| |
| BUT 1 Justice had no sooner Mercy seen, | |
| Smoothing the wrinkles of her Father’s brow, | |
| But up she starts and throwes herself between: | |
| As when a vapour from a moory slough, | |
| Meeting with fresh Eoüs, that but now | 5 |
| Open’d the world, which all in darknesse lay, | |
| Doth heaven’s bright face of his rayes disarray, | |
| And sads the smiling orient of the springing day. | |
| |
| She was a virgin of austere regard, | |
| Not as the world esteemes her, deaf and blinde, | 10 |
| But as the eagle, that hath oft compar’d | |
| Her eye with heav’n’s, so, and more brightly shin’d | |
| Her lamping sight; for she the same could wind | |
| Into the solid heart, and with her eares | |
| The silence of the thought loud speaking heares, | 15 |
| And in one hand a pair of even scoals she weares. | |
| |
| No riot of affection revell kept | |
| Within her breast, but a still apathy | |
| Possessed all her soul, which softly slept | |
| Securely without tempest—no sad crie | 20 |
| Awakes her pitie, but wrong’d Povertie, | |
| Sending his eyes to heav’n swimming in teares, | |
| With hideous clamours ever struck her eares, | |
| Whetting the blazing sword that in her hand she beares. | |
| |
| The winged lightning is her Mercury, | 25 |
| And round about her mightie thunders sound: | |
| Impatient of himself, lies pining by | |
| Pale Sickness, with his kercher’d head upwound, | |
| And thousand noisome plagues attend her round; | |
| But if her clowdie brow but once grow foul, | 30 |
| The flints do melt, and rocks to water rowl, | |
| And airie mountains shake, and frighted shadows howl. | |
| |
| Famine, and bloodies Care, and bloodie war, | |
| Want, and the want of knowledge how to use, | |
| Abundance, Age, and Fear, that runnes afarre | 35 |
| Before his fellow Grief, that aye pursues | |
| His winged steps; for who would not refuse | |
| Grief’s companie, a dull and rawbon’d spright, | |
| That lanks the cheeks, and pales the freshest sight, | |
| Unbosoming the cheerefull breast of all delight. | 40 |
| |
| Before this cursed throng goes Ignorance, | |
| That needs will leade the way he cannot see: | |
| And, after all, Death doth his flag advance, | |
| And, in the midst, Strife still would roguing be, | |
| Whose ragged flesh and cloaths did well agree; | 45 |
| And round about amazed Horror flies, | |
| And, over all, Shame veils his guiltie eyes, | |
| And underneath Hell’s hungrie throat still yawning lies. | |
| |
| Upon two stonie tables, spread before her, | |
| She lean’d her bosome, more than stonie hard; | 50 |
| There slept th’ unpartiall judge, and strict restorer | |
| Of wrong or right, with pain or with reward; | |
| There hung the score of all our debts, the card | |
| Where good and bad, and life and death, were painted: | |
| Was never heart of mortall so untainted, | 55 |
| But when that scroul was read, with thousand terrors fainted. | |
| |
| Witness the thunder that mount Sinai heard, | |
| When all the hill with fierie clouds did flame, | |
| And wand’ring Israel, with the sight afeard, | |
| Blinded with seeing, durst not touch the same, | 60 |
| But like a wood of shaking leaves became. | |
| On this dread Justice, she, the living law, | |
| Bowing herself, with a majestique awe, | |
| All heaven, to heare her speech, did into silence draw. | |
| |
| Dread Lord of spirits, well thou didst devise | 65 |
| To fling the world’s rude dunghill, and the drosse | |
| Of the old Chaos, furthest from the skies, | |
| And thine own seat, that heare the childe of losse, | |
| Of all the lower heav’n the curse and crosse; | |
| That wretch, beast, caytive, monster—man, might spend, | 70 |
| (Proud of the mire, in which his soul is pend) | |
| Clodded in lumps of clay, his wearie life to end. | |
| |
| His bodie dust—where grew such cause of pride? | |
| His soul thy image—what could he envie? | |
| Himself most happie, if he so would bide: | 75 |
| Now grown most wretched, who can remedie? | |
| He slew himself, himself the enemie. | |
| That his own soul would her own murder wreak,— | |
| If I were silent, heaven and earth would speak: | |
| And, if all fail’d, these stones would into clamours break. | 80 |
| |
| How many darts made furrows in his side, | |
| When she, that out of his own side was made, | |
| Gave feathers to their flight! where was the pride | |
| Of their new knowledge? whither did it fade, | |
| When, running from thy voice into the shade, | 85 |
| He fled thy sight, himself of sight bereav’d; | |
| And for his shield a leavie armour weav’d, | |
| With which, vain man, he thought, God’s eies to have deceiv’d? | |
| |
| And well he might delude those eies, that see | |
| And judge by colours: for who ever saw | 90 |
| A man of leaves, a reasonable tree? | |
| But those that from this stock their life did draw, | |
| Soon made their father godly, and by law | |
| Proclaimed trees almighty: gods of wood, | |
| Of stocks, and stones, with crowns of laurell stood | 95 |
| Templed, and fed by fathers with their children’s bloud. | |
| |
| The sparkling fanes, that burn in beaten gold, | |
| And, like the starres of heaven in midst of night, | |
| Black Egypt as her mirrours, doth behold, | |
| Are but the dens where idol-snakes delight | 100 |
| Again to cover Satan from their sight: | |
| Yet these are all their gods, to whom they vie | |
| The crocodile, the cock, the rat, the flie— | |
| Fit gods, indeed, for such men to be served by. | |
| |
| The fire, the winde, the sea, the sunne and moon, | 105 |
| The flitting aire, and the swift-winged houres, | |
| And all the watchmen, that so nimbly runne | |
| And sentinel about the walled towers | |
| Of the world’s citie in their heav’nly bowrs; | |
| And, lest their pleasant gods should want delight, | 110 |
| Neptune spues out the lady Aphrodite, | |
| And but in heav’n proud Juno’s peacocks scorn to lite. | |
| |
| The senselesse earth, the serpent, dog, and cat, | |
| And, worse than all these, man, and worst of men, | |
| Usurping Jove, and swilling Bacchus fat, | 115 |
| And drunk with the vine’s purple bloud, and then | |
| The fiend himself they conjure from his den, | |
| Because he onely yet remain’d to be | |
| Worse than the worst of men—they flee from thee, | |
| And weare his altar-stones out with their pliant knee. | 120 |
| |
| All that he speaks (and all he speaks are lies) | |
| Are oracles; ’tis he (that wounded all) | |
| Cures all their wounds; he (that puts out their eyes) | |
| That gives them light; he (that death first did call | |
| Into the world) that with his orizall | 125 |
| Inspirits earth: he Heav’n’s alseeing eye, | |
| In earth’s great prophet, he, whom rest doth flie, | |
| That on salt billows doth, as pillows, sleeping lie. | |
| |
| But let him in his cabin restlesse rest, | |
| The dungeon of dark flames, and freezing fire, | 130 |
| Justice in heav’n against man makes request | |
| To God, and of his angels doth require | |
| Sinne’s punishment: if what I did desire, | |
| Or who, or against whom, or why or where, | |
| Of, or before whom ignorant I were, | 135 |
| Then should my speech their sands of sins to mountains reare. | |
| |
| Were not the heav’ns pure, in whose courts I sue; | |
| The Judge to whom I sue, just to requite him; | |
| The cause for sinne, the punishment most due; | |
| Justice herself the plaintiffe to endite him; | 140 |
| The angels holy, before whom I cite him; | |
| He against whom, wicked, unjust, impure;— | |
| Then might he sinfull live, and die secure, | |
| Or triall might escape, or triall might endure. | |
| |
| The judge might partiall be, and over-prayed; | 145 |
| The place appeal’d from, in whose courts he sues; | |
| The fault excus’d, or punishment delay’d, | |
| The parties self-accus’d, that did accuse; | |
| Angels for pardon might their prayers use: | |
| But now no starre can shine, no hope be got. | 150 |
| Most wretched creature, if he knew his lot,— | |
| And yet more wretched farre because he knowes it not. | |
| |
| What should I tell how barren earth is grown | |
| All for to starve her children? didst not thou | |
| Water with heav’nly showers her wombe unsown, | 155 |
| And drop down clouds of flow’rs—didst not thou bowe | |
| Thine easie ear unto the plowman’s vow— | |
| Long might he look, and look, and look in vain, | |
| Might load his harvest in an empty wain, | |
| And beat the woods, to finde the poor oak’s hungry grain. | 160 |
| |
| The swelling sea seethes in his angry waves, | |
| And smites the earth, that dares the traitors nourish; | |
| Yet oft his thunder their light cork outbraves, | |
| Mowing the mountains, on whose temples flourish | |
| Whole woods of garlands; and their pride to cherish, | 165 |
| Plowe through the seas green fields, and nets display, | |
| To catch the flying windes, and steal away, | |
| Cooz’ning the greedie sea, pris’ning their nimble prey. | |
| |
| How often have I seen the waving pine, | |
| Tost on a waterie mountain, knock his head | 170 |
| At heav’n’s too patient gates, and with salt brine | |
| Quench the moon’s burning horns; and safely fled | |
| From heav’n’s revenge, her passengers, all dead | |
| With stiffe astonishment, tumble to hell! | |
| How oft the sea all earth would overswell, | 175 |
| Did not thy sandie girdle binde the mightie swell. | |
| |
| Would not the aire be filld with streams of death, | |
| To poison the quick rivers of their blood, | |
| Did not thy windes fan, with their panting breath, | |
| The flitting region? would not th’ hastie flood | 180 |
| Emptie itself into the sea’s wide wood, | |
| Didst not thou leade it wandring from his way, | |
| To give men drink, and make his waters stray, | |
| To fresh the flowrie medows, through whose fields they play? | |
| |
| Who makes the sources of the silver fountains | 185 |
| From the flint’s mouth and rockie valleys slide, | |
| Thickning the airie bowels of the mountains? | |
| Who hath the wilde heards of the forrest tide | |
| In their cold dens, making them hungry bide | |
| Till man to rest be laid? can beastly he | 190 |
| That should have most sense, onely senseles be, | |
| And all things else, beside himself, so awfull see? | |
| |
| Were he not wilder than the savage beast, | |
| Prouder than haughty hills, harder than rocks, | |
| Colder than fountains from their springs releast, | 195 |
| Lighter than aire, blinder than senseles stocks, | |
| More changing then the river’s curling locks,— | |
| If reason would not, sense would soon reprove him, | |
| And unto shame, if not to sorrow, move him, | |
| To see cold flouds, wilde beasts, dull stocks, hard stones, outlove him. | 200 |
| |
| Under the weight of sinne the earth did fall, | |
| And swallowed Dathan; and the raging winde, | |
| And stormie sea, and gaping whale, did call | |
| For Jonas; and the aire did bullets finde, | |
| And shot from heav’n a stony showre, to grinde | 205 |
| The five proud kings, that for their idols fought; | |
| The sunne itself stood still to fight it out, | |
| And fire from heav’n flew down, when sinne to heav’n did shout. | |
| |
| Should any to himself for safety flie? | |
| The way to save himself, if any were, | 210 |
| Were to fly from himself: should he relie | |
| Upon the promise of his wife? but there | |
| What can he see, but that he most may fear, | |
| A siren, sweet to death? upon his friends? | |
| Who that he needs, or that he hath not, lends; | 215 |
| Or wanting aid himself, aid to another sends? | |
| |
| His strength? but dust: his pleasure? cause of pain: | |
| His hope? false courtier: youth or beauty? brittle: | |
| Intreatie? fond: repentance? late and vain: | |
| Just recompence? the world were all too little: | 220 |
| Thy love? he hath no title to a tittle: | |
| Hell’s force? in vain her furies hell shall gather: | |
| His servants, kinsmen, or his children rather? | |
| His childe, if good, shall judge; if bad, shall curse his father. | |
| |
| His life? that brings him to his end, and leaves him: | 225 |
| His end? that leaves him to begin his wo: | |
| His goods? what good in that, that so deceives him? | |
| His gods of wood? their feet, alas! are slow | |
| That go to help, that must be helpt to go: | |
| Honour? great worth? ah, little worth they be | 230 |
| Unto their owners: wit? that makes him see | |
| He wanted wit, that thought he had it, wanting thee. | |
| |
| The sea to drink him quick? that casts his dead: | |
| Angels to spare? they punish: night to hide? | |
| The world shall burn in light: the heav’ns to spread | 235 |
| Their wings to save him? heav’n itself shall slide, | |
| And rowl away like melting starres, that glide | |
| Along their oylie threeds: his minde pursues him: | |
| His house to shrowd, or hills to fall, and bruise him? | |
| As seargeants both attache, and witnesses accuse him. | 240 |
| |
| What need I urge—what they must needs confesse— | |
| Sentence on them, condemn’d by their own lust? | |
| I crave no more, and thou canst give no lesse, | |
| Than death to dead men, justice to unjust; | |
| Shame to most shamefull, and most shameles dust: | 245 |
| But if thy Mercy needs will spare her friends, | |
| Let Mercy there begin, where Justice ends. | |
| ’Tis cruell Mercy that the wrong from right defends. | |
| |
| She ended, and the heavenly hierarchies, | |
| Burning in zeal, thickly imbranded 2 were; | 250 |
| Like to an armie that allarum cries, | |
| And every one shakes his ydraded 3 speare, | |
| And the Almightie’s self, as he would teare | |
| The Earth, and her firm basis quite in sunder, | |
| Flam’d all in just revenge, and mightie thunder; | 255 |
| Heav’n stole itself from Earth by clouds that moisten’d under. | |
