Holy Ghost,
If they to any should His temple give;
Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live
She, who hath carried thither new degrees,
As to their number, to their dignities;
She, who being to herself a state, enjoy’d
All royalties which any state employ’d;
For she made wars, and triumph’d; reason still
Did not o’erthrow, but rectify her will;
And she made peace, for no peace is like this,
That beauty and chastity together kiss.
She did high justice, for she crucified
Every first motion of rebellious pride.
And she gave pardons, and was liberal,
For, only herself except, she pardon’d all.
She coin’d, in this, that her impression gave
To all our actions all the worth they have.
She gave protections; the thoughts of her breast
Satan’s rude officers could ne’er arrest.
As these prerogatives being met in one
Made her a sovereign state, religion
Made her a church; and these two made her all.
She who was all this All, and could not fall
To worse, by company, for she was still
More antidote than all the world was ill,
She, she doth leave it, and by death survive
All this, in heaven; whither who doth not strive
The more, because she’s there, he doth not know
That accidental joys in heaven do grow.
But pause, my soul, and study, ere thou fall
On accidental joys, th’ essential.
Still, before accessories do abide
A trial, must the principal be tried.
And what essential joy canst thou expect
Here upon earth? what permanent effect
Of transitory causes? Dost thou love
Beauty—and beauty worthiest is to move—?
Poor cozened cozener, that she, and that thou,
Which did begin to love, are neither now;
You are both fluid, changed since yesterday;
Next day repairs—but ill—last day’s decay.
Nor are—although the river keep the name—
Yesterday’s waters and today’s the same.
So flows her face, and thine eyes; neither now
That saint nor pilgrim, which your loving vow
Concern’d, remains; but whilst you think you be
Constant, you’re hourly in inconstancy.
Honour may have pretence unto our love,
Because that God did live so long above
Without this honour, and then loved it so,
That He at last made creatures to bestow
Honour on Him, not that He needed it,
But that to His hands man might grow more fit.
But since all honours from inferiors flow,
—For they do give it; princes do but show
Whom they would have so honour’d—and that this
On such opinions and capacities
Is built, as rise and fall to more and less;
Alas! ’tis but a casual happiness.
Hath ever any man to himself assigned
This or that happiness to arrest his mind,
But that another man which takes a worse,
Thinks him a fool for having ta’en that course?
They who did labour Babel’s tower to erect,
Might have considered, that for that effect
All this whole solid earth could not allow
Nor furnish forth materials enow;
And that his centre, to raise such a place,
Was far too little to have been the base.
No more affords this world foundation
To erect true joy, were all the means in one;
But as the heathen made them several gods
Of all God’s benefits, and all His rods
—For as the wine, and corn, and onions are
Gods unto them, so agues be, and war—
And as by changing that whole precious gold
To such small copper coins, they lost the old,
And lost their only God, who ever must
Be sought alone, and not in such a thrust;
So much mankind true happiness mistakes;
No joy enjoys that man, that many makes.
Then, soul, to thy first pitch work up again;
Know that all lines which circles do contain,
For once that they the centre touch, do touch
Twice the circumference; and be thou such,
Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth employ’d.
—All will not serve; only who have enjoy’d
The sight of God in fullness can think it;
For it is both the object and the wit.
This is essential joy, where neither He
Can suffer diminution, nor we;
’Tis such a full, and such a filling good,
Had th’ angels once look’d on Him, they had stood.
To fill the place of one of them, or more,
She whom we celebrate is gone before;
She, who had here so much essential joy,
As no chance could distract, much less destroy;
Who with God’s presence was acquainted so
—Hearing and speaking to Him—as to know
His face in any natural stone or tree,
Better than when in images they be;
Who kept, by diligent devotion,
God’s image in such reparation
Within her heart, that what decay was grown
Was her first parents’ fault, and not her own;
Who, being solicited to any act,
Still heard God pleading His safe precontract;
Who by a faithful confidence, was here
Betroth’d to God, and now is married there;
Whose twilights were more clear than our midday;
Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray;
Who, being here fill’d with grace, yet strove to be
Both where more grace and more capacity
At once is given; she to heaven is gone,
Who made this world in some proportion
A heaven, and here became unto us all
Joy—as our joys admit—essential.
But could this low world joys essential touch,
Heaven’s accidental joys would pass them much.
How poor and lame must then our casual be?
If thy prince will his subjects to call thee
My lord, and this do swell thee, thou art then,
By being greater, grown to be less man.
When no physician of redress can speak,
A joyful casual violence may break
A dangerous aposthume in thy breast;
And whilst thou joyest in this, the dangerous rest,
The bag, may rise up, and so strangle thee.
Whate’er was casual, may ever be.
What should the nature change? or make the same
Certain, which was but casual, when it came?
All casual joy doth loud and plainly say,
Only by coming, that it can away.
Only in heaven joy’s strength is never spent,
And accidental things are permanent.
Joy of a soul’s arrival ne’er decays,
For that soul ever joys and ever stays.
Joy that their last great consummation
Approaches in the resurrection,
When earthly bodies more celestial
Shall be, than angels’ were, for they could fall;
This kind of joy doth every day admit
Degrees of growth, but none of losing it.
In this fresh joy, ’tis no small part that she,
She, in whose goodness he that names degree
Doth injure her—’tis loss to be called best
There, where the stuff is not such as the rest—
She, who left such a body, as even she
Only in heaven could learn how it can be
Made better; for she rather was two souls,
Or like to full on both sides
If they to any should His temple give;
Up, up, for in that squadron there doth live
She, who hath carried thither new degrees,
As to their number, to their dignities;
She, who being to herself a state, enjoy’d
All royalties which any state employ’d;
For she made wars, and triumph’d; reason still
Did not o’erthrow, but rectify her will;
And she made peace, for no peace is like this,
That beauty and chastity together kiss.
She did high justice, for she crucified
Every first motion of rebellious pride.
And she gave pardons, and was liberal,
For, only herself except, she pardon’d all.
She coin’d, in this, that her impression gave
To all our actions all the worth they have.
She gave protections; the thoughts of her breast
Satan’s rude officers could ne’er arrest.
As these prerogatives being met in one
Made her a sovereign state, religion
Made her a church; and these two made her all.
She who was all this All, and could not fall
To worse, by company, for she was still
More antidote than all the world was ill,
She, she doth leave it, and by death survive
All this, in heaven; whither who doth not strive
The more, because she’s there, he doth not know
That accidental joys in heaven do grow.
But pause, my soul, and study, ere thou fall
On accidental joys, th’ essential.
Still, before accessories do abide
A trial, must the principal be tried.
And what essential joy canst thou expect
Here upon earth? what permanent effect
Of transitory causes? Dost thou love
Beauty—and beauty worthiest is to move—?
Poor cozened cozener, that she, and that thou,
Which did begin to love, are neither now;
You are both fluid, changed since yesterday;
Next day repairs—but ill—last day’s decay.
Nor are—although the river keep the name—
Yesterday’s waters and today’s the same.
So flows her face, and thine eyes; neither now
That saint nor pilgrim, which your loving vow
Concern’d, remains; but whilst you think you be
Constant, you’re hourly in inconstancy.
Honour may have pretence unto our love,
Because that God did live so long above
Without this honour, and then loved it so,
That He at last made creatures to bestow
Honour on Him, not that He needed it,
But that to His hands man might grow more fit.
But since all honours from inferiors flow,
—For they do give it; princes do but show
Whom they would have so honour’d—and that this
On such opinions and capacities
Is built, as rise and fall to more and less;
Alas! ’tis but a casual happiness.
Hath ever any man to himself assigned
This or that happiness to arrest his mind,
But that another man which takes a worse,
Thinks him a fool for having ta’en that course?
They who did labour Babel’s tower to erect,
Might have considered, that for that effect
All this whole solid earth could not allow
Nor furnish forth materials enow;
And that his centre, to raise such a place,
Was far too little to have been the base.
No more affords this world foundation
To erect true joy, were all the means in one;
But as the heathen made them several gods
Of all God’s benefits, and all His rods
—For as the wine, and corn, and onions are
Gods unto them, so agues be, and war—
And as by changing that whole precious gold
To such small copper coins, they lost the old,
And lost their only God, who ever must
Be sought alone, and not in such a thrust;
So much mankind true happiness mistakes;
No joy enjoys that man, that many makes.
Then, soul, to thy first pitch work up again;
Know that all lines which circles do contain,
For once that they the centre touch, do touch
Twice the circumference; and be thou such,
Double on heaven thy thoughts on earth employ’d.
—All will not serve; only who have enjoy’d
The sight of God in fullness can think it;
For it is both the object and the wit.
This is essential joy, where neither He
Can suffer diminution, nor we;
’Tis such a full, and such a filling good,
Had th’ angels once look’d on Him, they had stood.
To fill the place of one of them, or more,
She whom we celebrate is gone before;
She, who had here so much essential joy,
As no chance could distract, much less destroy;
Who with God’s presence was acquainted so
—Hearing and speaking to Him—as to know
His face in any natural stone or tree,
Better than when in images they be;
Who kept, by diligent devotion,
God’s image in such reparation
Within her heart, that what decay was grown
Was her first parents’ fault, and not her own;
Who, being solicited to any act,
Still heard God pleading His safe precontract;
Who by a faithful confidence, was here
Betroth’d to God, and now is married there;
Whose twilights were more clear than our midday;
Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray;
Who, being here fill’d with grace, yet strove to be
Both where more grace and more capacity
At once is given; she to heaven is gone,
Who made this world in some proportion
A heaven, and here became unto us all
Joy—as our joys admit—essential.
But could this low world joys essential touch,
Heaven’s accidental joys would pass them much.
How poor and lame must then our casual be?
If thy prince will his subjects to call thee
My lord, and this do swell thee, thou art then,
By being greater, grown to be less man.
When no physician of redress can speak,
A joyful casual violence may break
A dangerous aposthume in thy breast;
And whilst thou joyest in this, the dangerous rest,
The bag, may rise up, and so strangle thee.
Whate’er was casual, may ever be.
What should the nature change? or make the same
Certain, which was but casual, when it came?
All casual joy doth loud and plainly say,
Only by coming, that it can away.
Only in heaven joy’s strength is never spent,
And accidental things are permanent.
Joy of a soul’s arrival ne’er decays,
For that soul ever joys and ever stays.
Joy that their last great consummation
Approaches in the resurrection,
When earthly bodies more celestial
Shall be, than angels’ were, for they could fall;
This kind of joy doth every day admit
Degrees of growth, but none of losing it.
In this fresh joy, ’tis no small part that she,
She, in whose goodness he that names degree
Doth injure her—’tis loss to be called best
There, where the stuff is not such as the rest—
She, who left such a body, as even she
Only in heaven could learn how it can be
Made better; for she rather was two souls,
Or like to full on both sides
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