THE VANITIE OF THE VVORLD
Crispulus hic, nulli Nugarum Laude secundus,
Cui Mens Lucis inops, Stulta Ruina Dom?s; Qui Cereri, Bromioque litat, Luxuque liquescit;
Huic ne putrescat, pro Sale Vita datur.
Volupto, crown’d with Blisse of Fools, is bent
To Wine, Feasts, Gauds, loose Merriment;
Runs on in Lusts Career, till Grace stops–with Repent.
O headlesse, heady Age! O giddy Toyes!
As humble Cots yield quiet Joyes;
So prouder Palaces are Drums of restlesse Noise.
‘Twas in the blooming Verdure of the Yeer,
When through the Twins Sol’s Course did steer,
That a spruce Gallant did, on Summons, strait appear.
Glitt’ring in Brav’ry, like the Knight o’th’ Sun;
Whose Nags in Hide–park Races run
This Ev’n. ‘Tis sure Volupto, old Avaros Son.
Hot showes the Day, by th’ Dust upon his Head,
And all his Clothes so loosely spread,
He’s so untrust, as if it were not long to Bed:
His Hands keep Time to th’ Tune of’s Feet, his Pace
Is danced Measures, and ’tis Grace
Enough, ore’s Shoulder to afford a quarter–face.
Act, ‘bove French Monkies, Antimasks he might
Before the Apes (Spectators right)
Such Dops, Shrugs, Puppet–playes shew best by Candle–light.
How mimick hum’rous Garbs in various kinde
Do checquer Whimsies in the Minde!
As diff’ring Flow’rs on Peru’s Wonder Gardners finde.
Hast thou black Patches too? for Shame, forbear;
Smooth Chins should not have Spots, but Hair:
But thou art modish, and canst vapour, drink, & swear.
How blazing Tapers waste Lifes blink away
In Socket of their mouldring Clay!
How powder’d Curls do sin–polluted Dust bewray!
As Prudence fram’d Art to be Natures Ape;
So Pride forms Nature to Arts Shape:
Corrupted Wine is worst that’s prest from richest Grape.
Wilt Reasons Sense dissolve in senselesse Wine?
And sing, while Youths frail Gem does shine,
Come, Laughter, stretch our Spleen; Come Sack in Crystal Shrine!
First, Wine shall set, next shall a wanton Dame
Our Blood on Fire, then quench our Flame.
But Brute, Repentance shall, or Hell thy wild–fire tame.
Now, with the Gallon ere thou try’st a Fall,
Think o’th’ Hand–writing on the Wall:
If Bacchus th’ Inturn gets, down Conscience goes & All.
Shouldst thou but once the swinish Drunkard view,
Presented in a Myrrour true,
Quite souc’d in Tavern Juice; in him, thy self thou’dst rue.
A nobler Birth, with an ignoble Breast,
Rich Corps without a Minde’s a Beast:
He’s raz’d from Honours Stem, who, Riot, is thy Guest;
Thy Guests swoln Dropsies, and dull Surfets are:
The Gluttons Teeth their Graves prepare;
They’re sick in Health, & living dead, whose Maw’s their Care.
Go, Corm’rants, go, with your luxurious Flock,
Rap’d from three Elements; we mock
Your muskie Jellie, Pheasant, candid Apricock.
To Arabs, that they send their Phoenix write;
In’s spice Nest be cookt it might:
Far fetch’t, dear bought, best suits the Apician Appetite.
Go, with thy Stags embalm’d, entombd in Paste;
On Tenants Sweat feeds rampant Waste:
We prize ‘bove wilde Intemp’rance, a Carthusian Fast.
Excesse enhanceth Rates: Thou, on this Score,
Grind’st ‘twixt thy Teeth the starving Poor,
Who beg dry Crums, which they with Tears would moysten ore.
Laz’rus, thy Skin’s Deaths Sheet, ‘twixt that & Bone
There’s no Parenthesis! bemone,
Dives, Christs Members now, or thou shalt ever grone.
Prance, pamper’d Stallions, to the Grave y’are driv’n:
Nought satisfies the Soul but Heav’n,
Th’art empty, World, from Morn, through Noon to doting Ev’n.
In twice–dy’d Tyrian Purple thou dost nest,
Restlesse, with heaving Fumes opprest,
Which cause tumultuous Dreams, Foes to indulgent Rest.
From hence the Spark, (what pitty ’tis!) is Ill
Grown cropsick. Post for Physicks Skill;
Phlebotomize he must, and take the Vomit Pill.
Doctor, the Cause of this Distemper state us.
His Cachexie results from Flatus
Hypocondrunkicus ex Crapul? creatus.
School him, whose Heav’n is Sense, whose Reason dim;
Who wasts his Time, as Time wasts him:
Give ore his Soul, Divine; Tayler make’s Body trim.
Now, sheath’d in rusling Silks, new Suits display;
Thy Cloaths outworth Thee: Wisemen say,
Hedg–creeping Glow–worms never mount to starrie Ray.
Yet, who’s born under Jupiter shall move
I’th Sphear of Honour, Riches, Love;
Say Wizards. Under Jove w’ are all born, none above.
Still to be pounct, perfum’d, still queintly drest,
Still to be guarded to a Feast
By fawning Looks, & squinting hearts–like an Arrest.
Still to have toting Waits unseel thine Eyes,
In Bed, at Board, when sit, when rise:
Such, Card’nal–like, their Paris prize ‘bove Paradise.
Know, Worldlings, that Prosperitie’s a Gin,
If wantoniz’d, breeds Storms within:
To Torture turns the Metamorphosis of Sin.
Pomp its own Burthen is, Whose slippery State
Oft headlong, by too rash Debate,
Tumbles for value of a Straw, pulls on its Fate.
His Heart–blood seeths; that Blood sends up in Heat
Fierce Spirits; those, i’th’ Eye, their Seat,
Fires kindle; fiery Eyes, like Comets, Ruine threat.
Fierce Balaam, hold thy Hand, and smite no Asse
But him i’th’ Saddle; he alas
Wounds through her Sides himself: Wrath through the Soul doth pass.
Duels for Blood, like Molocks Idol, gape.
Thou, turn’d a Swine out of an Ape,
First put’st on Peacocks Pride, at last the Tygers Shape.
They’r gross, not Great, who serve wild Laws of Blood,
Such, only Great, who dare be Good:
Grace buoies up Honor, which, without It, sticks in mud.
Make thorough Search: As hard to finde thy Cure,
As Circles puzling Quadrature,
Or, next Way by North–Sea to sail to China sure.
Lo, idle Sloth in Lap of Sodom plac’t.
Here lies He–did Occasions wast,
Invaluable now, irreparable past.
Go, wanton with the Winde: misus’d Hours have
A Life, no other then the Grave:
Most, for Lifes circumstance, the Cause of living wave.
The privie Councel of the glorious TRINE
Did in creating Man combine;
Angels lookt on, and wondred at the Soul divine!
Which, Storehouse of three living Natures is,
Doth the vast World epitomize,
Of whom, ev’n All we see’s but a Periphrasis!
Now, to what End can we conceive Mans Frame,
Save to the Glory of GODS Name,
And his eternal Blisse, included in the Same.
Fools, living die; Saints, dying live: Seeds thrive
When earth’t: Who dye to Sin survive;
So, to come richer up, Pearl–fishers deeper dive.
Now’s Courtesan appears, who blowes Loves Fire,
Her pratling Eyes speak vain Desire;
To catch this art–fair flie the following Trouts aspire.
The gamesome Flie that round the Candle playes,
Is scorcht to Death i’th courted Blaze:
Thus is the Amourist destroy’d by lustful Gaze.
This Dame of Pleasure, does, to seem more bright,
Lattice her Day with bars of Night;
Spots this fair Sorceress Cloud, more to enforce Delight.
This Helen, who does Beautie counterfeit,
And on her Face black Patches set
(Like Tickets on the Door) shewes that She may be Let.
She’d Coach Affection on her Cheek: But why
W’ud Cupids Horses climb so high
Over her alpine Nose, t’orethrow it in her Eye?
Truths Apes, beware; such Wheels your Earth do wear;
Horses with rugged Hoofs will tear;
VVho living’s coacht with Pride, shal dying fall wth Fear.
(But, noble Ladies, Virgins chast, as fair;
Sweet modest Sex, that Virtuous are,
Ye First, my Honour; my Respect, ye Second, share.
Angelick Forms, far be it to perplex,
Or cast Aspersion on your Sex:
Loose Art in Those, your native beaming Lustre decks.
So, have I seen the Limners Hand design
A ruder Peece, neer one Divine,
With this course face, to make That other Beauty shine.)
Her Eyes spread Nets, her Lips Baits, & her Arms
Enthralling Chains: Sense hugs the Charms
Of Idlenesse and Pride, while Reason’s free from Harms.
Tempestuous Whirlwindes revell in the Air
Of her feig’nd Sighs; her Smile’s a Snare,
Which she as slighly sets, as subtly does prepare.
Scarce is the Toy at Noon to th’ Girdle drest;
Nine Pedlars need each Morn be prest
To lanch her forth: A ship as soon is rigg’d to th’ West.
At length Shee’s built up with accoutred Grace;
The Spark’s enflam’d with her set Face,
Her glancing Eye, her lisping Lip, her mincing Pace.
On those, his optick Faculties do play,
Like frisking Motes in sunny Day,
Like gawdy nothings in the Trigon Glasse that ray.
On her, profusely now he spends his Ore;
Scarce the Triumvir lavisht more
When he did costly treat his stately Memphian Whore.
Thou, inconsid’rate Flash, spend’st pretious Dayes
In Dances, Banquets, Courtisms, Playes,
To gain the Shade of Joy, which, soon as gaind, decayes.
Which, barely tasted makes thee long the more;
Enjoy’d, ’tis loath’d, was lov’d before:
Thus, nor Mirths Flood, nor ebbe can please, nor Sea, nor Shore.
His Pulse beats Cupids March, and’s itching Vein
Must vent loose Lines, whence Souls are slain;
Which, by augmenting Lust, will but augment his Pain.
Ah, might too forward Sin be checkt by Fear!
But, what may cure that Eye, that Ear,
Which, being blinde and deaf, brags best to see & hear!
Thy Juno’s but a Cloud: She is not She
Thy fond Esteem makes Her to be;
Her Basilisks double Eye–sight kills with viewing Thee.
She murthers Poysons, thence Complexion’s found
To murther Hearts. O, Joyes unsound
From light–bred Daughters, though they weigh ten thousand pound!
Tell me not, simpring Lais, that thy Ray
Can Bloud, turn’d Ice, unfreeze, like May;
Whose spotted Face to Vertue does Soul spots betray.
Cerusse, not Lilies there; thy blushing Rose
Its Tincture to Vermilion owes:
Curs’d be those civil Wars Loves Royalty oppose.
Say not, a noble Love to thee he bears;
While’s Hand writes Odes, his Eye drops Tears;
That tim’rously he’s bold, burns, freezes, dares, and fears.
Nor tell me, Nymphadoro, that Loves Throes
For her, robbe thy Repast, Repose:
Thou peul’st not to repent, but to bebrine thy Woes:
Woes, worse then Waitings at the five Mens trade;
Worse than, when sick, through Sloughs to wade
In Stormy Night, hard jolted on a dull tir’d Jade.
Shake off these Remoras would thee undo:
The Virtuous loveli’est are. Grace woo;
What Jeweller for Glass will orient Pearl forgo?
The Soul, that Beauteousnesse of Grace exquires,
And to decline By–paths Desires,
Must inward bend the Rayes of his selected Fires.
Unmuffle, ye dim Clouds, and disinherit
From black usurping Mysts his Spirit;
From Rocks, that split vain Hopes, to Heav’nly Comforts rear it.
B’entrencht ere midnight Larums; undergoe
The Pennance of repentant Snow,
Which, melting down, will quench, & cleanse, as it doth flow.
Repentance Health is, giv’n in bitter Pill;
Best Rectifier of the Will;
The Joy of Angels, Love of God, the Hate of Ill.
Action’s the Life of Counsel; Bathe thy Soul,
I’th’ Lambs red Laver; in Dust roul,
Before Despair; Hells Serjeant comes, drink Sorrows Boul.
Ere th’ icie Mantle of a wrinkled Skin
Candies the Bristles of thy Chin,
Repent; ere chap–faln Door shall let Deaths Terrors in.
Never too late does true Repentance sue;
Yet, late Repentance seldom’s true:
Who would not, when they might, may, when they would, It rue.
For Minutes of impertinent Delight,
Loose not, ?, loose not Infinite!
Scorn to be Vassal to base Sin, and hellish Spite.
Why dost out–sin the Devil? He ne’re soil’d
With Lust, or Glutt’ny was; ne’re foil’d
With Drink, nere in the Net of Slothfulnesse entoyl’d.
I may perswade, yet not prevail! Sin–charms
Bewitch him, till Wrath cries to Arms:
Sins first Face smiles, her second frowns, her third alarms.
Sinners are fondly blinde when they transgresse;
All Woes are, than such Blindenesse, lesse:
That Wretch most wretched is, who sleights his Wretchedness.
Presumption slayes her thousands! too late then
Foe to advise of Danger, when
Vengeance, that dogs their Steps, shal worry them in’s Den.
Gallants, Should Trophies Caesarize your Power,
Should Beauty Helenize your Flower,
Should Mammon Danaize ye with his golden Shower;
Yet, when Revenge shall inward Thunders send,
And Sodom–Storms on Souls descend,
Salvation scorn’d, what rests but every tort’ring Fiend!
That GOD refus’d, who you from Depth of nought
To Being, nay Well–being brought!
Ingrate, for Talents lent, return your selves Sin–fraught.
Bad Great Ones are Great Bad Ones: Foul Defect
It is, when Pow’r doth Shame protect;
Such, will do what they will, but, what they ought, neglect.
Virtue by Practise to her Pitch does soar;
But they, who such a Course give ore,
Shall sadly wish for Time, when Time shall be no more.
Ye, brittle Sheds of Clay, resolve ye must
Into Originary Dust,
When swift–heeld Death oretakes you. Where’s then all your Trust?
Men in their Generations live by turns;
Their Light soon to its Socket burns;
Then to converse with Spirits they go, & None returns.
Tomb–pendant Scutcheons, pompous Rags of State,
Those gorgeous Bubbles but relate
The thing that was, nere liv’d: ‘Tis Goodness gildeth Fate.
Grace outlasts marble Vaults; That crowns Expense;
Brasse is shortliv’d to Innocence:
Times greedy Self shall one Day find its Praeter–tense.
When Heav’ns that had their Deluge–dropsie, shall
Their burning Feaver have; When All
Is one Combustion; when Sol seems a black burnt Ball:
When Nature’s laid asleep in her own Urn;
When, what was drown’d at first, shall burn;
Then, Sinners into quenchless Flames, Sins Mulct, shall turn!
Nere shall a cooling Julep Such appease,
Whom Brimstone Torrents without Ease
Enrage, i’th dungeon of dark flames, and burning Seas!
In Center of the terrible Abysse,
Remotest from supernall Blisse,
That horrid, hideous, gloomy, endlesse Dungeon is!
Fools, who hath charm’d you? Sue betimes Divorse
From your vain World, where power did force
A Rape, there let not Choice make Marriage, which is worse.
Man is a World, and more; For this huge Masse
Shrunk, as a Scroul, away shall passe;
Whil’st His pure Substance is as everlasting Glasse.
The World is like the Basilisks fell eyes;
Whose first sight kills; first seen, it dies:
Man, by a brave Disdain, its poys’ning Venom flies.
Gay World, who Thee adores, thou great wilt make;
Pearl may he quaff, and Pleasures take
Of Sense, but must descend into the Sulph’ry Lake!
Is Hell the Upshot thou to thine canst lend?
Crawl, groveling Trifles, to your End;
Vanish beneath my Scorn. Goe, World, recant, amend.
Provehimur Portu, Terramque relinquimus illam
Quae natum Gremio prima rigente tulit.
O felix Oculus Portum visurus Amantis,
Sit licet in Lacrymas naufragus ipse suas!
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Based on Keywords: bewray, blinde, brasse, swinish, perswade, forgo, squinting, wizards, lifes, frisking, dom