FRANCIS QUARLES. VANITY OF THE WORLD. FALSE world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend 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, 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 Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'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, In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure The height of whose enchanting pleasure 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 Thus pass'd from town to town; until he come Ev'n so the rambling heart, that idly roves Of his offended but his gracious God, And lash'd from sins to sighs; and by degrees, Sets ope to heav'n, and shuts the doors to earth. If love-sick Jove commanded clouds should hap If earth (heav'n's rival) dart her idle ray, To heav'n, 'tis wax, and to the world, 'tis clay : An ark of peace; the lists of sacred strife; A shrine of grace, a little throne of glory: FLEEING FROM WRATH. O WHITHER shall I fly; what path untrod 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, What, if my soul should take the wings of day, What, if some solid rock should entertain Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave, 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, '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 Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly Shadows are faithless, and the rocks are false; |