O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivions curtains over kings,
Their fumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names without a Record are forgot,
Their parts, their ports, their pomp's all laid in th' duft
Nor wit nor gold, nor buildings fcape times ruft;
But he whose name is grav'd in the white stone*
Shall last and fhine when all of these are gone.
The Flesh and the Spirit.
N fecret place where once I ftood
Clofe by the Banks of Lacrim flood
I heard two fifters reafon on
Things that are paft, and things to come;
One flesh was call'd, who had her eye
On worldly wealth and vanity;
The other Spirit, who did rear
Her thoughts unto a higher sphere:
Sifter, quoth Flesh, what liv'st thou on
Nothing but Meditation?
This poem seems to be an expansion of the idea of Saint Paul, of the strife between the Flesh and the Spirit, or the law of the members and the law of the mind.
Doth Contemplation feed thee fo
Regardlefly to let earth goe?
Can Speculation fatiffy
Notion without Reality?
Doft dream of things beyond the Moon
And doft thou hope to dwell there foon?
Haft treasures there laid up in store
That all in th' world thou count'ft but poor?
Art fancy fick, or turn'd a Sot
To catch at shadowes which are not?
Come, come, Ile fhew unto thy fence,
Industry hath its recompence.
What canft defire, but thou maist see
True fubftance in variety?
Doft honour like? acquire the fame,
As fome to their immortal fame:
And trophyes to thy name erect
Which wearing time fhall ne're deject.
For riches doft thou long full fore?
Behold enough of precious ftore.
Earth hath more filver, pearls and gold,
Then eyes can fee, or hands can hold.
Affect's thou pleasure? take thy fill,
Earth hath enough of what you will.
Then let not goe, what thou maift find,
For things unknown, only in mind.
Spir. Be ftill thou unregenerate part,
Disturb no more my fetled heart,
For I have vow'd, (and fo will doe)
Thee as a foe, ftill to purfue.
And combate with thee will and muft,
Untill I fee thee laid in th' duft.
Sifters we are, ye twins we be,
Yet deadly feud 'twixt thee and me;
For from one father are we not,
Thou by old Adam wast begot,
But my arife is from above,
Whence my dear father I do love.
Thou speak ft me fair, but hat st me fore,
Thy flatt'ring fhews Ile truft no more.
How oft thy flave, haft thou me made,
when I believ'd, what thou haft faid,
And never had more caufe of woe
Then when I did what thou bad'ft doe.
Ile stop mine ears at these thy charms,
And count them for my deadly harms.
Thy finfull pleasures I doe hate,
Thy riches are to me no bait,
Thine honours doe, nor will I love;
For my ambition lyes above.
My greatest honour it shall be
When I am victor over thee,
And triumph fhall, with laurel head,
When thou my Captive fhalt be led,
How I do live, thou need'ft not fcoff,
For I have meat thou know'ft not off;
The hidden Manna I doe eat,
The word of life it is my meat.
My thoughts do yield me more content
Then can thy hours in pleasure spent.
Nor are they shadows which I catch,
Nor fancies vain at which I fnatch,
But reach at things that are fo high,
Beyond thy dull Capacity;
Eternal fubftance I do fee,
With which inriched I would be:
Mine Eye doth pierce the heavens, and fee
What is Invifible to thee.
My garments are not filk nor gold,
Nor fuch like trafh which Earth doth hold,
But Royal Robes I fhall have on,
More glorious then the gliftring Sun;
My Crown not Diamonds, Pearls, and gold,
But fuch as Angels heads infold.
The City* where I hope to dwell,
There's none on Earth can parallel;
The ftately Walls both high and strong,
Are made of pretious Jafper ftone;
The Gates of Pearl, both rich and clear,
And Angels are for Porters there;
The Streets thereof transparent gold,
Such as no Eye did e're behold,
A Chrystal River there doth run,
Which doth proceed from the Lambs Throne:
Rev. xxi. 10-27; and xxii. 1-5.
Of Life, there are the waters fure,
Which shall remain for ever pure,
Nor Sun, nor Moon, they have no need,
For glory doth from God proceed:
No Candle there, nor yet Torch light,
For there shall be no darkfome night.
From fickness and infirmity,
For evermore they fhall be free,
Nor withering age fhall e're come there,
But beauty fhall be bright and clear;
This City pure is not for thee,
For things unclean there fhall not be:
If I of Heaven may have my fill,
Take thou the world, and all that will.
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