. Emblems, divine and moral . conscience and thy hand. I know thy justice is thyself; I God, thy very self is mercy too;If not to thee, where, whither shall I go ? Then work thy will; if passion bid me reason shall obey; my wings shall beStretchd out no further than from thee to thee. 188 EMBLEMS. BOOK 3. S. August, in Psal. fly I? to what place can I safely flyto what mountain? to what den? to what stronghouse? what castle shall I hold? what walls shallhold me? whithersoever I go, myself followethme: For whatsoever thou fliest, O man, thoumayest, but thy own c
. Emblems, divine and moral . conscience and thy hand. I know thy justice is thyself; I God, thy very self is mercy too;If not to thee, where, whither shall I go ? Then work thy will; if passion bid me reason shall obey; my wings shall beStretchd out no further than from thee to thee. 188 EMBLEMS. BOOK 3. S. August, in Psal. fly I? to what place can I safely flyto what mountain? to what den? to what stronghouse? what castle shall I hold? what walls shallhold me? whithersoever I go, myself followethme: For whatsoever thou fliest, O man, thoumayest, but thy own conscience: wheresoever, OLord, I go, I find thee; if angry, a revenger; ifappeased, a redeemer: what way have I, but tofly from thee to thee: that thou mayest avoid thyGod, address to thy Lord. Epic. 12. Hath vengeance found thee ? can thy fears commandNo rocks to shield thee from her thundring hand ?Knowst thou not where to scape? Ill tell tliee where;My soul, make clean thy conscience; hide thee there. BOOK 3. EMBLI 189 JOB X. 20. Are not my days few? Cease then, and let ms alone,that I may bewail myself a little. My glass is half unspent; forbear t arrestMy thriftless day too soon: my poor requestIs, that my glass may run but out the rest. 190 EMBLEMS. BOOK 3. My time-devoured minutes will be doneWithout thy help; see, see how swift they run:Cut not my thread before my thread be spun. Tlie gains not great I purchase by this stay;What loss sustainst thou by so small delay,To whom ten thousand years are but a day? My following eye can hardly make a shiftTo count my winged hours; they fly so swift,They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift. The secret wheels of hurrying time do giveSo short a warning, and so fast they drive,That I am dead before I seem to live. And whats a life? a weary glory in one day doth fill thy stageWith childhood, manhood, and decrepid age. And whats a life? the flourishing array Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day Wears he
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