HUGO.

O the extreme loathsomeness of fleshly lust, which not only effiminates the mind, but enerves the body; which not only distaineth the soul, but disguiseth the person! It is ushered wuh fury and wantonn ss: it is accompanied with filthiness and uncleanness; and it is followed with grief and repentance.

EPIG. 9.

What! sweet-fac'd Cupid, have thy bastard treasure,
Thy boasted honors, and thy bold-fac'd pleasure,
Perplex'd thee now? I told thee long ago,
To what they'd bring thee, fool: to wit, to woe.

NAHUM

Can Nothing then in this fair Orb be found?!

Strike it and prove: lis empty by its Sound.

ར

NAHUM ii. 10.

She is empty, and void, and waste.

1.

HE's empty hark, she sounds, there's nothing there
But noise to fill thy ear;

SE

Thy vain inquiry can at length but find

A blast of murm'ring wind :

It is a cask, that seems as full as fair,

;

But merely tunn'd with air Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds: The soul that vainly founds Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds.

2.

She's empty hark, she sounds: there's nothing in't, The spark-engend'ring flint

Shall sconer melt, and hardest raunce* shall first

Dissolve, and quench thy thirst;

Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast

With smooth-fac'd calms of rest.

Thou may'st as well expect meridian light

From shades of black-mouth'd night, As in this empty world to find a full delight.

* Raunce; i. e. dry, mouldy crust of bread.

She'

P

3.

She's empty hark, she sounds; 'tis void and vast;

What if some flatt ring blast

Of flatuous honour should perchance be there,

And whisper in thine ear?

It is but wind, and blows but where it list,

* And vanisheth like mist.

Poor honor earth can give! What gen'rous mind
Would be so base, to bind

Her heav'n-bred soul a slave to serve a blast of wind?

4.

She's empty: hark, she sounds: 'tis but a ball
For fools to play withal :

The painted film but of a stronger bubble,

That's lin'd with silken trouble

It is a world, whose work and recreation

Is vanity and vexation ;

A hag, repair'd with vice-complexion'd paint,

A quest-house of complaint:

It is a saint, a fiend; a worse fiend, when most a saint.

5.

She's empty hark, she sounds: 'tis vain and void,
What's here to be enjoy'd

But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow,

Drawn now, and cross'd to-morrow?

Or what are men, but puffs of dying breath,

Reviv'd with living death?

Fond lad, O build thy hopes on surer grounds

Than what dull flesh propounds:

Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark, she

[sounds.

S. CHRYS.