer, then whil'st wee beare our brittle shell.But 'twere but little to have chang'd our roome,If, as we were in this our living TombeOppress'd with ignorance, wee still were so.Poore soule, in this thy flesh what dost thou know?Thou know'st thy selfe so little, as thou know'st not,How thou didst die, nor how thou wast begot.Thou neither know'st, how thou at first cam'st in,Nor how thou took'st the poyson of mans sinne.Nor dost thou, (though thou know'st, that thou art so)By what way thou art made immortall, know.Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehendEven thy selfe: yea though thou wouldst but bendTo know thy body. Have not all soules thoughtFor many ages, that our body'is wroughtOf Ayre, and Fire, and other Elements?And now they thinke of new ingredients,And one Soule thinkes one, and another wayAnother thinkes, and 'tis an even lay.Knowst thou but how the stone doth enter inThe bladders cave, and never breake the skinne?Know'st thou how blood, which to the heart doth flow,Doth from one ventricle to th'other goe?And for the putrid stuffe, which thou dost spit,Know'st thou how thy lungs have attracted it?There are no passages, so that there is(For ought thou know'st) piercing of substances.And of those many opinions which men raiseOf Nailes and Haires, dost thou know which to praise?What hope have wee to know our selves, when weeKnow not the least things, which for our use be?Wee see in Authors, too stiffe to recant,A hundred controversies of an Ant;And yet one watches, starves, freeses, and sweats,To know but Catechismes and AlphabetsOf unconcerning things, matters of fact;How others on our stage their parts did Act;What Cæsar did, yea, and what Cicero said.Why grasse is greene, or why our blood is red,Are mysteries which none have reach'd unto.In this low forme, poore soule, what wilt thou doe?When wilt thou shake off this Pedantery,Of being taught by sense, and Fantasie?Thou look'st through spectacles; small things seeme greatBelow; But up unto the watch-towre get,And see all things despoyl'd of fallacies:Thou shalt not peepe through lattices of eyes,Nor heare through Labyrinths of eares, nor learneBy circuit, or collections to discerne.In heaven thou straight know'st all, concerning it,And what concernes it not, shalt straight forget.There thou (but in no other schoole) maist beePerchance, as learned, and as full, as shee,Shee who all libraries had throughly readAt home in her owne thoughts, and practisedSo much good as would make as many more:Shee whose example they must all implore,Who would or doe, or thinke well, and confesseThat all the vertuous Actions they expresse,Are but a new, and worse editionOf her some one thought, or one action:She who in th'art of knowing Heaven, was growneHere upon earth, to such perfection,That she hath, ever since to Heaven she came,(In a far fairer print,) but read the same:Shee, shee not satisfied with all this waight,(For so much knowledge, as would over-fraightAnother, did but ballast her) is goneAs well t'enjoy, as get perfection.And cals us after her, in that shee tooke,(Taking her selfe) our best, and worthiest booke.Returne not, my Soule, from this extasie,And meditation of what thou shalt bee,To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appeare,With whom thy conversation must be there.With whom wilt thou converse? what stationCanst thou choose out, free from infection,That will not give thee theirs, nor drinke in thine?Shalt thou not finde a spungie slacke DivineDrinke and sucke in th'instructions of Great men,And for the word of God, vent them agen?Are there not some Courts (and then, no things beeSo like as Courts) which, in this let us see,That wits and tongues of Libellers are weake,Because they do more ill, then these can speake?The poyson's gone through all, poysons affectChiefly the chiefest parts, but some effectIn nailes, and haires, yea excrements, will show;So lyes the poyson of sinne in the most low.Up, up, my drowsie Soule, where thy new eareShall in the Angels songs no discord heare;Where thou shalt see the blessed Mother-maidJoy in not being that, which men have said.Where she is exalted more for being good,Then for her interest of Mother-hood.Up to those Patriarchs, which did longer sitExpecting Christ, then they'have enjoy'd him yet.Up to those Prophets, which now gladly seeTheir Prophesies growne to be Historie.Up to th'Apostles, who did bravely runneAll the Suns course, with more light then the Sunne.Up to those Martyrs, who did calmly bleedOyle to th'Apostles Lamps, dew to their seed.Up to those Virgins, who thought, that almostThey made joyntenants with the Holy Ghost,If they to any should his Temple give.Up, up, for in that squadron there doth liveShe, who hath carried thither new degrees(As to their number) to their dignities.Shee, who being to her selfe a State, injoy'dAll royalties which any State employ'd;For shee made warres, and triumph'd; reason stillDid not o'rthrow, but rectifie her will:And she made peace, for no peace is like this,That beauty, and chastity together kisse:She did high justice, for she crucifiedEvery first motion of rebellious pride:And she gave pardons, and was liberall,For, onely her selfe except, she pardon'd all:Shee coy'nd, in this, that her impressions gaveTo all our actions all the worth they have:She gave protections; the thoughts of her brestSatans rude Officers could ne'r arrest.As these prerogatives being met in one,Made her a soveraigne State; religionMade her a Church; and these two made her all.She who was all this All, and could not fallTo worse, by company, (for she was stillMore Antidote, then all the world was ill,)Shee, shee doth leave it, and by Death, surviveAll this, in Heaven; whither who doth not striveThe more, because shees there, he doth not knowThat accidentall joyes in Heaven doe grow.But pause, my soule; And study, ere thou fallOn accidentall joyes, th'essentiall.Still before Accessories doe abideA triall, must the principall be tride.And what essentiall joy can'st thou expectHere upon earth? what permanent effectOf transitory causes? Dost thou loveBeauty? (And beauty worthy'st is to move)Poore cousened cousenor, that she, and that thou,Which did begin to love, are neither now;You are both fluid, chang'd since yesterday;Next day repaires, (but ill) last dayes decay.Nor are, (although the river keepe the name)Yesterdaies waters, and to daies the same.So flowes her face, and thine eyes, neither nowThat Saint, nor Pilgrime, which your loving vowConcern'd, remaines; but whil'st you thinke you beeConstant, you'are hourely in inconstancie.Honour may have pretence unto our love,Because that God did live so long aboveWithout this Honour, and then lov'd it so,That he at last made Creatures to bestowHonour on him; not that he needed it,But that, to his hands, man might grow more fit.But since all Honours from inferiours flow,(For they doe give it; Princes doe but shewWhom they would have so honor'd) and that thisOn such opinions, and capacitiesIs built, as rise and fall, to more and lesse:Alas, 'tis but a casuall happinesse.Hath ever any man to'himselfe assign'dThis or that happinesse to'arrest his minde,But that another man which takes a worse,Thinks him a foole for having tane that course?They who did labour Babels tower to'erect,Might have considered, that for that effect,All this whole solid Earth could not allowNor furnish forth materialls enow;And that this Center, to raise such a place,Was farre too little, to have beene the Base;No more affords this world, foundationTo erect true joy, were all the meanes in one.But as the Heathen made them severall gods,Of all Gods Benefits, and all his Rods,(For as the Wine, and Corne, and Onions areGods unto them, so Agues bee, and Warre)And as by changing that whole precious GoldTo such small Copper coynes, they lost the old,And lost their only God, who ever mustBe sought alone, and not in such a thrust:So much mankinde true happinesse mistakes;No Joy enjoyes that man, that many makes.Then, Soule, to thy first pitch worke up againe;Know that all lines which circles doe containe,For once that they the Center touch, doe touchTwice the circumference; and be thou such;Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth emploid;All will not serve; Only who have enjoy'dThe sight of God, in fulnesse, can thinke it;For it is both the object, and the wit.This is essentiall joy, where neither heeCan suffer diminution, nor wee;'Tis such a full, and such a filling good;Had th'Angels once look'd on him, they had stood.To fill the place of one of them, or more,Shee whom wee celebrate, is gone before.She, who had Here so much essentiall joy,As no chance could distract, much lesse destroy;Who with Gods presence was acquainted so,(Hearing, and speaking to him) as to knowHis face in any naturall Stone, or Tree,Better then when in Images they bee:Who kept by diligent devotion,Gods Image, in such reparation,Within her heart, that what decay was growne,Was her first Parents fault, and not her owne:Who being solicited to any act,Still heard God pleading his safe precontract;Who by a faithfull confidence, was hereBetroth'd to God, and now is married there;Whose twilights were more cleare, then our mid-day;Who dreamt devoutlier, then most use to pray;Who being here fil'd with grace, yet strove to bee,Both where more grace, and more capacitieAt once is given: she to Heaven is gone,Who made this world in some proportionA heaven, and here, became unto us all,Joy, (as our joyes admit) essentiall.But could this low world joyes essentiall touch,Heavens accidentall joyes would passe them much.How poore and lame, must then our casuall bee?If thy Prince will his subjects to call theeMy Lord, and this doe swell thee, thou art than,By being greater, growne to bee lesse Man.When no Physitian of redresse can speake,A joyfull casuall violence may breakeA dangerous Apostem in thy breast;And whil'st thou joyest in this, the dangerous rest,The bag may rise up, and so strangle thee.What e'r was casuall, may ever bee.What should the nature change? Or make the sameCertaine, which was but casuall, when it came?All casuall joy doth loud and plainly say,Only by comming, that it can away.Only in Heaven joyes strength is never spent;And accidentall things are permanent.Joy of a soules arrivall ne'r decaies;For that soule ever joyes and ever staies.Joy that their last great ConsummationApproaches in the resurrection;When earthly bodies more celestiallShall be, then Angels were, for they could fall;This kinde of joy doth every day admitDegrees of growth, but none of losing it.In this fresh joy, 'tis no small part, that shee,Shee, in whose goodnesse, he that names degree,Doth injure her; ('Tis losse to be cal'd best,There where the stuffe is not such as the rest)Shee, who left such a bodie, as even sheeOnly in Heaven could learne, how it can beeMade better; for shee rather was two soules,Or like to full on both sides written Rols,Where eyes might reade upon the outward skin,As strong Records for God, as mindes within;Shee, who by making full perfection grow,Peeces a Circle, and still keepes it so,Long'd for, and longing for it, to heaven is gone,Where shee receives, and gives addition.Here in a place, where mis-devotion framesA thousand Prayers to Saints, whose very namesThe ancient Church knew not, Heaven knows not yet:And where, what lawes of Poetry admit,Lawes of Religion have at least the same,Immortall Maide, I might invoke thy name.Could any Saint provoke that appetite,Thou here should'st make me a French convertite.But thou would'st not; nor would'st thou be content,To take this, for my second yeares true Rent,Did this Coine beare any other stampe, then his,That gave thee power to doe, me, to say this.Since his will is, that to posteritie,Thou should'st for life, and death, a patterne bee,And that the world should notice have of this,The purpose, and th'authoritie is his;Thou art the Proclamation; and I amThe Trumpet, at whose voyce the people came.