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, NAHUM ར NAHUM ii. 10. She is empty, and void, and waste. 1. HE's empty hark, she sounds, there's nothing there 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 Her heav'n-bred soul a slave to serve a blast of wind? 4. She's empty: hark, she sounds: 'tis but a ball 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, 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. |