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Know'st thou not how of th' Hebrewes royall stemme
(That old dry stocke) a despair'd branch is sprung
A most strange Babe! who here conceal'd by them
In a neglected stable lies, among
Beasts and base straw: Already is the streame
Quite turn'd: th' ingratefull Rebells this their young
Master (with voyce free as the Trumpe of Fame)
Their new King, and thy Successour proclame.
What busy motions; what wild Engines stand
On tiptoe in their giddy Braynes? th' have fire
Already in their Bosomes; and their hand
Already reaches at a sword; They hire
Poysons to speed thee; yet through all the Land
What one comes to reveale what they conspire?
Goe now, make much of these; wage still their wars And bring home on thy Brest more thanklesse scarrs.
Why did I spend my life, and spill my Blood,
That thy firme hand for ever might sustaine
A well-pois'd Scepter? does it now seeme good
Thy brothers blood be-spilt, life spent in vaine ?
'Gainst thy owne sons and Brothers thou hast stood
In Armes, when lesser cause was to complaine :
And now crosse Fates a watch about thee keepe, Can'st thou be carelesse now? now can'st thou sleep?
Where art thou man? what cowardly mistake
Of thy great selfe, hath stolne King Herod from thee?
O call thy selfe home to thy self, wake, wake,
And fence the hanging sword Heav'n throws upon thee.
Redeeme a worthy wrath rouse thee, and shake
Thy selfe into a shape that may become thee.
Be Herod, and thou shalt not misse from mee
Immortall stings to thy great thoughts, and thee.
So said, her richest snake, which to her wrist.
For a beseeming bracelet she had ty'd
(A speciall Worme it was as ever kist
The foamy lips of Cerberus) she apply'd
To the Kings Heart, the Snake no sooner hist,
But vertue heard it, and away she hy'd,
Dire flames diffuse themselves through every veine,
This done, Home to her Hell she hy'd amaine.
He wakes, and with him (ne're to sleepe) new feares:
His Sweat-bedewed Bed hath now betrai'd him,
To a vast field of thornes, ten thousand Speares
All pointed in his heart seem'd to invade him:
So mighty were th' amazing Characters
With which his feeling Dreame had thus dismay'd him,
He his owne fancy-framed foes defies:
In rage, My armes, give me my armes, he cryes.
As when a Pile of food-preparing fire,
The breath of artificiall lungs embraves,
The Caldron-prison'd waters streight conspire,
And beat the hot Brasse with rebellious waves:
He murmurs, and rebukes their bold desire;
Th' impatient liquor, frets, and foames, and raves;
Till his o're flowing pride suppresse the flame,
Whence all his high spirits, and hot courage came.
So boyles the fired Herods blood-swolne brest,
Not to be slakt but by a Sea of blood.
His faithlesse Crowne he feeles loose on his Crest,
Which on false Tyrants head ne're firmely stood.
The worme of jealous envy and unrest,
To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the lingring light;
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing Night.
A Thousand Prophecies that talke strange things,
Had sowne of old these doubts in his deepe brest.
And now of late came tributary Kings,
Bringing him nothing but new feares from th' East,
More deepe suspicions, and more deadly stings,
With which his feav'rous cares their cold increast.
And now his dream (Hels firebrand) stil more bright, Shew'd him his feares, and kill'd him with the sight.
No sooner therefore shall the Morning see
(Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of Day)
But all his Counsellours must summon'd bee,
To meet their troubled Lord: Without delay
Heralds and Messengers immediately
Are sent about, who poasting every way
To th'heads and Officers of every band;
Declare who sends, and what is his command.
Why art thou troubled Herod? what vaine feare
Thy blood-revolving Brest to rage doth move?
Heavens King, who doffs himselfe weak flesh to weare,
Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love.
Nor would he this thy fear'd Crown from thee Teare,
But give thee a better with himselfe above.
Poore jealousie! why should he wish to prey
Upon thy Crowne, who gives his owne away
Make to thy reason man, and mock thy doubts,
Looke how below thy feares their causes are ;
Thou art a Souldier Herod; send thy Scouts,
See how hee's furnish't for so fear'd a warre?
What armour does he weare? A few thin clouts.
His Trumpets? tender cries; his men to dare
So much? rude Shepheards; What his steeds? Alas
Poore [Beasts]! a slow Oxe, and a simple Asse.
Il fine del primo Libro.
Votiva Domus Petrensis Pro Domo Dei.
T magis Mundi votis,
Fam veniens solet esse Dies, ubi cuspide prima
Palpitat, & roseo Lux prævia ludit ab ortu;
Cùm nec abest Phoebus, nec Eois lætus habenis
Totus adest, volucrum procul vaga murmura mulcet:
Nos ità; quos nuper radiis afflavit honestis
Relligiosa Dies; nostrig per atria Cali
(Sacra Domus nostrum est Colum) jam luce tenella
Libat adhuc trepida Fax nondum firma Diei:
Nos ità jam exercet nimii impatientia Voti,
Spég sui propiore premit.
Quis pectora tanti Tendit amor Capti! Desiderio quàm longo Lentæ spes inhiant! Domus & dulcissima rerum! Plena Deo Domus! Ah, Quis erit, Quis (dicimus) Ille, (0 Bonus, ô Ingens meritis, ô Proximus ipsi, Quem vocat in sua Dona, Deo!) quo vindice totas Excutiant Tenebras hæc Sancta Crepuscula?
Quando erit, ut tremula Flos heu tener ille Diei,
Qui velut ex Oriente suo jam Altaria circûm
Lambit, & ambiguo nobis procul annuit astro,
Plenis se pandat foliis, & Lampade totâ
Lætus (ut è medio cûm Sol micat aureus axe)
Attonitam penetrare Domum bene possit adulto
Sidere, nec dubio Pia Moenia mulceat ore?
Quando erit, ut Convexa suo quoque pulchra sereno
Florescant, rosebg tremant Laquearia risu?
Quæ nimiùm informis tanq[u]am sibi conscia frontis
Perpetuis jam se lustrant lacrymantia guttis.
Quando erit, ut claris meliori luce Fenestris
Plurima per vitreos vivat Pia Pagina vultus?
Quando erit, ut Sacrum nobis celebrantibus Hymnum
Organicos facili, & nunquam fallente susurro
Nobile murmur agat nervos; pulmonis iniqui
Fistula nec monitus nec faciat male-fida sinistros?
Denique, quicquid id est, quod Res hîc Sacra requirit,
Fausta illa,& felix (sitġ ô Tua) Dextra, suam cui
Debeat hæc Aurora Diem. Tibi supplicat Ipsa,
Ipsa Tibi facit Ara preces. Tu jam Illius audi,
Audiet Illa tuas. Dubium est (modò porrige dextram)
Des magis, an capias: aude tantùm esse beatus,
Et danum hoc lucrare Tibi.
Scis Ipse volucres Que Rota volvat opes; has ergò hic fige perennis Fundamenta Domas Petrensi in Rupe; suamg Fortunæ sic deme Rotam. Scis Ipse procaces Divitias quàm prona vagos vehat ala per Euros, Divitiis illas, agè, deme volucribus alas, Fácg suus Nostras illis sit nidus ad Aras: Remigii ut tandem pennas melioris adeptæ, Se rapiant Dominúmq; suum super æthera secum.
Felix ô qui sic potuit bene providus uti Proverb. 23. 5. Fortunæ pennis & opum levitate suarum, Devitiisque suis Aquile sic addidit Alas.