XCI. John Hagthorpe

From “Divine Meditations,” Chap. XVIII.

OH that my Muse could on her nimblest wings

Mount you aloft beyond the foggy aire,

Past the reflection of all terrene things,

And sublamate your soules to things more faire;

That, touching these terrestrial beauties, we

Might rather heare thinke why, than what they be!

First, what a spatious and maiestick hall,

Full of officious seruants for your vse,

Hath Heauen ordained to entertaine you all;

Wherein, if any want, ’tis but th’ abuse

Of foul excesse, whose surfets wasts the store

That might supply the needies’ wants twice o’er.

With what a downie carpet hath he spread

The flowerie earth to entertaine your feete,

Where euery plant and flowre that shews his head

Brings with it profit, wonder, and delight;

How many a pretty flie with spotted wing

Vpon there slender stalke their canzons sing!

How many fruitfull champains feeding flocks,

How many beautious forrests clad in greene,

Where watery nimphes with soft embraces locks;

Such shady groues, as for true loue may seeme

Fit chappels to the winged singers’ layes,

And burbling streames to chaunt true beautie’s praise.

Yet more, he lodges in earth’s secret vaines

Ten thousand things of farre more valued prise;

And th’ sea for pleasure and for vse conteines

The choisest beauties, richest smells and dies:

Thus hath our Maker for touch, tast, and smell,

For eye and eare, puruey’d compleatly well.

But man himselfe alone must feed the mind,

And contemplation onely cooks the dish:

What is it, then,—hath Heauen all these assigned

For our vse, to that end we should be his?

Then must we giue him one poor little part,

The onely thing he craues—a thankfull heart.