As men eat oysters, so on him they feed,
Whole and alive, and raw, and yet not bleed.
This cookerie, voyd of humanitie,
Is held in Rome for sound divinitie.
And is not this strange to heare,
That God, whom ye say ye feare,
Ye should eat as bely-cheare?
The graver, painter, baker, even these three,
Your priest have reason for to magnifie :
Perhaps the baker thinks he merits more,
Yet both advance their honor and their store;
For they, with their gentle feat,
Help them to money and to meat,
Making gods to begge and eat.
And now, me thinks, I heare old Laban say',
"See, they have stoln and born my gods away."
Me thinks, I heare and see that mountineer,
Micha of Ephraim2, who did idols feare,
Chiding with the Danits, for that they had
Took's priest and gods away, which made him mad.
Mee thinks I see the Philistins bereft
Of their vaine gods, which they to David left3,
And how that noble worthy made them bee
Destroyed of his souljers presentlie*.
Both men and beasts (a thing to be deplored)
May bear away the things you adored:
The things you worship with your heart and minde,
Men like yourselves can burne, can melt, can grinde.
Baruch's base things5 (a shame it is to thinck)
Can marre the things ye worship, and make stinck.
And is not this great folly,
More than childish vanity,
To dote on things so silly?
1 Gen. xxxii.
4 1 Chron. xiv. 12.
3 2 Sam. v. 21.
5 Bar. vi. 12, 22.
The foolish heathens were not all so mad,
For they devoured not the gods they had:
The wiser knew their vanities were wood,
Or such like stuffe; not gods, nor flesh and blood.
But yee, as if bewitcht, do count and call
That poore thing God, Maker and Lord of all,
Which is plaine bread, in substance very bread,
Made of wheat-flower, ground with man's hand,
and knead.
6 Vid. Basil. school. in Psal. cxiii. Lactan. lib. 1. cap. 2. Aug. in Psal. cxiii. Conc. II.
LADIE CULROS' DREAM.
UPON a day as I did morne full sore
For sundrie things wherewith my soull was grieved,
My grieff increased, and grew more and more,
I comfort fled, and could not be relieved;
With heaviness myne heart was sore mischieved,
I loath'd my lyfe, I could not eat or drink;
I might not speak, nor look to none that lived,
But mused alone, and divers things did think.
This wretched world did so molest my mynd,
I thought upon this fals and yron age,
And how our hearts were so to vyce inclyn'd,
That Satan seem'd most frightfully to rage.
Nothing on earth my sorrow could asswadge,
I felt my sinne most stronglie to increase ;
I greiv'd the Sprite had want to be my pledge,
My soull was plunged in most deep distress.
All merriness did aggravate my payn,
All earthlie joyes did still increase my wo;
In companie I could no way remayn,
But fled resort, and still alone did go.
My sillie soull was tossed to and fro
With sundrie thoughts, which troubled me full sore;
I preass'd to pray, but sighs ore set me so,
I could do nought but groan, and say no more.
The trickling tears most abundantlye ran down,
Myne heart was eas'd when I had mourn'd my
Then I began my lamantation,
And said, O Lord! how long is it thy will
That my poor sayncts shall be afflicted still?
Alace! how long shall subtle Satan rage?
Make haste, O Lord, thy promise to fulfill;
Make haste to end my paynfull pilgrimage."
TO THE KINGE'S MAIESTIE.
WHEN Tyme our styled yeare did end,
And chaunge beganne your raigne,
Then Time reft vs a soueraigne blisse,
Which chaunge repay'de with gaine.
Time now, by shortninge his owne time,
Hath chaung'd the aged yeare:
Yet in my long-borne zeale Time's chaunge
Can make no chaunge appeare.
But many a blessed chaunge of times
Heauens graunt your time may see;
That Time chaunge not your royall race,
Till Time no more shalbe.
Most humble and loyall,
S. A. GORGES.
Of many now that sounde, with hope's consort, Your wisdome, bountie, and peace-bless'd raygne, My skill is least, but of the most import,
Because not school'd by favours, gyfts, or gaine;
And that which more approves my truthfull layes, To sweete my tunes I straine not flattrye's strynge;
But holde that temper in your royall prayse
That longe I did before you were my kinge; As one that vertue for it selfe regards,
And loues his kinge more than his king's rewards.
THE LAWYER'S PHILOSOPHY.
AWAKE, my Muse, and from this slumb❜ring trance
Lightly arise, and on thy wings advance
Thy nimble-soaring spirit to the sunne,
Above the clouds that yet doe overrunne
Thy bright-ey'd beauty! Rowse away this dream,
That eddies in thy braine, like to a stream,
Whose giddy windings with plebeian stormes
Turne and returne, begetting sundry formes.
What though my sighs like clouds do fill the aire,
Thinke it not night: nor let us so duspaire,
As fainting to lye down in sorrowes deepe,
And there take up our last, eternall sleepe.
No, no; shake off the dewfalls of the night
That dampe thy plumes, and soare into the light
With cheerfull notes; whilst I retir'd, sit still,
Sighing a sad faburthen from my quill
To thy more nimble warblings. Let not feare
Distract our hopes: there's Ŏne above will heare,
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