Part 24

Say, art thou young or old, tree or a bud? 11 Thy face is so disfigurèd with sin: Young I do think thou art; in what? in good; But old, I am assur’d, by wrinkled skin: Thy lips, thy tongue, thy heart, is young in praying, But lips, and tongue, and heart, is old in straying:

Old in adoring idols, but too young In the observance of divinest law; Young in adoring God, though old in tongue; Old and too old, young and too young in awe; Beginning that which doth begin misdeeds, Inventing vice, which all thy body feeds.

But this corrupting and infecting food, 12 This caterpillar of eternity, The foe to bliss, the canker unto good, The new-accustom’d way of vanity, It hath not ever been, nor shall it be, But perish in the branch of folly’s tree.

As her descent was vanity’s alline,[478] 13 So her descending like to her descent; Here shall she have an end, in hell no fine, Vain-glory brought her vainly to be spent: You know all vanity draws to an end; Then needs must she decay, because her friend.

Is there more folly than to weep at joy, 14 To make eyes watery when they should be dry? To grieve at that which murders grief’s annoy? To keep a shower where the sun should lie? But yet this folly-cloud doth oft appear, When face should smile and watery eye be clear.

The father mourns to see his son life-dead, But seldom mourns to see his son dead-liv’d; He cares for earthly lodge, not heaven’s bed, For death in life, not life in death surviv’d: Keeping the outward shadow of his face To work the inward substance of disgrace.

Keeping a show to counterpoise the deed, 15 Keeping a shadow to be substance’ heir, To raise the thing itself from shadow’s seed, And make an element of lifeless air; Adoring that which his own hands did frame, Whose heart invention gave, whose tongue the name.

But could infection keep one settled place, The poison would not lodge in every breast, Nor feed the heart, the mind, the soul, the face, Lodging but in the carcass of her rest; But this idolatry, once in man’s use, Was made a custom then without excuse:

Nay, more, it was at tyranny’s command; 16 And tyrants cannot speak without a doom, Whose judgment doth proceed from heart to hand, From heart in rage, from hand in bloody tomb; That if through absence any did neglect it, Presence should pay the ransom which reject it.

Then to avoid the doom of present hate, Their absence did perform their presence’ want, Making the image of a kingly state, As if they had new seed from sin’s old plant; Flattering the absence of old mischief’s mother With the like form and presence of another:

Making an absence with a present sight, 17 Or rather presence with an absent view; Deceiving vulgars with a day of night, Which know not good from bad, nor false from true; A craftsman cunning in his crafty trade, Beguiling them with that which he had made.

Like as a vane is turn’d with every blast, Until it point unto the windy clime, So stand the people at his word aghast, He making old-new form in new-old time; Defies and deifies all with one breath, Making them live and die, and all in death.

They, like to Tantalus, are fed with shows, 18 Shows which exasperate, and cannot cure; They see the painted shadow of suppose, They see her sight, yet what doth sight procure? Like Tantalus they feed, and yet they starve; Their food is carv’d to them, yet hard to carve.

The craftsman feeds them with a starving meat Which doth not fill, but empty, hunger’s gape; He makes the idol comely, fair, and great, With well-limn’d visage and best-fashion’d shape, Meaning to give it to some noble view, And feign his beauty with that flattering hue.

Enamour’d with the sight, the people grew 19 To divers apparitions of delight; Some did admire the portraiture so new, Hew’d from the standard of an old tree’s height; Some were allur’d through beauty of the face, With outward eye to work the soul’s disgrace:

Adorèd like a god, though made by man; To make a god of man, a man of god, ’Tis more than human life or could or can, Though multitudes’ applause in error trode: I never knew, since mortal lives abod, That man could make a man, much less a god.

Yes, man can make his shame without a maker, 20 Borrowing the essence from restorèd sin; Man can be virtue’s foe and vice’s taker, Welcome himself without a welcome in: Can he do this? yea, more; O shameless ill! Shameful in shame, shameless in wisdom’s will.

The river of his vice can have no bound, But breaks into the ocean of deceit; Deceiving life with measures of dead ground, With carvèd idols, disputation’s bait; Making captivity, cloth’d all in moan, Be subject to a god made of a stone.

Too stony hearts had they which made this law; 21 O, had they been as stony as the name, They never had brought vulgars in such awe, To be destruction’s prey and mischief’s game! Had they been stone-dead both in look and favour, They never had made life of such a savour.

Yet was not this a too-sufficient doom, Sent from the root of their sin-o’ergrown tongue, To cloud God’s knowledge with hell-mischief’s gloom, To overthrow truth’s right with falsehood’s wrong: But daily practisèd a perfect way, Still to begin, and never end to stray.

For either murder’s paw did gripe their hearts, 22 With whispering horrors drumming in each ear, Or other villanies did play their parts, Augmenting horror to new-strucken fear; Making their hands more than a shambles’ stall, To slay their children ceremonial.

No place was free from stain of blood or vice; 23 Their life was mark’d for death, their soul for sin, Marriage for fornication’s thawèd ice, Thought for despair, body for either’s gin: Slaughter did either end what life begun, Or lust did end what both had left undone.

The one was sure, although the other fail, 24 For vice hath more competitors than one; A greater troop doth evermore avail, And villany is never found alone: The blood-hound follows that which slaughter kill’d, And theft doth follow what deceit hath spill’d.[479]

Corruption, mate to infidelity, For that which is unfaithful is corrupt; 25 Tumults are schoolfellows to perjury, For both are full when either one hath supt; Unthankfulness, defiling, and disorders, Are fornication’s and uncleanness’ borders.

See what a sort[480] of rebels are in arms, 26 To root out virtue, to supplant her reign! Opposing of themselves against all harms, To the disposing of her empire’s gain: O double knot of treble miseries! O treble knot, twice, thrice in villanies!

O idol-worshipping, thou mother art, She-procreatress of a he-offence! I know thee now, thou bear’st a woman’s part, Thou nature hast of her, she of thee sense: These are thy daughters, too, too like the mother; Black sins, I dim you all with inky smother.

My pen shall be officious in this scene, 27 To let your hearts blood in a wicked vein; To make your bodies clear, your souls as clean, To cleanse the sinks of sin with virtue’s rain: Behold your coal-black blood, my writing-ink, My paper’s poison’d meat, my pen’s foul drink.

New-christen’d are you with your own new blood; But mad before, savage and desperate; Prophesying lies, not knowing what was good; Living ungodly, evermore in hate; Thundering out oaths, pale sergeants of despair; Swore and forswore, not knowing what you were.

Now, look upon the spectacle of shame, 28 The well-limn’d image of an ill-limn’d thought; Say, are you worthy now of praise or blame, That such self-scandal in your own selves wrought? You were heart-sick before I let you blood, But now heart-well since I have done you good.

Now wipe blind folly from your seeing eyes, And drive destruction from your happy mind; Your folly now is wit, not foolish-wise, Destruction happiness, not mischief blind; You put your trust in idols, they deceiv’d you; You put your trust in God, and he receiv’d you.

Had not repentance grounded on your souls, 29 The climes of good or ill, virtue or vice, Had it not flow’d into the tongue’s enrolls, Ascribing mischief’s hate with good advice; Your tongue had spill’d[481] your soul, your soul your tongue, Wronging each function with a double wrong.

Your first attempt was placèd in a show, Imaginary show, without a deed; The next attempt was perjury, the foe To just demeanours and to virtue’s seed: Two sins, two punishments, and one in two, Make[482] two in one, and more than one can do:

Four scourges from one pain, all comes from sin; 30 Single, yet double, double, yet in four; It slays the soul, it hems the body in, It spills the mind, it doth the heart devour; Gnawing upon the thoughts, feeding on blood, For why she lives in sin, but dies in good.

She taught their souls to stray, their tongues to swear, Their thought to think amiss, their life to die, Their heart to err, their mischief to appear, Their head to sin, their feet to tread awry: This scene might well have been destruction’s tent, To pay with pain what sin with joy hath spent.

CHAP. XV.

But God will never dye his hands with blood, 1 His heart with hate, his throne with cruelty, His face with fury’s map, his brow with cloud, His reign with rage, his crown with tyranny; Gracious is he, long-suffering, and true, Which ruleth all things with his mercy’s view:

Gracious; for where is grace but where he is? The fountain-head, the ever-boundless stream: Patient; for where is patience in amiss, If not conducted by pure grace’s beam? Truth is the moderator of them both, For grace and patience are of truest growth.

For grace-beginning truth doth end in grace, 2 As truth-beginning grace doth end in truth; Now patience takes the moderator’s place, Young-old in suffering, old-young in ruth: Patience is old in being always young, Not having right, nor ever offering wrong.

So this is moderator of God’s rage, Pardoning those deeds which we in sin commit, That if we sin, she is our freedom’s gage, And we still thine, though to be thine unfit: In being thine, O Lord, we will not sin, That we thy patience, grace, and truth, may win!

O grant us patience, in whose grant we rest, 3 To right our wrong, and not to wrong the right! Give us thy grace, O Lord, to make us blest, That grace might bless, and bliss might grace our sight! Make our beginning and our sequel truth, To make us young in age, and grave in youth!

We know that our demands rest in thy will; Our will rests in thy word, our word in thee; Thou in our orisons, which dost fulfil That wishèd action which we wish to be; ’Tis perfect righteousness to know thee right, ’Tis immortality to know thy might.

In knowing thee, we know both good and ill, 4 Good to know good and ill, ill to know none; In knowing all, we know thy sacred will, And what to do, and what to leave undone: We are deceiv’d, not knowing to deceive; In knowing good and ill, we take and leave.

The glass of vanity, deceit, and shows, 5 The painter’s labour, the beguiling face, The divers-colour’d image of suppose, Cannot deceive the substance of thy grace; Only a snare to those of common wit, Which covets to be like, in having it.

The greedy lucre of a witless brain, 6 This feeding avarice on senseless mind, Is rather hurt than good, a loss than gain, Which covets for to lose, and not to find; So they were colourèd with such a face, They would not care to take the idol’s place.

Then be your thoughts coherent to your words, Your words as correspondent to your thought; ’Tis reason you should have what love affords, And trust in that which love so dearly bought: The maker must needs love what he hath made, And the desirer’s free of either trade.

Man, thou wast made; art thou a maker now? 7 Yes, ’tis thy trade, for thou a potter art, Tempering soft earth, making the clay to bow; But clayey thou dost bear too stout a heart: The clay is humble to thy rigorous hands; Thou clay too tough against thy God’s commands.

If thou want’st slime, behold thy slimy faults; If thou want’st clay, behold thy clayey breast; Make them to be the deepest centre’s vaults, And let all clayey mountains sleep in rest: Thou bear’st an earthly mountain on thy back, Thy heart’s chief prison-house, thy soul’s chief wrack.

Art thou a mortal man, and mak’st a god? 8 A god of clay, thou but a man of clay? O suds of mischief, in destruction sod! O vainest labour, in a vainer play! Man is the greatest work which God did take, And yet a god with man is nought to make.

He that was made of earth would make a heaven, If heaven may be made upon the earth; Sin’s heirs, the airs, sin’s plants, the planets seven, Their god a clod, his birth true virtue’s dearth: Remember whence you came, whither you go; Of earth, in earth, from earth to earth in woe.

No, quoth the potter; as I have been clay, 9 So will I end with what I did begin; I am of earth, and I do what earth may; I am of dust, and therefore will I sin: My life is short, what then? I’ll make it longer; My life is weak, what then? I’ll make it stronger.

Long shall it live in vice, though short in length, And fetch immortal steps from mortal stops; Strong shall it be in sin, though weak in strength, Like mounting eagles on high mountains’ tops; My honour shall be placèd in deceit, And counterfeit new shews of little weight.

My pen doth almost blush at this reply, 10 And fain would call him wicked to his face; But then his breath would answer with a lie, And stain my ink with an untruth’s disgrace: Thy master bids thee write, the pen says no; But when thy master bids, it must be so.

Call his heart ashes,—O, too mild a name! Call his hope vile, more viler than the earth; Call his life weaker than a clayey frame; Call his bespotted heart an ashy hearth: Ashes, earth, clay, conjoin’d to heart, hope, life, Are features’ love, in being nature’s strife.

Thou might’st have chose more stinging words than 11 these, For this he knows he is, and more than less; In saying what he is, thou dost appease The foaming anger which his thoughts suppress: Who knows not, if the best be made of clay, The worst must needs be clad in foul array?

Thou, in performing of thy master’s will, Dost teach him to obey his lord’s commands; But he repugnant is, and cannot skill Of true adoring, with heart-heav’d-up hand: He hath a soul, a life, a breath, a name, Yet he is ignorant from whence they came.

My soul, saith he, is but a map of shows, 12 No substance, but a shadow for to please; My life doth pass even as a pastime goes, A momentary time to live at ease; My breath a vapour, and my name of earth, Each one decaying of the other’s birth.

Our conversation best, for there is gains, And gain is best in conversation’s prime; A mart of lucre in our conscience reigns, Our thoughts as busy agents for the time: So we get gain, ensnaring simple men, It is no matter how, nor where, nor when.

We care not how, for all misdeeds are ours; 13 We care not where, if before God or man; We care not when, but when our crafts have powers In measuring deceit with mischief’s fan; For wherefore have we life, form, and ordaining, But that we should deceive, and still be gaining?

I, made of earth, have made all earthen shops, And what I sell is all of earthy sale; My pots have earthen feet and earthen tops, In like resemblance of my body’s veil; But knowing to offend the heavens more, I made frail images of earthy store.

O bold accuser of his own misdeeds! 14 O heavy clod, more than the earth can bear! Was never creature cloth’d in savage weeds, Which would not blush when they this mischief hear: Thou told’st a tale which might have been untold, Making the hearers blush, the readers old.

Let them blush still that hear, be old that read,[483] Then boldness shall not reign, nor youth in vice; Thrice miserable they which rashly speed With expedition to this bold device; More foolish than are fools, whose misery Cannot be chang’d with new felicity.

Are not they fools which live without a sense? 15 Have not they misery which never joy? Which take[484] an idol for a god’s defence, And with their self-will’d thoughts themselves destroy? What folly is more greater than is here? Or what more misery can well appear?

Call you them gods which have no seeing eyes, No noses for to smell, no ears to hear, No life but that which in death’s shadow lies, Which have no hands to feel, no feet to bear? If gods can neither hear, live, feel, nor see, A fool may make such gods of every tree.

And what was he that made them but a fool, 16 Conceiving folly in a foolish brain, Taught and instructed in a wooden school, Which made his head run of a wooden vein? ’Twas man which made them, he his making had; Man, full of wood, was wood,[485] and so ran mad.

He borrowèd his life, and would restore His borrow’d essence to another death; He fain would be a maker, though before Was made himself, and God did lend him breath: No man can make a god like to a man; He says he scorns that work, he further can.

He is deceiv’d, and in his great deceit 17 He doth deceive the folly-guided hearts; Sin lies in ambush, he for sin doth wait, Here is deceit deceiv’d in either parts; His sin deceiveth him, and he his sin, So craft with craft is mew’d in either gin.

The craftsman mortal is, craft mortal is, Each function nursing up the other’s want; His hands are mortal, deadly what is his, Only his sins bud[486] in destruction’s plant: Yet better he than what he doth devise, For he himself doth live, that ever dies.

Say, call you this a god? where is his head? 18 Yet headless is he not, yet hath he none; Where is his godhead? fled; his power? dead; His reign? decayèd; and his essence? gone: Now tell me, is this god the god of good? Or else Silvanus monarch of the wood?

There have I pierc’d his bark, for he is so, A wooden god, feign’d as Silvanus was; But leaving him, to others let us go, To senseless beasts, their new-adoring glass; Beasts which did live in life, yet died in reason; Beasts which did seasons eat, yet knew no season.

Can mortal bodies and immortal souls 19 Keep one knit union of a living love? Can sea with land, can fish agree with fowls? Tigers with lambs, a serpent with a dove? O no, they cannot! then say, why do we Adore a beast which is our enemy?

What greater foe than folly unto wit? What more deformity than ugly face? This disagrees, for folly is unfit, The other contrary to beauty’s place: Then how can senseless heads, deformèd shows, Agree with you, when they are both your foes?

CHAP. XVI.

O, call that word again! they are your friends, 1 Your life’s associates and your love’s content; That which begins in them, your folly ends; Then how can vice with vice be discontent? Behold, deformity sits on your heads, Not horns, but scorns, not visage, but whole beds.

Behold a heap of sins your bodies pale, A mountain-overwhelming villany; Then tell me, are you clad in beauty’s veil, Or in destruction’s pale-dead livery? Their life demonstrates, now alive, now dead, Tormented with the beasts which they have fed.

You like to pelicans have fed your death, 2 With follies vain let blood from folly’s vein, And almost starv’d yourselves, stopt up your breath, Had not God’s mercy help’d and eas’d your pain: Behold, a new-found meat the Lord did send, Which taught you to be new and to amend.

A strange-digested nutriment, even quails, 3 Which taught them to be strange unto misdeeds: When you implore his aid, he never fails To fill their hunger whom repentance feeds: You see, when life was half at death’s arrest, He new-created life at hunger’s feast.

Say, is your god like this, whom you ador’d, 4 Or is this god like to your handy-frame? If so, his power could not then afford Such influence, which floweth from his name: He is not painted, made of wood and stone, But he substantial is, and rules alone.

He can oppress and help, help and oppress, The sinful incolants[487] of his made earth; He can redress and pain, pain and redress, The mountain-miseries of mortal birth: Now, tyrants, you are next, this but a show, And merry index of your after-woe.

Your hot-cold misery is now at hand; 5 Hot, because fury’s heat and mercy’s cold; Cold, because limping, knit in frosty band, And cold and hot in being shamefac’d-bold: They cruel were, take cruelty their part, For misery is but too mean a smart.

But when the tiger’s jaws, the serpent’s stings, 6 Did summon them unto this life’s decay, A pardon for their faults thy mercy brings, Cooling thy wrath with pity’s sunny day: O tyrants, tear your sin-bemirèd weeds, Behold your pardon seal’d by mercy’s deeds!

That sting which painèd could not ease the pain, 7 Those jaws that wounded could not cure the wounds; To turn to stings for help, it were but vain, To jaws for mercy, which want[488] mercy’s bounds: The stings, O Saviour, were pull’d out by thee! Their jaws claspt up in midst of cruelty.

O sovereign salve, stop to a bloody stream! 8 O heavenly care and cure for dust and earth! Celestial watch to wake terrestrial dream, Dreaming in punishment, mourning in mirth; Now know[489] our enemies that it is thee Which helps and cures our grief and misery.

Our punishment doth end, theirs new begins; 9 Our day appears, their night is not o’erblown; We pardon have, they punishment for sins; Now we are rais’d, now they are overthrown; We with huge beasts opprest, they with a fly; We live in God, and they against God die.

A fly, poor fly, to follow such a flight! Yet art thou fed, as thou wast fed before, With dust and earth feeding thy wonted bite, With self-like food from mortal earthly store: A mischief-stinging food, and sting with sting, Do ready passage to destruction bring.

Man, being grass, is hopp’d and graz’d upon, 10 With sucking grasshoppers of weeping dew; Man, being earth, is worm’s vermilion, Which eats the dust, and yet of bloody hue: In being grass he is her grazing food, In being dust he doth the worms some good.