A chaunce may winne that by mischaunce was lost,
That net that holds no great, takes little fish";
In some things all, in all things none are crost,
Fewe all they need, but none have all they wish:
Unmeddled joyes here to no man befall:
Who leaft, hath some, who most, hath never all.
THE SEARCH AFTER FELICITY.
wisest men, that Nature e're could boast,
For fecret knowledge of her power, were lost,
Confounded, and in deepe amazement stood,
In the discovery of the Chiefest Good :
Keenly they hunted, beat in every bracke,
Forwards they went, on either hand, and backe
Return'd they counter; but their deep-mouth'd art
(Though often challeng'd sent) yet ne're could start
In all th' enclosures of Philosophy,
That game, from squat, they terme, Felicity:
They jangle, and their maxims difagree,
As many men, so many mindes there be.
One digs to Pluto's throne, thinks there to finde
Her Grace, rak't up in gold: another's minde
Mounts to the Courts of Kings, with plumes of honor
And feather'd hopes, hopes there to seize upon her;
A third, unlockes the painted gates of Pleasure,
And ransacks there, to find this peerlesse treasure,
A fourth, more sage, more wisely melancholy,
Perswades himselfe, her Deity's too holy
For common hands to touch, he rather chuses,
To make a long dayes journey to the Muses:
To Athens (gown'd) he goes, and from that Schoole
Returnes unsped, a more instructed foole.
Where lyes she then ? or lyes she any where?
Honours are bought and fold, she rests not there,
Much lesse in Pleasures hath she her abiding,
For they are shar'd to Beasts, and ever fliding;
Nor yet in Vertue, Vertue's often poore;
And (crush't with fortune) begs from doore to door,
Nor is she sainted in the shrine of Wealth;
That, makes men slaves, is unsecur'd from stealth;
Conclude we then, Felicity consists
Not in exteriour fortunes, but her lifts
Are boundlesse, and her large extenfion
Out-runnes the pase of humane apprehenfion;
Fortunes are seldome measur'd by defert,
The fairer face, hath oft the fouler heart;
Sacred Felicity doth ne'er extend
Beyond itselfe; in it, all wishes end :
The swelling of an outward fortune can
Create a profp'rous, not a happy man;
A peacefull Conscience is the true Content,
And Wealth is but her golden ornament.
Job Militant,
13 Med. by F. Quarles. Edit 1630. Lond.
SCORN
SCORN NOT THE LEAST.
WHERE wards are weak, and foes encountring strong,
Where mightier do assault then doe defend,
The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,
And tilent fees that speech could not amend;
Yet higher powers must thinke, though they repine,
When sunne is set, the little starres will shine.
While pike do range, the filly tench doth flie,
And crouch in privie creekes, with smaller fish :
Yet pikes are caught when little fish goe by,
These fleete aflote, while those doe fill the dish;
There is a time even for the wormes to creepe,
And fucke the deaw while all their foes doe fleepe.
The marline cannot ever foare on high,
Nor greedie grey-hound still pursue the chace,
The tender larke will finde a time to flie,
And fearfull hare to runne a quiet race.
He that high growth on cedars did bestow,
Gave also lowly mushrumps leave to growe,
In Haman's pompe poor Mordocheus wept;
Yet God did turne his fate upon his foe.
The Lazar pinde, while Dives feast was kept,
Yet he to Heaven, to Hell did Dives goe.
We trample grasse, and prize the flowers of May,
Yet grafie is greene, when flowers doe fade away.
The Distinction between WISDOM and
KNOWLEDGE.
THE Morail Poets, (nor unaptly) faine
That by lame Vulcans help, the pregnant brain
Of foveraigne Jove, brought forth, and at that birth,
Was borne Minerva, Lady of the earth.
O strange Divinity! but fung by rote;
Sweet is the tune, but in a wilder note.
The morall fayes, all wisedome that is given
To hood-wink't mortals, first, proceeds from heaven
Truth's errour, Wisedome's but wise insolence,
And light's but darknesse, not deriv'd from thence;
Wisdom's a straine transcends Morality,
No vertue's absent, Wisedome being by.
Vertue, by constant practice is acquir'd,
This (this by sweat unpurchast) is inspir'd:
The master-piece of knowledge, is to know
But what is good, from what is good in show,
And there it rests: Wisdome proceeds, and chuses
The seeming evill, th' apparent good refuses;
Knowledge descries alone; Wisdome applyes,
That, makes some fooles, this, maketh none but wife;
The curious hand of Knowledge doth but picke
Bare simples, Wisdome pounds them, for the ficke;
In my afflictions, Knowledge apprehends,
Who is the author, what the cause and ends,
It findes that Patience is my fad reliefe,
And that the hand that caus'd, can cure my griefe:
To reft contented here, is but to bring
Clouds without raine, and heat without a spring:
What hope arifes hence? the devils doe
The very fame: they know and tremble too;
But facred Wisedome doth apply that good,
Which simple knowledge barely understood:
Wisedome concludes, and in conclufion, proves
That wherefoever God correct, he loves:
Wisedome digests, what Knowledge did but tast,
That deales in futures, this, in things are past:
Wisdom's the card of Knowledge, which, without
That guide, at random's wreck't on every doubt:
Knowledge, when Wisdome is too weak to guide her
Is like a head-strong horfe, that throwes the rider:
Which made that great Philosopher avow,
He knew so much that he did nothing know.
Job. Militant, Med. II. Edit. 1630. by F. Quarles.
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