To the Courteous Reader.
How hard an enterprise it is, in this skilful and
curious Age, to commit our private labours to the
public view, mine own disability and others' hard
success do too well assure me: and were it not
for that love [which] I bear to the true lovers of music,
I had concealed these my first fruits; which how they will
thrive with your taste I know not, howsoever the greater
part of them might have been ripe enough by their age. The
Courtly judgement, I hope will not be severe against them,
being itself a party; and those sweet Springs of Humanity, I
mean our two famous Universities, will entertain them for
his sake whom they have already graced, and, as it were, enfranchised
in the ingenuous profession of Music: which, from
my childhood I have ever aimed at, sundry times leaving my
native country, the better to attain so excellent a science.
About sixteen years past [i.e., in 1580], I travelled the
chiefest parts of France, a nation furnished with great variety
of Music; but lately, being of a more confirmed judgement, I
bent my course towards the famous provinces of Germany,
where I found both excellent Masters, and most honourable
patrons of music, namely, those two miracles of this Age for
virtue and magnificence, Henry Julio, Duke of Brunswick,
and the learned Maurice, Landgrave of Hesse; of whose
princely virtues and favours towards me, I can never speak
sufficiently. Neither can I forget the kindness of Alexandro
Horologio, a right learned master of music, servant to the
royal Prince, the Landgrave of Hesse, and Gregorio Howet,
Lutenist to the magnificent Duke of Brunswick; both [of]
whom I name, as well for their love to me as also for their
excellency in their faculties.
Thus having spent some months in Germany, to my great
admiration of that worthy country; I passed over the Alps
into Italy, where I found the Cities furnished with all good
arts, but especially music. What favour and estimation I
had in Venice, Padua, Genoa, Ferrara, Florence, and divers
other places, I willingly suppress; lest I should, [in] any way,
seem partial in mine own endeavours. Yet I cannot dissemble
the great content I found in the proffered amity of
the most famous Luca Marenzio, whose sundry letters I
received from Rome; and one of them, because it is but
short, I have thought good to set down, not thinking it any
disgrace to be proud of the judgement of so excellent a man.
Molto magnifico Signior mio osservandissimo.
Per una lettera del Signior Alberigo Malvezi ho inteso
quanto con cortese affeto si mostri desideroso di essermi congionto
d'amicitia, dove infinitamente la ringratio di questo suo buon'animo,
offerendomegli all'incontro se in alcuna cosa la posso servire, poi
che gli meriti delle sue infinite virtù, e qualità meritano che ogni
uno e me l'ammirino e osservino, e per fine di questo le bascio le
mani. Di Roma, a' 13. di Luglio. 1595.
D.V.S. Affettionatissimo servitore,
LUCA MARENZIO.
Not to stand too long upon my travels: I will only name
that worthy Master, Giovanni Crochio, Vice-master of the
Chapel of Saint Mark's in Venice; with whom I had familiar
conference.
And thus what experience I could gather abroad; I am
now ready to practice at home, if I may but find encouragement
in my first assays.
There have been divers Lute Lessons of mine lately
printed without my knowledge, false and imperfect: but I
purpose shortly myself to set forth the choicest of all my
Lessons in print, and also an Introduction for Fingering; with
other Books of Songs, whereof this is the first. And as this
finds favour with you, so shall I be affected to labour in the
rest. Farewell!
John Dowland.
Thomæ Campiani.
Epigramma. De instituto authoris.
Famam, posteritas quam dedit Orpheo.
Dolandi melius Musica dat sibi,
Fugaces reprimens archetypis sonos;
Quas et delitias præbuit auribus,
Ipsis conspicuas luminibus facit.
Lyrics, Elegies, &c. from Madrigals,
Canzonets, &c.
John Dowland.
The First Book of Songs or Airs
Vnquiet thoughts! your civil slaughter stint!
And wrap your wrongs within a pensive heart!
And you, my tongue! that makes my mouth a mint,
And stamps my thoughts, to coin them words by art,
Be still! For if you ever do the like,
I'll cut the string, that makes the hammer strike!
But what can stay my thoughts, they may not start?
Or put my tongue in durance for to die?
When as these eyes, the keys of mouth and heart
Open the lock, where all my love doth lie.
I'll seal them up within their lids for ever!
So thoughts and words and looks shall die together.
How shall I then gaze on my mistress' eyes?
My thoughts must have some vent, else heart will break.
My tongue would rust, as in my mouth it lies;
If eyes and thoughts were free, and that not speak.
Speak then! and tell the passions of Desire!
Which turns mine eyes to floods, my thoughts to fire.
Whoever thinks, or hopes of love for love?
Or who beloved, in Cupid's laws doth glory?
Who joys in vows, or vows not to remove:
Who, by this light god, hath not been made sorry?
Let him see me! eclipsed from my sun;
With dark clouds of an earth, quite overrun.
Who thinks that sorrows felt, desires hidden,
Or humble faith in constant honour armed,
Can keep love from the fruit that is forbidden?
Who thinks that change is by entreaty charmed?
Looking on me; let him know Love's delights
Are treasures hid in caves, but kept by sprites!
My Thoughts are winged with Hopes, my Hopes with Love.
Mount Love unto the moon in clearest night!
And say, "As she doth in the heavens move,
In earth so wanes and waxeth my delight."
And whisper this, but softly, in her ears!
"Hope oft doth hang the head, and Trust shed tears."
And you, my Thoughts, that some mistrust do carry!
If for mistrust, my mistress do you blame,
Say, "Though you alter, yet you do not vary
As she doth change; and yet remain the same:
Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect;
And love is sweetest, seasoned with suspect."
If she for this, with clouds do mask her eyes,
And make the heavens dark with her disdain;
With windy sighs disperse them in the skies!
Or with thy tears dissolve them into rain!
Thoughts, Hopes, and Love return to me no more,
Till Cynthia shine, as she hath done before!
If My complaints could passions move,
Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong;
My passions were enough to prove
That my despairs had governed me too long.
O Love, I live and die in thee!
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me!
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks,
Yet thou dost hope when I despair!
My heart for thy unkindness breaks!
Thou say'st, "Thou can'st my harms repair."
And when I hope: thou mak'st me hope in vain!
Yet for redress, thou let'st me still complain!
Can Love be rich, and yet I want?
Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemned?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant!
Thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned!
That I do live, it is thy power!
That I desire, it is thy worth!
If love doth make men's lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth!
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you, that of my fall may hearers be,
May hear Despair, which truly saith,
"I was more true to Love, than Love to me."
Can she excuse my wrongs with virtue's cloak?
Shall I call her good, when she proves unkind?
Are those clear fires, which vanish into smoke?
Must I praise the leaves, where no fruit I find?
No! No! Where shadows do for bodies stand,
Thou may'st be abused, if thy sight be dim.
Cold love is like to words written on sand;
Or to bubbles, which on the water swim.
Wilt thou be abused still,
Seeing that she will right thee never?
If thou can'st not o'ercome her will,
Thy love will be thus fruitless ever!
Was I so base, that I might not aspire,
Unto those high joys, which she holds from me?
As they are high, so high is my desire,
If she this deny, what can granted be?
If she will yield to that which reason is,
It is Reason's will, that Love should be just.
Dear! make me happy still, by granting this,
Or cut off delays, if that die I must!
Better a thousand times to die,
Than for to live thus still tormented:
Dear! but remember it was I,
Who, for thy sake, did die contented.
Now, O now, I needs must part,
Parting, though I absent mourn;
Absence can no joy impart,
Joy once fled, cannot return.
While I live, I needs must love,
Love lives not, when hope is gone.
Now at last despair doth prove
Love divided, loveth none.
Sad despair doth drive me hence,
This despair, unkindness sends;
If that parting be offence,
It is she which then offends.
Dear! when I from thee am gone,
Gone are all my joys at once.
I loved thee, and thee alone!
In whose love I joyed once:
And although your sight I leave,
Sight wherein my joys do lie;
Till that death do sense bereave,
Never shall affection die!
Sad despair doth drive me hence, &c.
Dear! if I do not return,
Love and I shall die together.
For my absence never mourn!
Whom you might have joyed ever.
Part we must, though now I die,
Die I do, to part with you:
Him despair doth cause to lie
Who both lived and dieth true.
Sad despair doth drive me hence, &c.
Dear, if you change! I'll never choose again.
Sweet, if you shrink! I'll never think of love.
Fair, if you fail! I'll judge all beauty vain.
Wise, if too weak! more wits I'll never prove.
Dear! sweet! fair! wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak;
And, on my faith! my faith shall never break.
Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;
Heaven her bright stars, through earth's dim globe shall move.
Fire, heat shall lose; and frosts, of flames be born;
Air made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:
Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,
Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you!
Burst forth my tears! Assist my forward grief!
And show what pain, imperious love provokes!
Kind tender lambs, lament love's scant relief,
And pine, since pensive care my freedom yokes.
O pine to see me pine, my tender flocks!
Sad pining Care, that never may have peace,
At Beauty's gate, in hope of pity knocks;
And Mercy sleeps while deep disdains increase;
And Beauty, hope in her fair bosom yokes,
O grieve to hear my grief, my tender flocks!
Like to the winds, my sighs have wingèd been,
Yet are my sighs and suits repaid with mocks;
I plead, yet she repineth at my teen.
O ruthless rigour! harder than the rocks!
That both the shepherd kills, and his poor flocks.
O Crystal tears! like to the morning showers.
And sweetly weep into thy lady's breast!
And as the dews revive the drooping flowers,
So let your drops of pity be addresst!
To quicken up the thoughts of my desert.
Which sleeps too sound; whilst I from her depart.
Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath
Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart!
Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful Death,
Feels never any touch of my desert.
Yet sighs and tears to her, I sacrifice:
Both, from a spotless heart, and patient eyes.
Think'st thou, then, by feigning
Sleep, with a grand disdaining;
Or, with thy crafty closing,
Thy cruel eyes reposing;
To drive me from thy sight!
When sleep yields more delight,
Such harmless beauty gracing:
And while sleep feignèd is
May not I steal a kiss
Thy quiet arms embracing?
O that thy sleep dissembled,
Were to a trance resembled!
Thy cruel eyes deceiving,
Of lively sense bereaving:
Then should my love requite
Thy love's unkind despite,
While fury triumphed boldly
In beauty's sweet disgrace;
And lived in deep embrace
Of her that loved so coldly,
Should then my love aspiring,
Forbidden joys desiring,
So far exceed the duty
That Virtue owes to Beauty?
No! Love seek not thy bliss
Beyond a simple kiss!
For such deceits are harmless
Yet kiss a thousand fold;
For kisses may be bold
When lovely sleep is armless.
Come away! come, sweet love!
The golden morning breaks;
All the earth, all the air,
Of love and pleasure speaks!
Teach thine arms then to embrace,
And sweet rosy lips to kiss,
And mix our souls in mutual bliss!
Eyes were made for beauty's grace
Viewing, ruing, love's long pains;
Procured by beauty's rude disdain.
Come away! come, sweet love!
Do not in vain adorn
Beauty's grace, that should rise
Like to the naked morn!
Lilies on the river's side,
And fair Cyprian flowers newly blown,
Desire no beauties but their own:
Ornament is Nurse of Pride.
Pleasure measure, love's delight,
Haste then, sweet love, our wishèd flight!
Rest awhile, you cruel cares!
Be not more severe than love!
Beauty kills and beauty spares,
And sweet smiles, sad sighs remove.
Laura, fair Queen of my delight!
Come grant me love, in love's despite!
And if I ever fail to honour thee,
Let this heavenly light I see,
Be as dark as hell to me!
If I speak! My words want weight.
Am I mute! My heart doth break.
If I sigh! She fears deceit.
Sorrow then for me, must speak!
Cruel! unkind! with favour view
The wound that first was made by you!
And if my torments feignèd be,
Let this heavenly light I see,
Be as dark as hell to me!
Never hour of pleasing rest,
Shall revive my dying ghost,
Till my soul hath repossesst
The sweet hope, which love hath lost:
Laura! redeem the soul that dies
By fury of thy murdering eyes!
And if it proves unkind to thee,
Let this heavenly light I see,
Be as dark as hell to me!
Sleep wayward thoughts, and rest you with my Love!
Let not my Love, be with my love diseased!
Touch not proud hands, lest you her anger move!
But pine you with my longings long displeased:
Thus while she sleeps, I sorrow for her sake,
So sleeps my Love; and yet my love doth wake.
But O, the fury of my restless fear!
The hidden anguish of my flesh desires!
The glories and the beauties that appear
Between her brows, near Cupid's closèd fires!
Thus while she sleeps, moves sighing for her sake,
So sleeps my Love; and yet my love doth wake.
My love doth rage, and yet my Love doth rest;
Fear in my love, and yet my Love secure;
Peace in my Love, and yet my love opprest;
Impatient, yet of perfect temperature.
Sleep dainty Love, while I sigh for thy sake!
So sleeps my Love; and yet my love doth wake.
All ye, whom love or fortune hath betrayed!
All ye that dream of bliss, but live in grief!
All ye whose hopes are evermore delayed!
All ye whose sighs or sickness want relief!
Lend ears and tears to me, most hapless man!
That sings my sorrows like the dying swan!
Care that consumes the heart with inward pain,
Pain that presents sad care in outward view;
Both, tyrant-like, enforce me to complain,
But still in vain, for none my plaints will rue:
Tears, sighs, and ceaseless cries alone I spend.
My woe wants comfort, and my sorrow, end.
Wilt thou, Unkind! thus 'reave me
Of my heart, and so leave me?
Farewell!
But yet, or ere I part, O Cruel!
Kiss me Sweet, my Jewel!
Farewell!
Hope by disdain grows cheerless
Fear doth love, love doth fear
Beauty peerless.
Farewell!
If no delays can move thee!
Life shall die, death shall live
Still to love thee.
Farewell!
Yet be thou mindful ever!
Heat from fire, fire from heat,
None can sever.
Farewell!
True love cannot be changed,
Though delight from desert
Be estranged.
Farewell!
Would my conceit that first inforced my woe,
Or else mine eyes, which still the same increase,
Might be extinct, to end my sorrows so;
Which now are such, as nothing can release.
Whose life is death; whose sweet, each change of sour;
And eke whose hell reneweth every hour.
Each hour, amidst the deep of hell I fry,
Each hour, I waste and wither where I sit;
But that sweet hour, wherein I wish to die,
My hope, alas, may not enjoy it yet.
Whose hope is such bereaved of the bliss,
Which unto all, save me, allotted is.
To all, save me, is free to live or die;
To all, save me, remaineth hap or hope.
But all, perforce, I must abandon!
Since Fortune still directs my hap aslope;
Wherefore to neither hap nor hope I trust,
But to my thrals I yield: for so I must.
Come again! Sweet love doth now invite
Thy graces that refrain
To do me due delight;
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss,
To die with thee again in sweetest sympathy!
Come again! that I may cease to mourn
Through thy unkind disdain!
For now, left and forlorn,
I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die
In deadly pain, and endless misery.
All the day, the sun that lends me shine
By frowns doth cause me pine,
And feeds me with delay.
Her smiles, my springs, that make my joys to grow:
Her frowns, the winters of my woe.
All the night, my sleeps are full of dreams,
My eyes are full of streams;
My heart takes no delight
To see the fruits and joys that some do find,
And mark the storms are me assigned.
Out, alas! my faith is ever true;
Yet she will never rue,
Nor yield me any grace.
Her eyes, of fire; her heart of flint is made:
Whom tears nor truth may once invade.
Gentle Love draw forth thy wounding dart!
Thou can'st not pierce her heart!
For I (that do approve
By sighs and tears, more hot than are thy shafts)
Did 'tempt, while she for triumph laughs.
(On the British Museum Copy, G9, there is the following pencil note to
this Song. These words by [Robert Devereux] the Earl of Essex,
and sung before Queen Elizabeth, in a Masque at Greenwich.)
His golden locks, Time hath to silver turned.
O Time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing!
His Youth, 'gainst Time and Age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain, Youth waneth by increasing.
Beauty, Strength, Youth are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, Faith, Love are roots, and ever green.
His helmet, now, shall make a hive for bees,
And lover's Sonnets turn to holy Psalms;
A man-at-arms must, now, serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age's alms:
But though from Court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits, in homely cell,
H'll teach his swains this Carol for a Song;
Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well!
Curst be the soul that thinks her any wrong!
Goddess! Allow this aged man his right!
To be your Beadsman now; that was your Knight.
Awake, sweet love! Thou art returned!
My heart, which long in absence mourned,
Lives now in perfect joy.
Only herself hath seemèd fair;
She only could I love.
She only drave me to despair,
When she unkind did prove.
Let love which never, absent, dies;
Now live for ever in her eyes!
Whence came my first annoy:
Despair did make me wish to die
That I my joys might end,
She only, which did make me fly,
My state may now amend.
If she esteem thee now ought worth;
She will not grieve thy love henceforth!
Which so despair hath proved.
Despair hath proved now in me
That love will not unconstant be,
Though long in vain I loved.
If she, at last, reward thy love
And all thy harms repair!
Thy happiness will sweeter prove,
Raised up from deep despair.
And if that now thou welcome be,
When thou with her doth meet;
She all this while, but played with thee,
To make thy joys more sweet.
Come, heavy Sleep! the Image of true Death!
And close up these my weary weeping eyes!
Whose spring of tears doth stop my vital breath,
And tears my heart with sorrow's sigh-swollen cries.
Come, and possess my tired thoughts! worn soul!
That living dies, till thou on me bestoule!
Come, Shadow of my End; and Shape of Rest!
Allied to Death, Child to this black-fast Night!
Come thou, and charm these rebels in my breast!
Whose waking fancies doth my mind affright.
O come, sweet Sleep! Come, or I die for ever!
Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never!
Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of them that lie and sleep!
For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.
God Cupid's shaft, like Destiny,
Doth either good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his feet doth go.
What fools are they, that have not known
That Love likes no laws, but his own!
My songs, they be Cynthia's praise:
I wear her rings on holidays.
On every tree, I write her name,
And every day I read the same:
Where Honour, Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I'll blot her name out of the tree!
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then "Well fare nothing!" once a year:
For many run, but one must win.
Fools only, hedge the cuckoo in!
The worth that worthiness should move
Is love; which is the bow of Love:
And love as well the For'ster can,
As can the mighty Nobleman.
Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be!
Yet, without love, nought worth to me!
R[?ichard]. Y[?oung].
The state of a Christian lively set forth,
by an allegory of a Ship under Sail.
[This Writer was evidently a forerunner of John Bunyan.]
Prov. xxxi. 14. Job ix. 26. Isaiah xxiii. 1. Rev. viii. 9.
[Original broadside, inserted in a
distinct work of the Author, called
The Victory of Patience. 1636.]
My body is the Hull, the Keel my back, my neck
the Stem; the Sides are my ribs, the Beams my
bones, my flesh the Planks; gristles and ligaments
are the Pintels and Knee-timbers; arteries, veins,
and sinews, the several Seams of the ship; my
blood is the Ballast, my heart the Principal Hold, my stomach
the Cook-room, my liver the Cistern, my bowels the Sink;
my lungs the Bellows, my teeth the Chopping-knives; except
you divide them, and then they are the 32 Points of the Compass,
both agreeing in number. Concoction is the Cauldron,
and hunger the Salt or Sauce. My belly is the Lower Deck,
my kidneys Close Cabins or receptacles, my thighs are Long
Galleries for the grace of the ship; my arms and hands the
Canhooks, my midriff is a large partition or Bulkhead. Within
the circumference of my head is placed the Steeridge Room
and Chief Cabins, with the Round-house [now called the
Captain's Cabin] where the Master lieth: and these for the
more safety and decency are enclosed in a double fence; the
one Dura mater, something hard and thick [the skull], the
other Pia mater, very thin and soft [the hair], which serveth
instead of hangings. The ears are two doors or Scuttles
fitly placed for entertainment; the two eyes are Casements to
let in light; under them, is my mouth, the Stowage or
Steward's Room. My lips are Hatches for receipt of goods,
my two nostrils serve as Gratings to let in air. At the one
end stands my chin, which is the Beakhead. My forehead is
the Upper Deck; all which being trimmed with my fat instead
of Pitch, and hair instead of Oakum, are coloured with my skin.
The Fore Deck is humility, the Stern, charity. Active
obedience, the Sails; which being hoisted up with the several
Yards, Halliards, and Bowlines of holy precepts and good
purposes; are let down again by fickleness, faintings and inconstancy.
Reason is my Rudder, experience the Helm, hope
of salvation my Anchor, passive obedience the Capstan, holy
revenge the Cat and Fish to haul the Sheet Anchor or last
hope. Fear of offending is the Buoy, virtues are the Cables,
holy desires and sudden ejaculations the Shrouds. The zeal
of GOD's glory is my Mainmast, premeditation the Foremast,
desire of my own salvation the Mizenmast, saving knowledge
the Bowsprit, circumspection a Sounding line.
My Light is illumination; justice is the Card [Map]; GOD's
Word, the Compass; the meditation of life's brevity, a Four-Hour
Glass [i.e., the length of a ship's watch]; contemplation of
the creatures, the Cross-staff or Jacob's-staff; the creed, a
Sea-Grammar; the life of Christ, my Load-Star. The saint's
falls are Sea-marks; good examples, Land-marks. Repentance
pumps out the sink of my sins, a good conscience keeps me
clean. Imputative righteousness is my Flag, having this
motto, Being cast down, we perish not! the Flag-staff is
sincerity.
The ship is victualled afresh by reading, hearing, receiving.
Books are Long-boats, letters are little Skiffs to carry and
recarry my spiritual merchandise. Perseverance is my Speed,
and patience my Name. My Fire is lust, which will not be
clean extinguished: full feeding and strong drink are the Fuel
to maintain it; whose Flame, if it be not suppressed, is jealousy;
whose Sparks are evil words, whose Ashes are envy; whose
Smoke is infamy. Lascivious talk is a Flint and Steel, concupiscence
as Tinder, opportunity the Match to light it, sloth
and idleness are the Servants to prepare it.
The Law of GOD is my Pilot, Faith my Captain, Fortitude
the Master, Chastity the Master's Mate, my Will the Coxswain,
Conscience the Preacher [or, as we now say, Chaplain],
Application of Christ's death the Surgeon, Mortification
the Cook, Vivification the Caulker, Self-denial an Apprentice
of his, Temperance the Steward, Contentation his
Mate, Truth the Purser, Thankfulness the Purser's Mate,
Reformation the Boatswain, the Four Humours, Sanguine,
Choler, &c., are the Quarter-masters; Christian Vigilancy
undertakes to supply the office of the Starboard and Larboard
Watches, Memory is the Clerk of the Cheque, Assurance
the Corporal, the Armour Innocency, the Mariners, Angels.
Schismatics are Searchers sent abroad. My Understanding,
as Master Gunner, culls out from those two Budge-casks
of the Old and New Testaments certain threats and promises
which are my only Powder and Shot; and with the assistance
of the Gunner's Mate, Holy Anger against Sin, chargeth my
tongue, which, like to a piece of ordnance, shoots them to
the shame and overthrow of my spiritual Adversaries.
My noble passengers are Joy in the Holy Ghost and
Peace of Conscience, whose retinue are Divine Graces.
My ignoble or rather mutinous passengers are Worldly
Cogitations and Vain Delights which are more than a
good many; besides some that are arrant thieves and traitors,
namely, Pride, Envy, Prejudice: but all these I will bid
farewell to, when I come to my journey's end; though I
would, but cannot, before.
Heaven is my Country, where I am Registered in the Book
of Life, my King is JEHOVAH. My Tribute alms-deeds: they
which gather it are the poor. Love is my country's Badge,
my Language is holy conference, my Fellow Companions are
the saints.
I am poor in performances, yet rich in GOD's acceptation.
The Foundation of all my good is GOD's free election. I became
Bound into the Corporation of the Church to serve Him,
in my baptism. I was Enrolled at the time when He first called
me. My Freedom is justification. It was Purchased with the
blood of Christ. My Evidence is the earnest of His spirit.
My Privileges are His sanctifying graces. My Crown,
reserved for me on high, is glorification.
My Maker and Owner is GOD; who built me by His
Word, which is Christ; of earth, which was the Material;
He freighted it with the essence of my Soul, which is the
Treasure; and hath set me to sail in the Sea of this world,
till I attain to the Port of death: which letteth the terrestrial
part into the Harbour of the grave, and the celestial part into
the Kingdom of Heaven. In which voyage, conveniency of
estate [comfortable circumstances] is as sea room; good affections
serve as a tide; and prayer as a prosperous gale, a wind to
help forward.
But innumerable are the impediments and perils. For
here I meet with the profers of unlawful gain and sensual
delights, as so many Sirens; the baits of prosperity, as High
Banks, on the right hand or Weather Shore; and there with
evil suggestions and crabbed adversity, as Rocks, on the left
hand or Lee Shore, ready to split me. The fear of hell, like
Quicksands, threatens to swallow me; original sin like Weeds
clog me, and actual transgressions like so many Barnacles
hang about me. Yea, every sin I commit springs a new Leak.
My senses are as so many Storms of Rain, Hail, and Snow to
sink me. Lewd affections are Roaring Billows and Waves.
Self-confidence, or to rely upon anything but the Divine
assistance, is to lose the Bowsprit. Restitution is heaving
goods overboard to save the ship. Melancholy is want of
Fresh Water. The scoffs of atheists, and contempt of
religion in all places is a notable becalming; the lewd lives and
evil examples of them most a contagious air. Idleness furrs
it, and is a shrewd decay, both of the Hull and Tackling.
Moreover, sailing along, and keeping Watch (for they that
be Christ's friends, you know! must look for all they meet
to be their enemies), we no sooner look up, but presently we
ken a Man of War, and then we must be for war too, and
provide for a skirmish.
Now the Galleon that hath our Pinnace in chase, and always
watcheth for advantages to surprise it, is the Piracy of Hell;
the Synagogue of Satan. Her Freight is temptations and
persecutions, with all the engines of mischief. In which the
Devil is Master, Malice the Master's Mate, Cruelty the
Captain, Murder the Cook, Flattery the Caulker,
Profaneness a Quartermaster, Riot the Steward, Never
Content his Mate, Pride the Coxswain, Superstition the
Preacher, Hypocrisy the Boatswain, Covetousness the
Purser, Lust the Swabber, Fury the Gunner, Presumption
the Corporal, Sedition the Trumpeter, Drunkenness the
Drummer.
Vices are the Sails, custom the Mainmast, example of the
multitude the Foremast, lusts and passions the Cables,
blindness of mind the Rudder, hardness of heart the Helm,
the wisdom of the flesh the Card, the mystery of iniquity the
Compass. The five senses, or if you will, scoffing Atheists,
profane foul-mouthed drunkards, and all the rabble of hell
are the Mariners. Lewd affections the Passengers, Little
Conscience the Load star.
She hath two tire of great ordnance planted in her,
Heresy and Irreligion; being either for a false god, or none.
Oaths, blasphemy, and curses are the Powder and Shot:
which they spit against all that worship the Lamb, or fight
under the Ensign of Faith. Her Armour is carnal security.
The Flag in her Top is infidelity: the motto, There is no
god, but gain!
Her Ballast, which keeps her upright, is Ignorance. Most
of her Tackling she has from Rome, or Amsterdam. Antichrist,
as Pilot, steers her in such a course that she goes on
swiftly, proudly, securely, scorning and scoffing (Sennacherib
like) to hear that any Lord should deliver this poor
Pinnace out of her hands.
Yet in the sequel, this silly Pink, having the Insurance of
GOD's omnipresence, finds not only succour from the Stock
of the Church's prayers, which, like another Merchantman,
come in to the rescue: but, likewise that GOD's Almighty
power and providence is near at hand, as a strong Castle of
Defence to free her, whereby she escapes, even as a bird out
of the snare of the hunter, to praise the LORD: who hath
not given her as a prey unto their teeth, that would have
swallowed up all quick; but delivered her from such swelling
waters, floods of affliction and streams of persecution, as
else had gone over her and even drowned her soul, as it is
Psalm cxxiv. While this great Galleon (though it seems like
that Invincible Armada) flies; and, having no Anchor, when the
storms of GOD's wrath arise, down she sinks to desperation;
and perisheth in the bottomless pit or burning lake of fire
and brimstone: where we will leave her to receive a just
recompense of reward.
R. Y.
London. Printed by Thomas Cotes for the Author; and
are to be sold by Sarah Fairbeard, at the
North Door of the Royal Exchange,
1636.
[? Thomas Occleve,
Clerk in the Office of the Privy Seal.]
The Letter of Cupid.