Sad Marshall to the
singing Larke.
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O Blessed bird, whose soaring Song,
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declares the lighttome day!
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Im forcd to blesse thy little tongue,
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for thy solacious Lay.
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Yea, whilst I think on thine estate,
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and hear thine Harmonie,
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I find my self to be ungrate,
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who sad and silent lie;
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For thou hast neither Lands, nor Rent,
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nor Riches laid in store:
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And yet doest sing as full content,
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and with thy Song doest soar,
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But I to whom the loving Lord
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hath been more liberal,
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I sigh and cannot sing a word,
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nor move no mirth at all.
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What is the cause that I deplore,
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whilst thou so sweetly sings,
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But that I hunt to have much more
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than yet my fortune brings:
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But thou into thy minds at rest,
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contented with thy Lot:
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Whilst I with cares am thus opprest,
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thou chantst a chearfull note,
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The mean to move me unto mirth,
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then is to be content:
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And eke with thee to leave the Earth,
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and peirce the Firmament;
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For here below is nothing else,
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but crosse, with changing toyes,
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But they that in the highest dwell
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have everlasting Joyes.
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My blessed bird, tyre not thy tune,
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move on thy musick sweet,
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For I with cares was quite undone,
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till thou revivd my Sprit,
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And now, since thou hast me restord,
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with thee Ill soar, and sing:
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Giving all laud unto the Lord,
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my high and heavenlie King
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Finis, quod Marshal.
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The Reply of the Lark.
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O Man! sigh on, for thou hast cause
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to sorrow for thy sin,
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GOD unto me hath givn no Lawes,
|
to lead my life therein:
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But by his will he me ordains,
|
to sing, and show the day:
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But thou, O man! who grief sustains;
|
should bow thy knee, and pray.
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Man! thou shouldst be more sad than I,
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more dangerous is thy state:
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The world, the flesh, and old envy,
|
thou hast with to debate.
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High is the pryze, if thou take care,
|
that GOD shall to thee giv[e]
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Hard is the case, if thou despa[ir],
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or yet securelie live.
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Short while thou hast for to deplore:
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far shorter I to sing.
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A year, or two, or little mor[e],
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to me my date shall bring,
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And when the winter waxeth [c]old,
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my layes shall lurk full low:
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For I must shield me in some hold,
|
till brumal blasts oreblow
|
Yea, fragrant flowrs in summer fair
|
shall then both droup and die:
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Fish in the floods, fowls in the Air,
|
have their adversitie.
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For every time is not the Spring:
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no state stands ay at ones
|
There is a time for us to siing,
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a time for sighs and groans:
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Take everie state to come from God,
|
both wealth, want, weal, and wo,
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And when he layes on thee his Rod,
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thy visitation know:
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Yea, when he makes thy cup to flow,
|
think on adversitie:
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Lest that thy wealth thy wit orgrow;
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in thy prosperitie.
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Yet le[t] no sadnesse thee orthrow,
|
for trifles which thou tires:
|
Oft whilst the earth is clad with snow,
|
the Sun most brig[h]tlie shines,
|
Though [f]or[t]une frown, be not afraid
|
each cloud is not a shower
|
When griefe is gone, and thou art glad,
|
it shall be sweet thats sowre
|
No mortal man may climb the top
|
of full felicitie:
|
We do but seldom hit our Scope,
|
how low soever it be,
|
Though thou wert mounted to the hight
|
whereto thy thoughts aspir[e]s,
|
Some higher object out of si[g]ht
|
would kindle new desires.
|
Then let no worldlie vanitie
|
in vain oppresse thy sprit,
|
Come, soar with me above the Skie,
|
to thy Redeemer sweet,
|
Sing of thy lasting libertie,
|
when all these pains are past:
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Sing of thy joyfull jubilie,
|
thou shalt enjoy at last,
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So shall thy wishes be compleat,
|
to the most high degree:
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So shall thy present crosse be sweet,
|
how sowre soever it be,
|
Then sing, and sigh; sigh and sing,
|
till thou enjoy that Day
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Of perfect joy, with Christ thy King,
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where thou shalt sing for ay.
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