For the Almighty joyes to force The glorious tide Of humane pride To th' lowest ebbe; that ore his course (Which rudely bore Downe what oppos'd it heretofore) His feeblest enemie may stride. But from his ill-thatcht roofe he brings The Cottager And doth preferre Him to th' adored state of Kings: He bids that hand Which labour hath made rough and tand The all commanding Scepter beare. Let then the mighty cease to boast Their boundlesse sway: Since in their Sea Few sayle, but by some storme are lost. Let them themselves Beware, for they are their owne shelves. Man still himselfe hath cast away. _Dominus Dominantium._ Supreame Divinitie! Who yet Coulde ever finde By the bold scrutinie of wit, The treasurie where thou lock'st up the wind? What Majesty of Princes can A tempest awe; When the distracted Ocean Swells to Sedition, and obeyes no Law? How wretched doth the Tyrant stand Without a boast? When his rich fleete even touching land He by some storme in his owne Port sees lost? Vaine pompe of life! what narrow bound Ambition Is circled with? How false a ground Hath humane pride to build its triumphs on. And Nature how dost thou delude Our search to know? When the same windes which here intrude On us with frosts and onely winter blow: Breath temprate on th' adjoyning earth; And gently bring To the glad field a fruitfull birth With all the treasures of a wanton Spring. How diversly death doth assaile; How sporting kill? While one is scorcht up in the vale The other is congeald oth' neighboring hill. While he with heates doth dying glow Above he sees The other hedg'd in with his snow And envies him his ice although he freeze. Proud folly of pretending Art, Be ever dumbe, And humble thy aspiring heart, When thou findest glorious Reason overcome. And you Astrologers, whose eye Survayes the starres! And offer thence to prophesie Successe in peace, and the event of warres. Throw downe your eyes upon that dust You proudly tread! And know to that resolve you must! That is the scheme where all their fate may read. _Cogitabo pro peccato meo._ In what darke silent grove Profan'd by no unholy love Where witty melancholy nere Did carve the trees or wound the ayre, Shall I religious leasure winne To weepe away my sinne? How fondly have I spent My youthes unvalued treasure, lent To traffique for Cœlestiall joyes? My unripe yeares pursuing toyes; Judging things best that were most gay Fled unobserv'd away.