How many piercing Pens haue lannet the Vaines
Of this vaine World, to let her humors out?
How many Satyres beate their tried Braines,
How, from this Ioynt-sick Age to bite the Gowt?
And yet like those anoyd with that disease,
These Times haue rather rest then helpe thereby:
For they displease them that do them displease;
So rest reuenged, but toild in malady
And oft those Surgeans are as humorous
As are the Aches which they seek to heale;
Who hauing Teeth, as sharp as numerous,
Through others bite themselues, which sold they feele.
Because themselues are senselesse of their Ills,
Which this obseruing World perceluing well
Measures their Medicines by their wicked Wills,
So loths their Corsiues, and themselues doth quell
But he that looks with well-discerning Eyes
Into the worlds ineuitable woes,
Shal see it sick of mortal maladies;
And wil [as from the plague] flie far from those.
I see them well [though wel I cannot see
Sith I am Hood-winckt still with darke desires]
And I confesse the World's the worse for me,
Though to the best my Spirit at worst aspires
Faine would I leaue this fardle of my Flesh
In Fastings Charge; the lighter so to flye
From these still following plagues which are most fresh
When we are weariest of their company
But lo the World still rounds me in the eare
With Wind that sweetly in that Organ sounds,
Which me alures to loue mirth, ioye, and Cheare:
So downe it beats my wil when it rebounds
Thus the Worlds heauy and vnholy hand
My Sprit suppresseth that would faine aspire;
And with my Flesh, conspires it to withstand
With whom the Diuel ioynes in that desire.
Thus do I rest in that Church militant,
Which still withstands these three stil fighting Foes
Stil warring with them til that strength I want
To gard, with grace, their most vngratious Blowes.
Then, through my weaknesse am I forced to yeeld
Who then, like Tyrants, triumph in my spoile,
And wrack my Hopes best haruest in the Field
Which they haue got, so, feareful make my foile:
And thus twixt good, and euil, Sin, and grace,
I stil do, striuing run a tedious Race!
Of this vaine World, to let her humors out?
How many Satyres beate their tried Braines,
How, from this Ioynt-sick Age to bite the Gowt?
And yet like those anoyd with that disease,
These Times haue rather rest then helpe thereby:
For they displease them that do them displease;
So rest reuenged, but toild in malady
And oft those Surgeans are as humorous
As are the Aches which they seek to heale;
Who hauing Teeth, as sharp as numerous,
Through others bite themselues, which sold they feele.
Because themselues are senselesse of their Ills,
Which this obseruing World perceluing well
Measures their Medicines by their wicked Wills,
So loths their Corsiues, and themselues doth quell
But he that looks with well-discerning Eyes
Into the worlds ineuitable woes,
Shal see it sick of mortal maladies;
And wil [as from the plague] flie far from those.
I see them well [though wel I cannot see
Sith I am Hood-winckt still with darke desires]
And I confesse the World's the worse for me,
Though to the best my Spirit at worst aspires
Faine would I leaue this fardle of my Flesh
In Fastings Charge; the lighter so to flye
From these still following plagues which are most fresh
When we are weariest of their company
But lo the World still rounds me in the eare
With Wind that sweetly in that Organ sounds,
Which me alures to loue mirth, ioye, and Cheare:
So downe it beats my wil when it rebounds
Thus the Worlds heauy and vnholy hand
My Sprit suppresseth that would faine aspire;
And with my Flesh, conspires it to withstand
With whom the Diuel ioynes in that desire.
Thus do I rest in that Church militant,
Which still withstands these three stil fighting Foes
Stil warring with them til that strength I want
To gard, with grace, their most vngratious Blowes.
Then, through my weaknesse am I forced to yeeld
Who then, like Tyrants, triumph in my spoile,
And wrack my Hopes best haruest in the Field
Which they haue got, so, feareful make my foile:
And thus twixt good, and euil, Sin, and grace,
I stil do, striuing run a tedious Race!
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