The Restauration.
ARGUMENT.

Laetior una Dies, JESU, tua Sacra Canenti;
Quàm sine Te, melicis Secula mille Lyris.
Ut paveam Scelus omne, petam super Omnia Coelum;
Da mihi Fraena Timor, Da mihi Calcar Amor!

The Authors Rapture; Grace is prais'd; a Flood
Of Tears is pour'd for Albions Blood,
Shed in a Mist; for smot Micaiahs Peace is woo'd.

Muse, twang the pow'rful Harp, & brush each String
O'th' warbling Lute, and Canzons sing
May ravish Earth, and thence to Heav'n in Triumph spring.

Noble Du--bartas, in a high--flown Trance,
Observ'd to start from's Bed, and dance;
Said: Thus by me shall caper all the Realm of France.

As viscous Meteors, fram'd of earthy Slime,
By Motion fir'd, like Stars, do clime
The woolly--curdled Clouds, & there blaze out their Time.

Streaming with burnisht Flames; yet Those but ray
To spend Themselves, and light our Way;
And panting Windes, to cool ours, not their own Lungs, play.

So, my enliv'ned Spirits ascend the Skies,
Wasting to make the Simple wise.
Who bears the Torch, himself shades, lightens others Eyes.

As Lust for Hell, Zeal sweats to build for Heav'n,
When fervent Aspirations, driv'n
By all the Souls quick Pow'rs, to that high Search are giv'n.

High is the Sphear on which Faiths Poles are hing'd:
Pure Knowledge, Thou art not restring'd,
Thy Flames enfire the bushie Heart, yet leave't unsing'd.

Suburbs of Paradise! Thou, Saintly Land
Of Visions, Woo'd by Wisdoms Band;
By dull Mules in gold--trappings how do'st sleighted stand!

Whose World's a frantick Sea; more crosse Windes fly
Than Sailers Compasse knows; Saints ply
Their Sails through airy Waves, & anchor still on High.

'Tis Holines lands there; where None (distasted)
Rave with Guilts Dread, nor with Rage wasted;
Nor Beauty--dazled Eyes with Femal Wantons blasted.

No childish Toyes; no boyling Youths wilde Thirst;
No ripe Ambition; no accurst
Old griping Avarice; no doting Sloth there's nurst:

No Glutt'nies Maw--worm; nor the Itch of Lust;
No Tympanie of Pride; nor Rust
Of Envie; no Wraths Spleen; nor Obdurations Crust:

No Canker of Self--Love; nor Cramp of Cares;
No Schism--Vertigo; nor night--Mares
Of inward Stings affright; here lurk no penal Snares.

Hence Earth a dim Spot showes; where Mortals toil
For shot--bruis'd Mud--walls (childish broil
For pot--gun--cracks 'gainst Ant--hill--works; ô, what a Coil!

Where Glutt'ny is full gorg'd; where Lust still spawns;
Where Wrath takes Blood, and Avarice pawns;
Where Envy frets, Pride struts, and dull Remisness yawns.

Where Mars th' Ascendant's: How Realms shatter'd lie,
With scatter'd Courts, beneath mine Eye;
Which shew like atoms chac'd by Windes Inconstancie.

Here, th' Universe in Natures Frame doth stand,
Upheld by Truth, and Wisdoms Hand:
Zanzumims shew from hence as Dwarfs on Pigmy land.

How vile's the World! Fancie, keep up thy Wings,
(Ruffled in Bussle of low Things,
Toss'd in the common Throng) then acquiesce 'bove Kings.

Thus, Thou being rapt, and struck with Enthean Fire,
In Skies Star--chamber strike thy Lyre:
Proud Rome, not all thy Caesars could thus high aspire.

Mans spirit'ual State, enlarg'd, still widening flowes,
As th' Helix doth: A Circle showes
Mans nat'ral Life, which Death soon from its Zenith throwes.

Heav'ns Perspective is over--reas'ning Faith,
Which Soul--entrancing Visions hath;
Truths Beacon, fir'd by Love, Joyes Empire open lay'th.

This All--enforming Light i'th pregnant Minde,
The Babe Theophila enshrin'd:
Grace dawns when Nature sets: Dawn for fair Day design'd.

Breathe in thy dainty Bud, sweet Rose; 'Tis Time
Makes Thee to ripened Virtues clime,
When as the Sun of Grace shall spread Thee to thy Prime.

When her Lifes--Clock struck twelve (Hopes Noon) so bright.
She beam'd, that Queens admir'd her Sight,
Viewing, through Beauties Lantern, her intrinsick Light.

As, when fair Tapers burn in Crystal Frame,
The Case seems fairer by the Flame:
So, do's Heav'ns brighter Love brighten this lovely Dame,

Her Soul the Pearl, her Shell out--whites the Snow,
Or Streams that from stretcht Udders flow;
Her Lips Rock--rubies, and her Veins wrought Saphyrs show.

Attractive Graces dance about her Lips;
Spice from those scarlet Portals skips;
Thence Gileads mystick Balm (Griefs sov'ragin Balsam) slips.

Such precious Fume the incens'd Altar vents:
So, Gums in Air breath Compliments:
So, Roses damaskt Robe, prankt with green Ribbons, sents.

Her Eyes amaze the Viewers, and inspire
To Hearts a warm, yet chast Desire,
(As Sol heats all) yet feel they in Themselves no Fire.

Those Lights, the radiant Windows of her Minde,
Who would pourtray, as soon may finde
A way to paint the viewless, poise the weightless Winde.

But, might we her sweet Breast, Loves Eden, see;
On those Snow--mountlets Apples be,
May cure those Mischiefs wrought by the forbidden Tree.

Her Hands are soft, as swannie Down, and much
More white; whose temperate Warmth is such,
As when ripe Gold and quickning Sun--beams inly touch.

Ye Syrens of the Groves, who, pearcht on high,
Tune gutt'ral Sweets, Air--Minstrels, why
From your Bough--Cradles, rockt with Windes, to Her d'ye flie?

See, Lilies, gown'd in Tissue, simper by Her;
With Marigolds in flaming Tire;
Green sattin'd Bayes, with Primrose fring'd, seem all on Fire.

Th' art silver--voic'd, Teeth--pearl'd, thy Head's gold--thatcht,
Natures Reviver, Flora's patcht,
Though trickt in Mayes new Raiment, when with Thee She's matcht.

Thou, chast as fair, Eve ere she blusht: From Thee
The Libe'ral Arts in Capite,
The Virtues by Knight--service, Graces hold in Fee.

A gratious Soul, figur'd in Beauty, is
Best Pourtrayture of Heavenly Bliss,
Drawn to the Life: Wit--feign'd Pandora vails to This.

So, Cynthia seems Star--chambers President,
With crescent Splendor from Sol lent,
Rallying her starrie Troop to guard her glittering Tent.

(Pearl'd Dews add Stars) yet Earths Shade shuts up soon.
Her Shop of Beams; Whose Cone doth run
'Bove th' horned Moon, beneath the golden--tressed Sun.

Wh' on Skie, Clouds, Seas, Earth, Rocks doth Raies disperse,
Stars, Rainbows, Pearls, Fruits, Diamonds pierce;
The Worlds Eye, Sourse of Light, Soul of the Universe.

Who glowes like Carbuncles, when winged Hours
Dandle the Infant--Morn, which scours
Dame Luna, with her twinkling Spies, from azure Tow'rs.

Thee, Theophil, Dayes sparkling Eye we call;
Thy Faith's the Lid, thy Love the Ball,
Beautying thy graceful Mein with Form Angelical.

That Lady--Prioress of the cloyster'd Skie,
Coacht with her spangled Vestalls nigh,
Vails to this Constellation from Divinitie.

Vertue's her Spring of Honour, her Allies
Are Saints, Guard Angels, Heav'n her Prize;
Whose Modestie looks down, while thus her Graces rise.

Eugenia Wit, Paidia Art affords,
Eusebia Truth for Her uphords.
(Poets have Legislative Pow'r of making Words.)

Her Heart's a Court, her richly--temper'd Breast
A Chappel for Loves regent Guest:
Here feasts She sacred Poets, She Herself a Feast.

Ye Bay--crown'd Lords, Who dig from Wisdoms Pits
The Oar of Arts, and with your Wits
Refine't, who prop the doating World in stagg'ring Fits;

And in Fames Court raise Obelisks divine;
Such Symphonies do ye combine,
As may inspirit Flesh with your Soul--ravishing Wine.

While Winter Autumn, Summer clasps the Spring;
While tenter'd Time shall Paeans sing,
Your Eagle--plumes (that others waste) shall ymp Fames Wing.

The rampant Juice of Teneriffe recruits
Wildely the routed Spirits: So, Lutes,
Harps, Viols, Organs; ah! and Trumpets, Drums & Flutes!

Though Art should humour grumbling Bases still,
Tort'ring the deep--mouth'd Catlins, till
Hoarse--thundring Diapasons should the whole Room fill;

Yet those--But string this Ladies Harp; She'l trie
Each Chords tun'd Pulse, till She descry
Where mosts harmonious Musicks mystick Soul do's lie.

Now Grace with Language chimes; Thrice blest, who tast.
Their Heav'n on Earth, in Lifes Book grac't;
Who leaving Sense with Sense, their Spirit with Spirits have plac't.

With those divine Patritians, who being not
Eclips't with Sense, or Bodies Spot,
Are in the Spring of living Flame Seraphick hot.

One Taste gives Joyes! Joyes, at which, Words but rove;
Schools, purblinde, grope at Things Above,
Cymmerian--like, on whose Suns brow Clouds darkly move.

Heav'ns Paths are traceless; by Excess of Light;
O're--fulgent Beams daz'd Eyes benight.
Say Ephata, and Clay's Collyrium for my Sight!

Transported in this Extasie, befriend
Me, like the Stagirite, to end
My Thoughts in That Euripus, None can comprehend!

This mystick Chain, ô, lengthen't still! imparts
Links, fett'ring 'bove all Time--born Arts;
Such sweet Divisions from tun'd Strings may ravish Hearts.

Best Tenure holds by th' Ear: In Saul, disguis'd,
When Satan oft Tarantuliz'd,
The Psalming Harp was 'bove they swaying Scepter priz'd.

This Hymn, Zeals burning Feaver, do's refine
My gross hydropick Soul; Divine
Anthems unbowel Blisse, and Angels down encline.

Angels shot forth the happiest Christmas Newes;
Ev'n CHRIST to warble Hymns did use;
When Heav'ns high'st DOVE do's soar, He Wings of Verse doth chuse.

No Verse, no Text. Since Verse charms All, Sing on;
Let Sermons wait till Psalms be done;
Soul--raisers, ye prevent the Resurrection.

But, ah! in War (Wraths Midwife) which do's tire,
Yet never fills the Jaws of Ire,
(Keen as the Evening Wolf) can She yet use her Lyre?

Yes. She's unmov'd in Earth--quakes, tun'd in Jars;
(Fear argues Guilt) She stands in Wars,
And Storms of thund'ring Brass, bright as coruscant Stars.

Vertue's a Balsam to It self. Invoke
She Mercie did to oyl steels Yoke:
Thus, in an iron Age, This golden Virgin spoke.

Dread GOD! Black Clouds surcharg'd with Storms,
When Purple Robes hide Scarlet Sin,
Ingrain'd from that Life--blood, which moated their Souls in begin,

Our Sea--girt World (once Fort'nate Isle, O, Change
Deplorable!) t' It self seems strange;
Unthrifty Death has spread where thriving Peace did range.

War hath our luke--warm Claret broacht with Spears:
LORD, save thy Ark from Floods of Fears,
Or thy sad Spouse may sink as deep in Bloud, as Tears!

She chaws Bread steept in Woes, gulpt down with Cries;
She drinks the Rivers of her Eyes;
Plung'd in Distress for Sin, to Thee She fainting flies.

Tune th' Irish Harp from Sharps to Flats! Compose
Whatever vitious Harshnesse grows
Upon the Scottish Thistle, or the English Rose!

No ramping Lion its own Kind do's fear,
No tusked Bore, no rav'ning Bear:
Man, Mans Apollyon, doth CHRISTS mystick Body tear.

Ye Sons of Thunder, if You'l needs fight on,
Lead your fierce Troops 'gainst Turkish Moon,
Out of the Line of Faiths Communication.

The large--commanding Thracian Force defie:
Like Gun--stocks, though your Corps may flie
To Earth, Your Souls, like Bullets, will ascend on High.

If GOD be then i'th' Camp, much more will He
In's Militant Church (His Temple) be,
To chasten Schism, and pervicacious Heresie.

LORD! rent's thy Coat, Loves Type! This, sads the Good!
Though Presters, rudely fierce, fain wou'd
Be heard; Thou hat'st uncivil Pray'r, and civil Blood.

Ah, could dissembling Pulpeteers cry't Good
To wade through Seas of native Blood,
Break greatest Ties, play fast and loose, beneath Smects Hood!

By Such were Catechisms, Communions, Creeds
Disus'd! As March spawns Frogs; so, Weeds
Sprung hence. Worst Atheist from corrupted Churchman breeds.

Use the LORDS Pray'r, be th' Publican; recant
The Pharisee; Or else, avant
With your six--hundred--sixtie--six--word--Covenant.

LORD, they, through faithlesse Dreams, the Feast disown
Of thy SONS Incarnation!
(Then whether will such Proteus--tants at last be blown?)

That Feast of Feasts, Archangels Joy, Heav'n here
Espous'd to Earth, Saints Blisse, most dear
Prerogative o'th' Church, The Grand Day of the Year.

Man, first made Good, Himself unmade, and then;
The Word, made Flesh, must dwell with Men,
That, Man, thus worse then nought, may better'd be agen.

Dare to own Truth. Drones seiz'd the Bees full Bow'r;
All's paint that Butterflies deflowr;
As Ants improve; so, Grashoppers impair their Hour.

When Pirat--wasps sail to the hony'd Grot,
They'l finde a Trap--glasse, Death i'th' Pot:
Levites, sleight not your Breast--work for vain Out--works got.

We ken Kirk--Interest; Draco's Laws recall;
Repair the old Church; Saints the Wall,
True Pastors Conduits, Grace the Font, Love cements All.

Passe freely would we of Oblivion
An Act, and pardon all by--gone,
Would you smite Hand on Thigh, and say, What have we done!

Truths Pensioners! your Flocks bleat; Food they need;
Christs Flesh, their Meat; Blood, Drink indeed:
View Glories Crown; In Season, out of Season, feed.

Ye Friends to th' Bridegroom, Stewards to the Bride,
With Oracles of Truth us guide;
Truth blesseth Church and State; Faithful, till crown'd, abide.

So, when the Judge with his Reward appears,
You'l reap in Joy what's sown in Tears:
Moyst Seed--times crown the Fields with golden--bearded Ears.

Judge--Advocate to th' wrong'd; sure, Thou to Guilt,
Which would unmake thy Creatures, wilt
Be just, when Inquisition's made for Blood that's spilt.

At our Ears Port land Peace and Truth! O, then,
Welcome, as Sol to th' Russ in's Den!
As Shoar to shipwrackt, as to Towns dismantled, Men!

O, might a second Angel--Quire nere cease
To Worms, worn out with Wars Distress,
To sing, in all Mens hearing, their blest Song of Peace!

Peace! Home of Pilgrims, first Song at Christs Birth;
Peace, His last Legacie on Earth;
Peace, gen'ral Preface to all Good; Peace, Saints true Mirth.

Love, Thou, Support to Martyrs! as Jet Straw,
So Us to our Belov'd dost draw;
Thou art Golds true Elixir, Thou summ'st up the Law.

Who can Divine Love speak in words of Sense?
Since, Man, as ransom'd, Angels thence
Transcends! Such is Christs Passions high Preheminence!

Here did She seal her Lips, unsluce her Eyes
To flowing Rhet'rick, and descries
The World's a Cask, its Wine false Mirth, its Lees Fools Prize.

And now, by lympid Spring of Life--joy, where
Crystal is lymbect all the Year
To GOD She would her Heav'n--ascending Raptures rear.

Taught hence, misguided Zeal, whom Heats dispose
To Animosities, may close;
And bloody Furies Converts be, by pond'ring Those.

Harmonious Beauty, feast our Ear! They're Kings
At least, who hear, when Love thus sings:
Love, to high Graces Key skrues up low Natures Strings.

Love, Thou canst Ocean--flowing Storms appease;
And such oregrown Behemoths please,
As tax the scaly Nation, and excise the Seas.

If, Theophil, thy Love--Song can't asswage
The Fate incumbent on this Age,
No Time to write, but weep; For we are ripe for Rage!

Ite sacrosanctae Tabulata per Alta Carinae;
Non opus est Fluviis, Lintea pando Mari.
Ite Rates Ventis, quo vos rapit Aura, secundis:
Brittica Cymba pias findat Amoris Aquas.

--Animarum Sponsus IESUS.

The Soule against Temptations fights,
Whom Death and Hell present with frights:
The World with Wealth and Honour courts;
The Fleshes Glasse invites to Sports:
But THEOPHIL by Faith her Shield,
And Hopes firm Anchor stands the Field;
Accompany'd with GRACE and LOVE,
By ANGELS SHE does upward move.