Of 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 great Below; 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 learne
By 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 bee
Perchance, as learned, and as full, as shee,
Shee who all libraries had throughly read
At home in her owne thoughts, and practised
So much good as would make as many more:
Shee whose example they must all implore,
Who would or doe, or thinke well, and confesse
That all the vertuous Actions they expresse,
Are but a new, and worse edition
Of her some one thought, or one action:
She who in th'art of knowing Heaven, was growne
Here 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-fraight Another, did but ballast her) is gone
As well t'enjoy, as get perfection.
And cals us after her, in that shee tooke,
Of our company in this life and in the next.
(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 station
Canst thou chose out, free from infection,
That will not give thee theirs, nor drinke in thine?
Shalt thou not finde a spungie slacke Divine,
Drinke 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 bee
So 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 affect
Chiefly the chiefest parts, but some, effect
In 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 eare
Shall in the Angels songs no discord heare;
Where thou shalt see the blessed Mother-maid
Joy 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 sit
Expecting Christ, then they'have enjoy'd him yet.
Up to those Prophets, which now gladly see
Their Prophesies growne to be Historie.
Up to th' Apostles, who did bravely runne
All the Suns course, with more light then the sunne.
Up to those Martyrs, who did calmly bleed
Oyle to th' Apostles Lamps, dew to their seed.
Up to those Virgins, who thought, that almost
They made joyntenants with the Holy Ghost,
If they to any should his Temple give.
Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live
She, who hath carried thither new degrees
(As to their number) to their dignities.
Shee, who being to her selfe a State, injoy'd
All royalties which any State employ'd;
For shee made warres, and triumph'd; reason still
Did not o'erthrow, but rectifie her will:
And she made peace, for no peace is like this,
That beauty, and chastitie together kisse :
She did high justice, for she crucified
Every first motion of rebellious pride:
And she gave pardons, and was liberall,
For, onely her selfe except, she pardon'd all:
She coy'nd in this, that her impression gave
To all our actions all the worth they have:
She gave protections; the thoughts of her brest
Satans rude Officers could ne'er arrest.
As these prerogatives being met in one,
Made her a sovereigne State, religion
Made her a Church; and these two made her all.
She who was all this All, and could not fall
To worse by company, (for she was still
More Antidote, then all the world was ill,)
Shee, shee doth leave it, and by Death, survive
All this, in Heaven; whither who doth not strive
The more, because shees there, he doth not know
That accidentall joyes in Heaven doe grow.
But pause, my soule; And study ere thou fall of essentiall
On accidentall joyes, th'essentiall.
Still before Accessories doe abide
A triall, must the principall be tride.
And what essentiall joy can'st thou expect
Here upon earth? what permanent effect
Of transitory causes ? Dost thou love
Beauty (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 now
That Saint nor Pilgrime, which your loving vow
Concern'd, remaines; but whil'st you thinke you bee
Constant, you'are hourely in inconstancie.
Honour may have pretence unto our love,
Because that God did live so long above
Without this Honour, and then lov'd it so,
That he at last made creatures to bestow
Honour 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 shew
Whom they would have so honor'd) and that this
On such opinions, and capacities
Is built, as rise and fall, to more and lesse:
Alas, 'tis but a casuall happinesse.
Hath ever any man to'himselfe assign'd
This or that happinesse to'arrest his minde,
But that another man which takes a worse,
Thinks him a foole for having ta'en that course?
They who did labour Babels tower to'erect,
Might have considered, that for that effect
All this whole solid Earth could not allow
Nor furnish forth materialls enough;
And that his Center, to raise such a place,
Was farre too little to have beene the Base;
No more affords this world foundation
To 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 are
Gods unto them, so Agues bee, and warre)
And as by changing that whole precious Gold
To such small Copper coyns, they lost the old,
And lost their only God, who ever must
Be 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 touch
Twice the circumference; and be thou such;
Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth emploid.
All will not serve; Only who have enjoy'd
The sight of God, in fulnesse can thinke it
For it is both the object, and the wit.
This is essentiall joy, where neither hee
Can 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 know
His 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 here
Betroth'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 capacitie
At once is given: she to Heaven is gone,
Who made this world in some proportion
A 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 thee
My Lord, and this doe swell thee, thou art than,
By being greater, growne to be lesse Man.
When no Physitian of redresse can speake,
A joyfull casuall violence may breake
A 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'er was casuall may ever bee.
470 Of accidentall joyes in both places.
What should the nature change? Or make the same Certaine, 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 decayes;
For that soule ever joyes and ever stayes.
Joy that their last great Consummation
Approaches in the resurrection;
When earthly bodies more celestiall
Shall be, then Angels were, for they could fall;
This kinde of joy doth every day admit
Degrees 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 shee
Only in Heaven could learne, how it can bee
Made 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 frames
A thousand Prayers to Saints, whose very names
The 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 am
The Trumpet, at whose voyce the people came.
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