At pleasure I ascend the highest stories And there I sit, and so behold the glories Myself is compass'd with, as if I were
One of the chiefest courtiers that be there.
Here lords and ladies do come round about me,
With grave demeanour, nor do any flout me,
For this my brave adventure, no, not they;
They come, they go, but leave me there to stay.
Now, my reproacher, I do by all this
Shew how thou may'st possess thyself in bliss:
Thou art worse than a spider, but take hold
On Christ, the door, thou shalt not be controll'd;
By Him do thou the heavenly palace enter,
None e'er will chide thee for thy brave adventure.
Approach thou then unto the very throne,
There speak thy mind: fear not, the day's thine own.
Nor saint, nor angel, will thee stop or stay,
But rather tumble blocks out of the way.
My venom stops not me; let not thy vice
Stop thee: possess thyself of Paradise.
Go on, I say, although thou be a sinner,
Learn to be bold in faith of me a spider.
This is the way true glories to possess,
And to enjoy what no man can express.
Sometimes I find the palace door up-lock'd,
And so my entrance thither has up-block'd.
But am I daunted? No; I here and there
Do feel and search; and so, if any where,
At any chink, or crevice, find my way,
I crowd, I press for passage, make no stay;
And so through difficulty I attain
The palace; yea, the throne where princes reign.
I crowd sometimes, as if I'd burst in sunder;
And art thou crush'd with striving, do not wonder.
Some scarce get in, and yet indeed they enter;
Knock! for they nothing have, that nothing venture.
Nor will the King himself throw dirt on thee,
As thou hast cast reproaches upon me.
He will not hate thee, O thou foul backslider!
As thou didst me, because I am a Spider.
Now, to conclude: Since I much doctrine bring,
Slight me no more, call me not ugly thing.
God wisdom hath unto the Pismire given,
And Spiders may teach Men the way to heaven
Well, my good Spider, I my errors see;
I was a fool for railing so at thee.
Thy nature, venom, and thy fearful hue,
Both shew what sinners are, and what they do.
Thy way, and works do also darkly tell,
How some Men go to heaven and some to hell,
Thou art my monitor, I am a fool;
They may learn, that to Spiders go to school.
MEDITATIONS UPON THE DAY BEFORE THE SUN-RISING.
BUT all this while, where's he whose golden rays
Drives night away, and beautifies our days? Where's he whose goodly face does warm and heal, And shew us what the darksome nights conceal? Where's he that thaws our ice, drives cold away? Let's have him, or we care not for the day.
Thus 'tis with those who are possest of grace, There's nought to them like their Redeemer's ace.
THE MOLE IN THE GROUND.
THE Mole's a creature very smooth and sleek;
She digs i' th' dirt, but 'twill not on her stick
So's he who courts this world, his greatest gains
Yet nothing gets but labour for his pains.
Earth's the mole's element,she can't abide
To he above ground, dirt heaps are her pride:
And he is like her, who the worldling plays,
He imitates her in her works and ways.
Poor silly Mole! that thou shouldst love to be,
Where thou nor sun nor moon, nor stars canst see
But ho, how silly's he who doth not care,
So he gets earth, to have of heav'n a share!
THOU booby, say'st thou nothing but Cuckoo?
The robin and the wren can thee out-do.
They to us play through their little throats;
Not one, but sundry pretty tuneful notes.
But thou hast fellows; some, like thee, can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.
Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring,
Nor dost thou it's first tokens to us bring.
Birds less than thee by far, like prophets, do
Tell us 'tis coming, though not by Cuckoo.
Nor dost thou summer have away with thee,
Though thou a yawling, bawling Cuckoo be.
When thou dost cease among us to appear,
Then doth our harvest bravely crown (ur year.
But thou hast fellows; some, like thee, can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.
Since Cuckoo's forward not our early spring,
Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in:
And since, while here, she only makes a noise,
So pleasing unto none as girls and boys,
The Formalist we may compare her to,
For he doth suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo.
THE BOY AND BUTTERFLY.
BEHOLD how eager this our little Boy
Is for this Butterfly, as if all joy,
All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures,
Were wrapt up in her, or the richest treasures,
Found in her, would be bundled up together,
When all her all is lighter than a feather.
He halloos, runs, and cries out, Here boys, here!
Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear:
He stumbles at the mole-hills, up he gets,
And runs again as one bereft of wits;
And all his labour, and this large out-cry,
Is only for a silly Butterfly.
This little boy an emblem is of those
Whose hearts are wholly at the world's dispose;
The Butterfly doth represent to me,
The world's best things at best but fading be.
All are but painted nothings and false joys,
Like this poor Butterfly to these our Boys.
His running through nettles, thorns, and briers,
To gratify his boyish fond desires;
His tumbling over mole-hills to attain
His end, namely, his Butterfly to gain;
Doth plainly shew what hazards some men run,
Το get what will be lost as soon as won.
Men seem in choice than children far more wise,
Because the run not after Butterflies:
When yet, alas! for what are empty toys,
They follow children, like to beardless Boys,
THE FLY AT THE CANDLE.
WHAT ails this Fly, thus desp'rately to ente
A combat with the Candle? Will she venture
To clash at light? Away, thou silly Fly;
Thas doing, thou wilt burn thy wings and die.
But 'tis a folly, her advice to give,
She'll kill the Candle, or she will not live,
Slap, says she, at it: then she makes retreat,
So wheels about, and doth her blows repeat.
Nor doth the Candle let her quite escape,
But gives some little check unto the ape:
Throws up her nimble heels and down she falls,
Where she lies sprawling, and for succour calls.
When she recovers, up she gets again,
And at the Candle comes with might and main.
But now, behold, the Candle takes the Fly,
And holds her, till she doth by burning die.
This Candle is an emblem of that light
Our Gospel give in this our darksome night.
The Fly a lively picture is of those
That hate, and do this Gospel-light oppose.
At last the Gospel-light oppose.
At last the Gospel doth become their snare,
Doth them with burning hands in pieces tear.
THE RISING OF THE SUN.
Look, look, brave Sol doth peep up from beneath,
Shews us his golden face, doth on us breathe;
Yea, he doth compass us around with glories,
Whilst he ascends up to the highest stories.
Where he his banner over us displays,
And gives us light to see our works and ways.
Nor are we now as at the peep of light,
To question Is it day, or is it night!
The night is gone, the shadow's fled away,
And now we are most certain that 'tis day.
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