Emblems With Elegant Figures
About this text
by J.H. Esquire
Printed by R. DANIEL
PUBLISHED BY R. Daniel
WHil'st by the reedy bancks of aged Cam,
My golden minuts softly went and came;
Nothing was wanting to content; unless
[...]minde fit for to grasp such happiness:
[...]y wishes still were ratifi'd, and still
[...]onfirm'd, nor had I any law but will;
Whether severer thoughts my minde posse'st
[...]nd freed her from her load of flesh, and dre'st
[...]er like her self, and carried her on high,
[...]eyond the narrow reach of thought or eye.
Or if some serious follies call'd m' away
[...]ow boldly and securely durst I stray.
[...]little from my self, that so I might
[...]eturn with the more spirit and delight.
[...]o have I seen a painter when his eyes
[...]ere wearied with intentive poaring rise
[...]nd leave his curious labor, and refrain
Till that his eyes might gather life again;
Thus did I out-run time, nor did I know
[...]ow to complain that any hour went slow.
[...]ut nothing now at all remain's with me
[...]ut the sweet Torment of the Memory.
[...]ood in fruition's somewhat; lost, no more
Then an half cured wound, or easie soar;
[...]r like a dose of Honey, when't doth fall
[...]pon the tongue sweet, and in th' stomack gall.
But what divor'st me from these pleasures say,
Tell me (my Muse!) what ravish't them away;
Could not the silver Thames continue them?
Or were thy minde and wishes not the same?
Or did'st thou climb too high, and so awake
That monster envy which thy slumbers brake?
Or did'st thou finde those faithless who lest ought?
Or were thy great design's abortive brought?
Or did thy sins, like pullies, draw thee back,
And make thy thoughts, so strongly bended, slack,
What ere it is; now I am fal'n, and now
Under my care's must either break or bow;
And that great Fabrick of Leucenia
Which should to th' last of time my name conveigh
Must lie unperfit, and dismembred so
And be at most a monstrous Embryo!
Nay my sublimer thoughts must stoop t' invent
Some stratagems 'gainst famine and prevent
Contempt [the worst of evils] and sharp cold,
But whether run I? I let go my hold.
Conquer thy sorrows Hall 'tis patience can
Alone secure thee, though all sorrow's ran
At once upon thy head, 'tis fear alone
That giv's these scar-crow's arms; they else ha[...] non
He is a man whose resolution dar's
The worst of evil's, who command's his fears.
Els what poor things we are? how weak? how blind
Apt to be troubled by each wanton Winde.
Nay man the best of creatures, is below
The weakest of them, if he tremble so.