FRANCIS QUARLES.

VANITY OF THE WORLD.

FALSE world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend
The least delight:

Thy favours cannot gain a friend,

They are so slight:

Thy morning pleasures make an end

To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st

With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales

Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her:

There's none can want where thou supply'st:

There's none can give where thy deny'st.

Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou

ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say ?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay :

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;
If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint,

Of new-coin'd treasure;

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in't,

Nor wealth, nor pleasure:

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man! that thou rely'st

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure,
To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st

Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st?

Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.

THE NEW HEART.

So, now the soul's sublim'd: her sour desires
Are recalcin'd in heaven's well-temper'd fires:
The heart restor'd and purg'd from drossy nature,
Now finds the freedom of a new-born creature:
It lives another life, it breathes new breath;
It neither fears nor feels the sting of death.
Like as the idle vagrant (having none)
That boldly adopts, each house he views, his own;
Makes ev'ry purse his chequer; and at pleasure,
Walks forth, and taxes all the world, like Cæsar;
At length, by virtue of a just command,
His sides are lent to a severer hand;
Whereon his pass, not fully understood,
Is texted in a manuscript of blood:

Thus pass'd from town to town; until he come
A sore repentant to his native home:

Ev'n so the rambling heart, that idly roves
From crimes to sin, and uncontroll'd removes
From lust to lust, when wanton flesh invites
From old-worn pleasures to new choice delights,
At length corrected by the filial rod

Of his offended but his gracious God,

And lash'd from sins to sighs; and by degrees,
From sighs to vows, from vows to bended knees;
From bended knees to a true pensive breast;
From thence to torments, not by tongues exprest,
Returns; and (from his sinful self exil'd)
Finds a glad Father, he a welcome child :
O then it lives; O then it lives involv'd
In secret raptures; pants to be dissolv'd :
The royal offspring of a second birth

Sets ope to heav'n, and shuts the doors to earth.

If love-sick Jove commanded clouds should hap
To rain such show'rs as quicken'd Danae's lap :
Or dogs (far kinder than their purple master)
Should lick his sores, he laughs, nor weeps the
faster.

If earth (heav'n's rival) dart her idle ray,

To heav'n, 'tis wax, and to the world, 'tis clay :
If earth present delights, it scorns to draw,
But like the jet unrub'd, disdains that straw:
No hope deceives it, and no doubt divides it;
No grief disturbs it, and no error guides it;
No guilt condemns it, and no folly shames it;
No sloth besots it, and no lust enthrals it;
No scorn afflicts it, and no passion galls it;
It is a carkanet of immortal life;

An ark of peace; the lists of sacred strife;
A purer piece of endless transitory;

A shrine of grace, a little throne of glory:
A heav'n-born offspring of a new-born birth;
An earthly heav'n; an ounce of heav'nly earth.

FLEEING FROM WRATH.

O WHITHER shall I fly; what path untrod
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where shall I sojourn ? what kind sea will hide My head from thunder? Where shall I abide, Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside?

What, if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.

What, if my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert? if she spring away,
The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they.

What, if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? Can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of justice, and not cleave in twain ?

Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
Where flame-eyed fury means to smite, can save.

The seas will part, graves open, rocks will split; The shield will cleave; the frighted shadow flit; Where justice aims, her fiery darts must hit.

No, no, if stern-brow'd vengeance means to thunder,
There is no place above, beneath, nor under,
So close, but will unlock, or rive in sunder.

'Tis vain to flee: 'tis neither here nor there Can 'scape that hand until that hand forbear; Ah me! Where is he not, that's every where?

"Tis vain to fly; till gentle mercy show
Her better eye, the further off we go
The swing of justice deals the mightier blow.

Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.

Shadows are faithless, and the rocks are false;
No trust in brass, no trust in marble walls;
Poor cots are even as safe as princes' halls.