IX.

ISAIAH X. 3.

What will

ye do in the day of your visitation? to whom will ye flie for help ? and where will leave your glory?

Is

1.

S this that jolly God, whose Cyprian bow
Has shot so many flaming darts,
And made so many wounded beauties go
Sadly perplex'd with whimp'ring hearts?
Is this that sov'reign deity, that brings
The slavish world in awe, and stings

ye

The blund'ring souls of swains, and stops the hearts of

2.

What Circean charm, what Hecatæan spite
Has thus abus'd the god of love?

Great Jove was vanquish'd by his greater might;
(And who is stronger-arm'd than Jove ?)
Or has our lustful god perform'd a rape,

And (fearing Argus' eyes) would 'scape
The view of jealous earth, in this prodigious shape ?

3.

Where be those rosy cheeks, that lately scorn'd
The malice of injurious fates?

Ah! where's that pearl port-cullis* that adorn'd
Those dainty two-leav'd ruby gates?

Where be those killing eyes that so controll'd
The world, and locks that did infold

kings?

Like knots of flaming wire, like curls of burnish'd gold?

*Port-cullis (a term of fortification), i. e. a grate dropt down, to

stop a gate-way.

No,

4.

No, no, 'twas neither Hecatæan spite,
Nor charm below, nor pow'r above;
'Twas neither Circe's spell, nor Stygian sprite,
That thus transform'd our god of love;

'Twas owl-ey'd lust (more potent far than they)
Whose eyes and actions hate the day :

Whom all the world observe, whom all the world obey.

5. 1

See how, the latter trumpet's dreadful blast
Affrights stout Mars his trembling son!
See how he startles! how he stands aghast,
And scrambles from his melting throne!
Hark, how the direful hand of vengeance tears
The swelt'ring clouds, whilst heav'n appears
A circle fill'd with flame, and centr'd with his fears!

6.

This is that day, whose oft report hath worn
Neglected tongues of prophets bare ;
The faithless subject of the worldling's scorn,
The sum of men and angels pray'r :

This, this the day, whose all-discerning light
Ransacks the secret dens of night

And severs good from bad; true joys from false delight.

7.

You grov'ling worldlings, you, whose wisdom trades
Where light ne'er shot his golden ray,

That hide your actions in Cimmerian shades,
How will your eyes endure this day?

Hills will be dead, and mountains will not hear;
There be no caves, no corners there

To shade

[fear. your souls from fire, to shield your hearts from

HUGO.

HUGO.

O the extreme loathsomeness of fleshly lust, which not only effiminates the mind, but enerves the body; which not only distaineth the soul, but disguiseth the person! It is ushered with fury and wantonness: it is accompanied with filthiness and uncleanness; and it is followed with grief and repentance.

EPIG. 9.

What! sweet-fac'd Cupid, have thy bastard treasure,
Thy boasted honors, and thy bold-fac'd pleasure,
Perplex'd thee now? I told thee long ago,
To what they'd bring thee, fool: to wit, to woe.

NAHUM

X.

NARUM ii. 10.

She is empty, and void, and waste.

1.

SH
Thy vain inquiry can at length but find

HE's empty: hark, she sounds, there's nothing there
But noise to fill thy ear;

A blast of murm'ring wind:

It is a cask, that seems as full as fair,

But merely tunn'd with air; Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds: The soul that vainly founds Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds.

2.

she's empty hark, she sounds: there's nothing in't,
The spark-engend'ring flint
Shall sconer melt, and hardest raunce* shall first
Dissolve, and quench thy thirst
Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast

With smooth-fac'd calms of rest.

Thou may'st as well expect meridian light

From shades of black-mouth'd night, As in this empty world to find a full delight.

* Raunce; i. e. dry, mouldy crust of bread.

She'

F

3.

She's empty hark, she sounds; 'tis void and vast ;

What if some flatt ring blast

Of flatuous honour should perchance be there,

And whisper in thine ear?

It is but wind, and blows but where it list,
And vanisheth like mist.

Poor honor earth can give! What gen'rous mind
Would be so base, to bind

Her heav'n-bred soul a slave to serve a blast of wind?

4.

She's empty hark, she sounds: 'tis but a ball
For fools to play withal :

The painted film but of a stronger bubble,

That's lin'd with silken trouble:

It is a world, whose work and recreation

Is vanity and vexation;

A hag, repair'd with vice-complexion'd paint,

A quest-house of complaint:

It is a saint, a fiend; a worse fiend, when most a saint.

5.

She's empty hark, she sounds: 'tis vain and void, What's here to be enjoy'd

But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow,

Drawn now, and cross'd to-morrow!

Or what are men, but puffs of dying breath,

Reviv'd with living death?

Fond lad, O build thy hopes on surer grounds

Than what dull flesh propounds:

Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark, she

[sounds.

S. CHRYS.