Selected quad for the lemma: earth_n
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A61487
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Occasions off-spring, or, Poems upon severall occasions by Mathew Stevenson.
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Stevenson, Matthew, fl. 1654-1685.
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1645
(1645)
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Wing S5504; ESTC R14739
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54,320
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144
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fully finisht the world vast Theater He brings up Man and gives the world to see His curious art in their Epitome VVhich but in man he in no creature would They but of Simple hee of Compound mould They but of bodyes only doe consist In man a bodie and a soule contrist His bodie his base part earth represents His heaven-breathd soule earth's soule the elements The ingredients of the world are water Aire Earth fire such man's ingredients are Your leave And thus the semblance I rehearse Betweene the great and little Universe His head 's orbicular like the circular skies Whose lamps meet rivalls in his orient eyes And as t is heaven most like t is heaven most neare Reason swayes her majestiest seepter there That divine guest that makes a man thence all The senses borrow their originall And as their sole and supreme court repaire To manifest their virtues in that chaire Nor may I here forget that comely front That so surprises all that looke upon â—t Those lovely lineaments those goodly graces Attend the sweets of well proportiond faces What wonders nature in his tongue commences The instruments of delicious senses Which wee beyond expresse oftimes refresh With rapsodies from that small filme of flesh How right here 's Pan and phoebus whilst our cares Are partiall twixt our voyces and the spheares Some time t' is full and makes his voice as loud As thundring roating from the shattered cloud But let 's goe downward with his heires and see How it does with the piles of grasse agree The number well concurres in each wee see The numerous foot steps of a deitie Both the effect of moisture who so seekes The Rose or Lillie they so blow in his cheeks Nay what can you present but hee commands The lively transhape from his Protean handes His bloud is like the streams that to and fro Turning and winding are the center through should I here swell my story to present The office of each chord each ligament The Nerves the tendons and the Arteries My life would be toe short to finish these Nay there 's no member but in it I see A theame of wonder to eternitie And yet this body wee can't prayse enuffe Compare it with the soule ti's sordid stuffe Ther 's not such dfference t'wixt the sorrie case And Iewell t'wixt the mask and the faire face God made mans body after all the rest Add after that inspir'd the soule the best The body from the earth the dust ascends The incompounded soule from God descends T' is not the flessi but in the soule that wee Assume the image of the deitie The bodie 's suject to moralitie The soul part of the living God can't dye Natures appointed time of change revolves And it into his elements desolves His native heat does to the fire repaire Water to water breath unto the aire The bones and parts that are more solid must Lye prisners till they render dust to dust Meane time the soul her native station keeps In heaven whilst nature in her causes sleeps A Guesse at HELL Par nullae figura Gehennae ACcursed Topheth how shall I define This dismall dungeon this sad Cell of thine So dark so duskie so devoid of light How shall I see to draw thy picture right VVhat Colours shall I grinde Colours said I Thou art all black black as Proserpines Eye Deep declive beneath the dead Sea is In a blinde hole this thy all black Abysse Thy pitchie Pallace where the chearly Sun Nere comes as out of his commission Nor lends the Moon so much as one odd night To qualifie thy darknesse with her light VVhich we but sleep by No nor all the yeare Does one small starre on thy dark front appeare Thou blackest Moore ask but thy Danaan traine Their tub tash tells thee thou art labour in vaine Goe ask Ixion else or him whose stone Gathers no mosse they all conclude in one Thou the true Negro art and Patentee Of utter shades there is no night but thee The darknes the Egyptians felt was but A type of thine and but too fairely cut Trâ—tareous Tullian how thy tract is trod To Baalzeub knight of the black rod Whose haggie haire curls into snaky torts More terrible then poets poore reportâ— His ghastly yea his grislie looke is such My sense fosakee mee if I thinke on 't much His hornes the pitch fork is where with he turnes Those broyling Sceletons he ever burnes In flames that never shall be quencht but hark I talk of flames and yet I call Hell dark Flames I confesse there are but black not bright Yea there is fire and yet no firelight Fowle feind thy nose is like a Comet or The tayle of some prodigious Meteoï Well may it serve thee for thy red hot purr VVherewith thou dost thy stifling sulphur stirre Thy sooty Eybrowes are as black as coales Smoakt with thine eyes that flame like Oven holes Meane while the Corners where fresh Brimstone lies Pretend a yellow Jandyse in thine eyes But 't is the black the black fiend is thy griefe But thy disease admits of no reliefe Thy mouth like raging Aetna vomits fire The furious flakes of thy unslak't desire As much attractive and as mercilesse as The 7 times hotter headed furnace was Thine armes are firie fetters that embrace Those monuments of miserie whose sad case Thou do'st not pâ—ttie though though seem'st a while To weep upon them like the Crocodile Have you not heard of smoaking Sodom such His breath 's But Sodom smoak's not half so much His veynes are streams of sulphur His loud lungs His bellows And his hideous hands his tongues His black and melancholly bloud containes VVorse venome then â—re lurkt in Centaurs veines And by his cloven foot 't is plainly showne His Kingdom run's upon Division These are his titles The Vnfathom'd Gulfe The Roaring Lion And the Raging Woolfe The Wild Beast of the Forrest The Annoyer Of Christian liberty The Destroyer The Mortall Enemy of all man kinde By these and such like tearmes is he defind Father of Falshood Feeces of the Cup Of Condemnation who can summe thee up Or set thee forth No hand can ere effect it Unlesse that hand that captiv'd thee direct it Envye her Ensign on thy front displaies And like the Basilisk at distance slayes Thy Nose steep as the Alpes parts two deep Cells On this side Hatred That side Malice dwells And cause such beauty some preservatives askes Shame and Confusion are thy constant masks But least my Charkole faile to finish thee Thou art the form of all deformity As for thy vassalls thus begin their evills Their entrance strait transformes them into Devils Their entertainment will be such as they Shall flee to death But death will flye away Hard are their haps so vainly shall implore A deadly reqâ—iem at death's deafned dore The torturous worme that gnawes their consciences Doe's like Prometheus vultur never cease Curses are all their hymmes Their parched throats
his exerciâ—o He pipes dances and he dyes And when passing we can tell For he rings out his own knell Vpon his second time being dead drunk LOe here Dead as the bere Was drawn last yeare And Coffind up In a lost Cup Lyes litle heart O Who like a fart O Did now depart O T was ruffe And with a puffe Out went the snuffe Alas how soon T is after noon This morning hee O Was companie O For thee or mee O. â—nd tooke Ahe Spanish smoke Into his poke As if he meant Sir by consent To tune his pipe O But being ripe O Began to type O But P O No more but so T is Oliver O Le ts oversee This scape for hee The truth to tell O Till he was mellow Was a good fellow And shall to morrow morning make 's approach As quick and lively as the fresh abroach An Epitaph upon a Weaver HEre lyes a Weaver whom that Turk And tyrant death turn'd out of work Poore fellow he is gone what though Hee 's out of bonds would I were so Alas he sold Chamelion ware By which he sav'd scarce ought but aire Gone quoth heeâ— pray how should he stay Such gaine will drive us all away Well t was a sad aâ—d suddaine change And yet to me t is nothing strange For trading 's dead and wares will give No price at all how should he live An Epitaph Dedicate to the Memorie of Dr. Ed. Cook UNsluce your Captive flouds what can ye keep Your eyes from teares and see the Marble weep Burst out for shame or if yee find no vent For greife yet stay and see the stones relent Jf still you can forbâ—are weepe then to see Your stupid hearts more stone then Niobe On goodwife Plaine Here with out either welt or gard Lyes goody Plaine in the Church yard Fresh in our memoryes till the next raine Setle the earth againe downe plaine On W. G. A great swearer but litle lyar VVill the swearer 's dead and gon VVhether you may guesse anon Say hee is inheaven J dare not Jn that sacred place they sweare not VVhere then not in hell no doubt For heed sweare the devill ouâ— What must then become of him Does hee neither sinck nor swim Heavens forbid wel'l judge the best And conclude his souls ' at rest Of his oathes hee did repent him And his conscience do'unt torment him And hee shall heavens mercy crav'd By Gods bloud and wounds be sav'd In memoriam Roberti Dey Pharmacap Norv Arts Parramour is dead that men may see Nature hath noâ— hold of eternitie O that my teares were legible that J And my sad muse might weep his elegie Norwich in sorrows weeds attend his urne Iâ— not for his yet for your owne sakes mourne Remember cittizens yee us'd to fly To sue out your reprives from death to Dy Whose salutifierous magazine of artes Was your cheife Sanctuary against death's darts There feeble nature in a trice might be Arm'd against all disseases Cap ape But hee Is gone and in a good old age Tooke his calme Exit of a turbulent stage His death as harmelesse as his birth from whence His years were crownd with double innocence good VVhilst wee for so perhaps heavens have thought Are left to write our stories in our bloud Time's syth hath wounded him but hee hath gâ—t Such semper-vivum as hee feels it not VVith faith hope charitie contrition He made up his Celestiall composition And with an unctious name hee mixt a Roll Of Gratia deâ— for his wounded soule Now his thread yeilded to the Sisters knife For Aqua-vitae hee drinkes water of life Much might unto his prayses spoken be And only this one truth namely that hee Even Dey the true Apothecary was All that are left are but synoyma's To the perpetuall memory of my ever honoured Cozen Mr. E. H. Vnder this sad marble lyes Natures pride and beauties prize Such so sweet her accents were As would charme a Syrens eare Such her modest mode as shee Taught the turtle charitie Jn summe a more veruous wife Never sweetend husbands life To conclude then all was shee Man could wish or woman be Who lyes here like treasure found Not above but under ground A Legacie to VRBANIA an unworthy Cittie Citty ingrate nay worse but I le include All your good nature in ingratitude Wellfare your costly swordes which now yee wouâ—d As faine encrimson in my inocent bloud As ere yee wisht m' Crucifige accept you ah you Hosanna cry and hosenecha too Js it in this in this J pray I wrong yee To spend my selfe and my estate among yee Jf weary steps to make your Citty flourish If head if heart if Purse employ'd to nourish Widows distrest and orphans be a crime Grant heaven no worse offence take up my time Bark on black mouthed envie yee as soone Affright mee as the Syrian wolves the moone Nor doe J envie those have sought with cost The honourable trouble J have lost Lord fill my hart with thanks my mouth with praise My haires may yet see halcyon dayes God guards mee still though I 've no swordes t t' davance Though no fine cap God is my maintenance In Hono rem Poetarum WHose poore conceit is that That Poets should be poore They talk they know not what Alas they wish no more They have Enough in that they see Content is worth a monarchy Do not the sacred Nine Come daily to their houses And break their fast and dine And sup and soop carouses Who calls them poore then that are able To feast the Muses at their table Yee go to Poets when Your dearest friends be dead They give them life agen Though they be buried T is strange then Poets should not live That thus can life to dead men give Yea all the world must know Save those to truth averse The swaine was taught to plow By Virgills fertil verse T is strange then he should needy be Found out the art of Husbandry Riplie was rich I trow VVhose Poems did enfold That which men hunt for soe The art of making Gold He had the Phylosophick stone Sure hee must then be ricâ— or none Yea do not all men say Poets dare any thing Pray was not noble May Calld brother by a King Nor is it more then true report Satyrick lines have hang'd a sort Euridice could tell That being ravisht hence Bold Orpheus ransackt hell And rescu'd her from thence Yea verses so Magnetick are They fetch the Moon down from the sphear Nor have they only power But gifts of prophesie The most celestiall dower Heavens give mortalitie Sure then they can't want costly Cates Being Oracles and Potentates They that have most still itch For more more baggs to stuffe VVhilst they are only rich Can see they have enuffe How poorly fools of Poets prate Come they are poore whom God doth hate Princeps Vates non quovis nascitur anno Man WHat time Iehovah heaven earths Creâ—tor Had