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Against the owner; whose design

It is that nothing be reputed fine,
Nor held for any excellence
Of which he hath not in himself the sense.
He too well knows
That no fruit grows

In him, obdurate wretch, who yields
Obedience to heav'n less than the fields.

But being, like his loved gold,
Stiff, barren, and impen'trable, though told
He should be otherwise, he is

Uncapable of any heav'nly bliss.

His gold and he

Do well agree,

For he's a formal hypocrite,

Like that, unfruitful, yet on th' outside bright.

Ah, happy infant! wealthy heir!

How blessed did the heaven and earth appear
Before thou knew'st there was a thing

Called gold! barren of good, of ill the spring

Beyond compare!

Most quiet were

Those infant days when I did see

Wisdom and wealth couched in simplicity.

Right apprehension II

If this I did not ev'ry moment see,

And if my thoughts did stray

At any time, or idly play,
And fix on other objects, yet
This apprehension set
In me,

Securëd my felicity.

The rapture

O heavenly fire! O sacred light! O great and sacred blessedness

Sweet infancy!

How fair and bright!

How great am I,

magnify!

O heavenly joy!

Which I possess!

So great a joy

vey?

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Whom the whole world doth Who did into my arms con

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!

From God above

Oh, how divine

Being sent, the gift doth me in- Am I! To all this sacred

flame

To praise his name;
The stars do move,

wealth,

This life and health,

Who raised? who mine

The sun doth shine, to show his Did make the same? what hand

[blocks in formation]

Dame Nature told me there was endless space

Within my soul; I spied its very face.

Sure it not for nought appears;

What is there which a man may see

Beyond the spheres?

Felicity.

There in the mind of God, that sphere of love,
In nature, height, extent, above

All other spheres,

A man may see himself, the world, the bride

Of God, his church, which as they there are eyed,

Strangely exalted each appears;

His mind is higher than the space

Above the spheres,
Surmounts all place.

No empty space-it is all full of sight,

All soul and life, an eye most bright,
All light and love,

Which doth at once all things possess and give,
Heaven and earth, with all that therein live;

It rests at quiet, and doth move;
Eternal is, yet time includes;

A scene above

All interludes.

Dreams

'Tis strange! I saw the skies,

I saw the hills before mine eyes,
The sparrow fly,

The lands that did about me lie,
The real sun, that heavenly eye!

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Can closed eyes ev'n in the darkest night
See through their lids, and be informed with sight?

The people were to me

As true as those by day I see,
As true the air;

The earth as sweet, as fresh, as fair,
As that which did by day repair
Unto my waking sense! Can all the sky,
Can all the world, within my brain-pan lie?

What sacred secret's this

Which seems to intimate my bliss?
What is there in

The narrow confines of my skin
That is alive, and feels within
When I am dead? Can magnitude possess
An active memory, yet not be less?

May all that I can see
Awake, by night within me be?
My childhood knew

No difference, but all was true,

As real all as what I view;

The world itself was there; 'twas wondrous strange
That heav'n and earth should so their place exchange.

Till that which vulgar sense

Doth falsely call experience

Distinguished things,

The ribands, and the gaudy wings

Of birds, the virtues and the sins, That represented were in dreams by night, As really my senses did delight

Or grieve, as those I saw

By day; things terrible did awe
My soul with fear;

The apparitions seemed as near
As things could be, and things they were;

Yet were they all by fancy in me wrought,
And all their being founded in a thought.

Oh, what a thing is thought!
Which seems a dream, yea, seemeth nought,

Yet doth the mind

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Affect as much as what we find

Most near and true! Sure men are blind,

And can't the forcible reality
Of things that secret are within them see.

Thought! Surely thoughts are true;

They please as much as things can do;
Nay, things are dead,

And in themselves are severëd
From souls; nor can they fill the head
Without our thoughts. Thoughts are the real things
From whence all joy, from whence all sorrow springs.

Insatiableness

This busy, vast, inquiring soul
Brooks no control,

No limits will endure,
Nor any rest; it will all see,
Not time alone, but ev'n eternity.
What is it? Endless, sure.

'Tis mean ambition to desire
A single world;
To many I aspire,

Though one upon another hurled;
Nor will they all, if they be all confined,
Delight my mind.

This busy, vast, inquiring soul
Brooks no control;

'Tis very curious too.

Each one of all those worlds must be

Enriched with infinite variety

And worth, or 'twill not do.

'Tis nor delight nor perfect pleasure
To have a purse

That hath a bottom in its treasure,

Since I must thence endless expense disburse.
Sure there's a God, for else there's no delight,

One infinite.

The review

Did I grow, or did I stay?

Did I prosper or decay,

When I so

From things to thoughts did go?

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Did I flourish or diminish,
When I so in thoughts did finish
What I had in things begun;
When from God's works to think upon
The thoughts of men my soul did come?
The thoughts of men, had they been wise,

Should more delight me than the skies;
They mighty creatures are,
For these the mind

Affect, afflict, do ease or grind;

But foolish thoughts ensnare.

Wise ones are a sacred treasure;
True ones yield substantial pleasure;
Compared to them,

I things as shades esteem.
False ones are a foolish flourish,
Such as mortals chiefly nourish;
When I them to things compare,
Compared to things, they trifles are;
Bad thoughts do hurt, deceive, ensnare;
A good man's thoughts are of such price
That they create a paradise;

But he that misemploys
That faculty,

God, men, and angels doth defy,
Robs them of all their joys.

FROM Christian Ethics, 1675

[All music, sauces, feasts]

All music, sauces, feasts, delights, and pleasures,
Games, dancing, arts, consist in governed measures;
Much more do words and passions of the mind
In temperance their sacred beauty find.

SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON

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The Introduction and Notes are at page 1028 FROM Cynthiades, or Amorous Sonnets, published with Leoline and

Sydanis, 1642

On her fair eyes

Look not upon me with those lovely eyes,
From whom there flies

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