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A57205
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Jeremiah's contemplations on Jeremiah's lamentations, or, Englands miseries matcht with Sions elegies being described and unfolded in five ensuing sceanes / by Jeremiah Rich.
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Rich, Jeremiah, d. 1660?
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1648
(1648)
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Wing R1342; ESTC R28101
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36,790
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94
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heavie like a stone And our bath'd bosomes Monuments of moane Or Brazen Epitaphs if such there be Which keepe the dead in lasting memorie Leave me a while my teares bid me adue Mine eyes ere long shall doe as much for you 18 Because of the high mountaines which surround The faire Jerusalem my head is drown'd With my tormenting teares that loftie Hill From which the Traveller might looke his fill About the promis'd Land when mid-day Sunne Survey'd the circled word now Foxes runne Upon those ruin'd Territories which is In spight of Envie the worlds Paradise 19 But ah why doe we murmure what shall he That is but Dust dispose Eternitie To his fond reasoning Lord thou shalt remaine Although mortalitie be counted vaine And soone shall vanish yet thou art for aye Thou art not mortall as the sonnes of Day And if thy Throne before all Time begun Then thou shalt rule when Times swift race is run 20 Wherefore so soone dost thou forget us then Or why so long are we poore sonnes of men Forgotten of thee wherefore didst thou make us A pleasant Paradise and then forsake us Can Soules stay here on Earth when Death bereaves them Can Bodies live when once the Soule doth leave them Can Mortals prosper then when God doth dresse His face with anger and forgetfulnesse 21 Turne us O Lord and we shall turne indeed And if thou turne us not our Land may bleed In after-Ages since no pow'r at all Is in fond man since man at first did fall Renue those ancient dayes that prosp'rous time When Sion once was seated in the prime Of Princely Royaltie why hast thou hurl'd Deformitie on the glory of the world 22 But ah what solace can poore Isr'el spie Within this darkned Orb when Heav'ns bright eye Is furrow'd up with frownes if thou reject us What Land can save us or what Arme protect us Oh dearest Lord how doth thine anger paine Our fainting Soules oh how exceeding vaine Is the worlds dignitie alas our yeares Begun with troubles and must end with teares CONTEMPLATION V. OUr lab'ring sands are run yet Reader stay There is an Epilogue to the Tragick Play And it shall not be tedious yet what he That dips his Pen in Divine Poetrie And on so rare a Subject but must spend Some wearie houres ere his Worke will end But ah how dull is my dark Genius in this story I doe but veile sweet Loves Celestiall Glory With a black Curtaine while the holy Writ Is drest with Lines of my unworthy wit Oh I could rayle aloud at my dull Muse For this her ignorance I could accuse My dulled Pen my hand that ere I tooke Such heav'nly Oracles to make a Booke Of such poore valuation and oft times In anger I could rend these idle Rimes In thousand pieces for my Glasse is run And I must end before I have begun For should I now my Subject here define Each line 's a sentence and each word a line In these high Oracles but I doe wrong The Reader much to keepe him off so long From the last Contemplation which may smell Like costly Odours some may like it well Then pray good Reader that it may be blest Something He shew thee studie out the rest It was a Custome when th' Arcadian Kings Would aske an Oracle for weightie things Of god Apollo they durst not presume Without a Cloud of Smoake and rich Perfume To smother their Oblations with their Crie To urge the eares of the deafe Deitie These blinded Heathens have out-stript us they Although they knew no God would sometimes pray When imminent dangers were ev'n at the dore Each cry'd unto his god each did implore Some help from unknown Powers they would cast Their bodies on their knees they 'd mourn and fast And yet could have no answer all their paine Was labour lost their gods themselves were vaine But oh deluded England though thy knee Hath rockt dull man into a lethargie Of sensuall pleasures and hast glut his sence In a fooles paradise of Earths evidence Though we have slept in thy imbracing armes Dreaming of Heaven till these numerous swarmes Of feares did come and wake us yet we know We have a God that with one finall blow Can turne this spacious Universe aside And blast Hells Princes in their height of pride Yet doe but marke how farre we are behinde The Heathen world that were both deaf and blinde Yea dead in ignorance we all can say That prayer is prevalent yet few doe pray And fewer pray aright few that can tell The truest way few doe this dutie well And those that doe it best how slack they be Where is the man that prayeth constantly Yet what more comely then this sweet devotion Prayer is the wings that gives the Soule a motion To high eternitie it is the hand That reacheth Clusters from the promised Land Of sweet illustrious glory it is the Armes Thaâ—â—he Soule weares against insuing harmes Prayer backt with Faith is of farre greater force Then Warlike footmen o're the trampling Horse It conquers mightie Armies wins the field Strengthens the weake and makes the mightie yield Gives feet unto the lame eyes to the blinde Courage to Cowards vertue to the minde And honour for disgrace Credit for shame In stead of bad reports a righteous Name It gives us food when Famine doth commence It blunts the Sword and stops the Pestilence It gives the sick recov'rie of his health And sends the poore man unexpected wealth And what is more desired who can tell It open'th Heaven and it conquers Hell It makes the Furies tremble makes them flee To that low Vault of black eternitie With all their Plots of mischiefe which the Arts Of Fiends contriv'd it blunts the firie darts Of Satan and it gaines a Royall Crowne Of endlesse glory and unmatcht renowne And when the Earth is drie like parched Graine It flyes to Heaven and it fetcheth Raine And if the Corne be drown'd in water then Prayer Jocks up those stormie showers againe It calmes the swelling Ocean and it tames The burning Fornace and the firie flames It stayes the Lyons force without a wound It layes the sonnes of Anak on the ground It gives the tyred Soule a little breath Gaines immortalitie and conquers Death And is 〈◊〉 Then for our troubled Times Here is a Copie of Prophetick Rimes That tells the world there is a Death at hand Unto the foes of Heaven and our Land Mistake not Reader if at all thou lack The sence hereof this is no Almanack I doe not speake an end of Englands Warres By the strange motion of the wandring Starres Though it be plaine it would not be so well To write Predictions or to paralell The wondrous course of Heaven and each Starre No no good Reader 't is no Kalender For they may sometimes lye but even you Whom it concernes shall finde this Booke is true The holy Prophet with inspired skill Fore-told your Doome he never us'd
Jeremiah's CONTEMPLATIONS On Jeremiah's LAMENTATIONS OR ENGLANDS Miseries matcht with SIONS Elegies Being Described and unfolded in five ensuing Sceanes By JEREMIAH RICH Student JOB 22. v. 21. Acquaint thy selfe with God and be at peace thereby good shall come unto thee LONDON Printed for JOHN STEVENSON and are to be sold at his shop at the Sunne below Ludgate Hill 1648. TO THE RIGHT Honourable ELIANOR RICH Countesse of Sussex and Warwick Vicountesse Baronesse Fitzwalter Lady Egremond Burmel Mortimer and Leez Beloved Consort to the Right Honorable Robert Earle of Warwick Baron of Leez and Lord High Admirall of England JEREMIAH RICH wisheth health here and happinesse hereafter HAving most Honoured Lady perused the Lamentations of Jeremiah I found them sutable to the Complaints of England and when I called to minde that these two Ladies Israel and England were the Darlings of God the Daughters of Heaven the Wonder of the Earth and yet the Envie of the World and then beheld them in the bitternesse of Sorrow and in their silent sadnesse despised disgraced rejected depopulated distracted and abused I could not chuse but sometimes bathe my Subject with my Teares and following the president of the sad Prophet wish that mine eyes were Rivers of Waters that I might weepe day and night for the slaine of the Daughter of my people Indeed Israel was elder in Joy and England younger in Sorrow the Warres of Israel was farther from our apprehension the Woes of England neerer us in relation And who that sees her sequestred Husband her disobedient Children her frowning Brethren her bowing Battlements her weakened Bulwarkes her numerous Enemies and divided Armies but will say The glory of England is departed But it is not so for through the Gate of Mercie wee may espie a Doore of Hope I rather take these Divisions for a Purge that will purifie or a Qualme that will qualifie or an Antidote to expell Poyson and the darke Cloud of Englands Warre to be a short Thunder-clap to cleare the corrupted Ayre Madame these Contemplations are sad yet Divine as Divine fit for all times and as sad onely fit for these When I first composed them in Measure I intended them for my private Solace but through the importunitie of some whom Nature hath bound me to obey I have committed them now to publike Censure which I must expect to be hard enough yet farre more charitable if they flye through the world under the shadow of your Honours wings These Honourable Lady are the First-Fruits of my Poetrie either Morall or Divine which I humbly offer to your Honour To commend them I cannot and discommend them I will not Few will denie the goodnesse of the Subject though many may carpe at the Object and these will onely be the Scholars of Zoylus who finde fault with all things yet can mend nothing Thinke it not presumption my Honoured Ladie that I have intruded so farre upon your Goodnesse in presenting so unworthie an Offering and let the Error consume in his Zeale who is no lesse nor can begge to be any more then your Honours servant JEREMIAH RICH. TO THE READER THe orient lustre of Vertue shineth through the interposing Cloud of Envie and Love lasheth Malice sometimes with Rods of Roses This little Manuel deare Reader may keepe thee from future falls and guard thee from present feares It may be a Glasse for thine eye a Lanthorne for thy foot a Weapon for thine hand a Curb for thy tongue and a President for thy Pen. If by any thing here thou gainest profit lay its memoriall foundation in a building of practice And if thine eye behold an Error rebuke me silently and interre it in the sepulchre of Oblivion I say no more but wish thee all perfection in perusing understanding in the reading and charitie in the judging of these five Sceanes which at least was intended well by him who is at thy service JEREMIAH RICH To his Friend JEREMIAH RICH Upon his Contemplations RICH to thy prayse thou art enricht with wit Beyond thy yeares thy friends are proud of it I 've read thy Contemplations and admire That Youth unto such Gravitie should aspire The holy Prophet with inspired skill Pensil'd the Funerall Song of Israel And thy laborious Pen hath here descri'd The feares of England for her former Pride Thou hast not lasht the Errors of this Age With fained Dreames on the vain-glorious Stage But in a holy milde and gentle stile Lamentest the Transgressions of this I le Goe on to write and wee 'l not cease to prayse And to the highest pitch thy Merits raâ—se Such honour as the antient Romans gave To their admired Poets thou shalt have We will in signe of thy deserv'd renowne Impale thy Temples with a Lawrell Crowne ROBERT SLATER The Authors Entertainment 'TWere folly to disgrace or else commend This Booke Oh Reader if thou art my friend It is enough and wherefore then should I Set a dull Candle to thy darkned eye Untill the day appeare but that thy sight Would be amazed with that glorious light That shines in midst of darknesse lest it rise Too soone and quickly dim thy darkned eyes Now if this Candle falter in its glory Blame me not that Colestiall Story That was my Subject for too bright a day May cause a Travailer to lose his way But if to guide your feet this Candle shine Mine is the labour but the gaine is thine Goe on then Reader reade and understand And may thy heart be bett'red by my hand To all Eternitie and let it be The Epilogue of Englands Tragedie And so adue yet thus much I make knowne Reade it to purpose or let it alone Farwell Iohn Aston Jeremiah's CONTEMPLATIONS UPON Jeremiah's LAMENTATIONS CHAP. I. Verse 1. HOw sad doth Sion sit how doth she hide Her face in mourning Like a forlorne Bride Whose husband is departed when deaths charms Doth seperate Lovers from each others armes How doth she weep the famous City now Is weake and desolate her Bulworkes bow Their proud imperious necks to the vaine glory Of the proud Enemy and is tributory 2 Her lovely cheeks and her inchanting eie Where sat inthron'd a Princely Majestie Are bath'd in silent streames of flowing feares As if shee 'd make them lovely with her teares Among her amorous Lovers there are none Can give her comfort but increase her moane Nay all her Lovers they forsake her too And doe as all dissemblers use to doe 3 Victorious Judah she doth prisoner lye Fetter'd in chaines in strong captivity Against the prisoners cry she stopt her cares And now the rampant Lion's full of feares Now glorious Judah she that bore the bell From the twelve Tribes of warlike Israell Now dwels among the heathen and the head Of Kingly Sion is dishonoured 4 Those fragrant walkes and those alluring wayes Do seeme to mourne because no mirth nor prayse No Feast nor Sacrifice is in her gate Ah! lovely Land how art thou desolate The holy Priest with