| |
| THE GRACELESS Traitour round about did look | |
| (He lookt not long, the devil quickly met him) | |
| To finde a halter, which he found, and took, | |
| Onely a gibbet now he needs must get him; | |
| So on a wither’d tree he fairly set him, | 5 |
| And helpt him fit the rope, and in his thought | |
| A thousand furies, with their whips, he brought; | |
| So there he stands, readie to hell to make his vault. | |
| |
| For him a waking bloudhound, yelling loud, | |
| That in his bosome long had sleeping laid; | 10 |
| A guiltie conscience, barking after bloud, | |
| Pursued eagerly, ne ever staid, | |
| Till the betrayer’s self it had betray’d. | |
| Oft chang’d he place, in hope away to winde, | |
| But change of place could never change his minde: | 15 |
| Himself he flies to lose, and follows for to finde. | |
| |
| There is but two wayes for this soul to have, | |
| When parting from the body, forth it purges; | |
| To flie to heav’n, or fall into the grave, | |
| Where whips of scorpions, with the stinging scourges, | 20 |
| Feed on the howling ghosts, and fierie surges | |
| Of brimstone rowl about the cave of night, | |
| Where flames do burn, and yet no spark of light; | |
| And fire both fries and freezes the blaspheming spright. | |
| |
| There lies the captive soul, aye-sighing sore, | 25 |
| Reck’ning a thousand yeares since her first bands; | |
| Yet stayes not there, but addes a thousand more, | |
| And at another thousand never stands, | |
| But tells to them the starres and heaps the sands: | |
| And now the starres are told, and sands are runne, | 30 |
| And all those thousand thousand myriads done, | |
| And yet, but now, alas! but now all is begunne. | |
| |
| With that a flaming brand a furie catch’d, | |
| And shook, and tost it round in his wilde thought, | |
| So from his heart all joy, all comfort snatcht, | 35 |
| With ev’ry starre of hope; and as he sought | |
| (With present fear and future grief distraught) | |
| To flie from his own heart, and aid implore | |
| Of him, the more he gives, that hath the more, | |
| Whose storehouse is the heav’ns, too little for his store: | 40 |
| |
| “Stay, wretch, on earth” (cried Satan)—“restlesse rest; | |
| Know’st thou not Justice lives in heav’n; or can | |
| The worst of creatures live among the best— | |
| Among the blessed angels cursed man? | |
| Will Judas now become a Christian? | 45 |
| Whither will hope’s long wings transport thy minde? | |
| Or canst thou not thyself a sinner finde? | |
| Or, cruell to thyself, wouldst thou have mercie kinde? | |
| |
| “He gave thee life; why shouldst thou seek to slay him? | |
| He lent thee wealth to feed thy avarice: | 50 |
| He call’d thee friend—what, that thou shouldst betray him? | |
| He kist thee, though he knew his life the price: | |
| He washt thy feet—shouldst thou his sacrifice? | |
| He gave thee bread, and wine, his bodie, bloud, | |
| And at thy heart to enter in he stood; | 55 |
| But then I entred in, and all my snakie brood.” | |
| |
| As when wilde Pentheus, grown mad with fear, | |
| Whole troups of hellish hags about him spies, | |
| Two bloody sunnes stalking the duskie sphear, | |
| And twofold Thebes runs rowling in his eyes; | 60 |
| Or through the scene staring Orestes flies, | |
| With eyes flung back upon his mother’s ghost, | |
| That, with infernall serpents all embost, | |
| And torches quencht in blood, doth her stern sonne accost; | |
| |
| Such horrid gorgons, and misformed forms | 65 |
| Of damned fiends, flew dancing in his heart, | |
| That, now unable to endure their storms, | |
| “Flie, flie!” he cries, “thyself whatere thou art, | |
| Hell, hell, alreadie burns in ev’ry part.” | |
| So down into his torturers’ arms he fell, | 70 |
| That readie stood his funeralls to yell, | |
| And in a cloud of night to waft him quick to hell. | |
| |
| Yet oft he snatcht, and started as he hung: | |
| So when the senses half enslumbered lie, | |
| The headlong bodie, readie to be flung | 75 |
| By the deluding phansie from some high | |
| And craggie rock, recovers greedily, | |
| And clasps the yeelding pillow, half asleep, | |
| And, as from heav’n it tombled to the deep, | |
| Feels a cold sweat through ev’ry trembling member creep: | 80 |
| |
| There let him hang embowelled in bloud, | |
| Where never any gentle shepheard feed | |
| His blessed flocks, nor ever heav’nly floud | |
| Fall on the cursed ground, nor wholesome seed, | |
| That may the least delight or pleasure breed; | 85 |
| Let never Spring visit his habitation, | |
| But nettles, kix, and all the weedy nation, | |
| With emptie elders grow—sad signes of desolation! | |
| |
| There let the dragon keep his habitance, | |
| And stinking carcasses be thrown avaunt, | 90 |
| Fauns, sylvans, and deformed satyrs dance, | |
| Wild cats, wolves, toads, and screech-owls direly chaunt; | |
| There ever let some restlesse spirit haunt, | |
| With hollow sound, and clashing chains, to scare | |
| The passenger, and eyes like to the starre | 95 |
| That sparkles in the crest of angrie Mars afarre. | |
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