. Emblems, divine and moral . of thy fires. Let grace conduct thee to the paths of peace, And wisdom bless the souls unblemishd ways;No matter, then, how short or longs the lease, Whose date determines thy self-numberd days:No need to care for wealths or fames increase,Nor Mars his palm, nor high Apollos , if thy gracious bounty please to fillThe floor of my desires, and teach me skillTo dress and choose the corn, take those the chaff. that will. 100 EMBLEMS. BOOK 2. S. August. Lib. i. de Doct. things more ravish in the expectationthan in fruition: but things eternal,
. Emblems, divine and moral . of thy fires. Let grace conduct thee to the paths of peace, And wisdom bless the souls unblemishd ways;No matter, then, how short or longs the lease, Whose date determines thy self-numberd days:No need to care for wealths or fames increase,Nor Mars his palm, nor high Apollos , if thy gracious bounty please to fillThe floor of my desires, and teach me skillTo dress and choose the corn, take those the chaff. that will. 100 EMBLEMS. BOOK 2. S. August. Lib. i. de Doct. things more ravish in the expectationthan in fruition: but things eternal, more in thefruition than expectation. Ibidem. The life of man is the middle between angels andbeasts: if man takes pleasure in carnal things, he iscompared to beasts: but if he delight in spiritualthings, he is suited with angels. Epig. thou a child? Thou wilt not then be fedBut like a child, and with the childrens bread;But thou art fed with chaff, or corn undrest:My soul, thou savourst too much of the beast. K 2. 101 H<£C aiu/uuiit piieroi cymbala; at ilia viiOSwPHILIPPIANS 111. 19, M. They mind earthly things, but our conversation is inheaven. VENUS. DIVINE CUPID. Fen. What means this peevish babe ? Whish, lul-laby ;What ails my babe, what ails my babe to cry ?Will nothing still it? Will it neither bePleasd with the nurses breast, nor mothers knee? 102 EMBLEMS. BOOK 2. What ails my bird? What moves my froward boyTo make such whimpring faces? Peace, my joy :Will nothing do? Come, come, this peevish brat,Thus cry and brawl, and cannot tell for what?Come, buss and friends; my lamb ; whish lullaby;What ails my babe, what ails my babe to cry?Peace, peace, my dear; alas! thy early yearsHad never faults to merit half these tears;Come, smile upon me : let thy mother spyThy fathers image in her babys eye:Husband these guilty drops against the rageOf harder fortunes, and the gripes of age;Thine eyes not ripe for tears: Whish lullaby;What ails my babe, my sweet-facd bab
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