Wee falsely think it due unto our friends, That we should grieve for their too early ends: He that surveys the world with serious eys, And stripps Her from her grosse and weak disguise, Shall find 'tis injury to mourn their fate; He only dy's untimely who dy's Late. For if 'twere told to children in the womb, To what a stage of mischief they must come Could they foresee with how much toile and sweat Men court that Guilded nothing, being Great; What paines they take not to be what they seem, Rating their blisse by others false esteem, And sacrificing their content, to be Guilty of grave and serious Vanity; How each condition hath its proper Thorns, And what one man admires, another Scorns; How frequently their happiness they misse, And so farre from agreeing what it is, That the same Person we can hardly find, Who is an houre together in a mind; Sure they would beg a period of their breath, And what we call their birth would count their Death. Mankind is mad; for none can live alone Because their joys stand by comparison: And yet they quarrell at Society, And strive to kill they know not whom, nor why, We all live by mistake, delight in Dreames, Lost to ourselves, and dwelling in extreames; Rejecting what we have, though ne're so good, And prizing what we never understood. compar'd to our boystrous inconstancy Tempests are calme, and discords harmony. Hence we reverse the world, and yet do find The God that made can hardly please our mind. We live by chance, and slip into Events; Have all of Beasts except their Innocence. The soule, which no man's pow'r can reach, a thing That makes each women Man, each man a King. Doth so much loose, and from its height so fall, That some content to have no Soule at all. "Tis either not observ'd, or at the best By passion fought withall, by sin deprest. Freedome of will (god's image) is forgot; And if we know it, we improve it not. Our thoughts, thou nothing can be more our own, Are still unguided, verry seldom known. Time 'scapes our hands as water in a Sieve, We come to dy ere we begin to Live. Truth, the most suitable and noble Prize, Food of our spirits, yet neglected ly's. Errours and shaddows ar our choice, and we Ow our perdition to our Own decree. If we search Truth, we make it more obscure; And when it shines, we can't the Light endure; For most men who plod on, and eat, and drink, Have nothing less their business then to think; And those few that enquire, how small a share Of Truth they fine! how dark their notions are! That serious evenness that calmes the Brest, And in a Tempest can bestow a rest, We either not attempt, or elce [sic] decline, By every triffle snatch'd from our design. (Others he must in his deceits involve, Who is not true unto his own resolve.) We govern not our selves, but loose the reins, Courting our bondage to a thousand chains; And with as man slaverys content, As there are Tyrants ready to Torment, We live upon a Rack, extended still To one extreme, or both, but always ill. For since our fortune is not understood, We suffer less from bad then from the good. The sting is better drest and longer lasts, As surfeits are more dangerous than fasts. And to compleat the misery to us, We see extreames are still contiguous. And as we run so fast from what we hate, Like Squibs on ropes, to know no middle state; So (outward storms strengthen'd by us) we find Our fortune as disordred as our mind. But that's excus'd by this, it doth its part; A treacherous world befits a treacherous heart. All ill's our own; the outward storms we loath Receive from us their birth, or sting, or both; And that our Vanity be past a doubt, 'Tis one new vanity to find it out. Happy are they to whom god gives a Grave, And from themselves as from his wrath doeth save. 'Tis good not to be born; but if we must, The next good is, soone to return to Dust: When th'uncag'd soule, fled to Eternity, Shall rest and live, and sing, and love, and See. Here we but crawle and grope, and play and cry; Are first our own, then others Enemy: But there shall be defac'd both stain and score, For time, and Death, and sin shall be no more.
6th April 1651 L'Amitie: To Mrs. M. Awbrey
- by Katherine Philips26
Soule of my soule! my Joy, my crown, my friend! A name which all the rest doth comprehend; How happy are we now, whose sols are grown, By an incomparable mixture, One: Whose well acquainted minds are not as neare As Love, or vows, or secrets can endeare. I have no thought but what's to thee reveal'd, Nor thou desire that is from me conceal'd. Thy heart locks up my secrets richly set, And my breast is thy private cabinet. Thou shedst no teare but what but what my moisture lent, And if I sigh, it is thy breath is spent. United thus, what horrour can appeare Worthy our sorrow, anger, or our feare? Let the dull world alone to talk and fight And with their vast ambitions nature fright; Let them despise so innocent a flame, While Envy, pride, and faction play their game: But we by Love sublim'd so high shall rise, To pitty Kings, and Conquerours despise, Since we that sacred union have engrost, Which they and all the sullen world have lost.
Poems by Katherine Philips, Katherine Philips's poems collection. Katherine Philips is a classical and famous poet (1631 - 1664 / London). Share all poems of Katherine Philips.