Selected quad for the lemma: water_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