. Emblems, divine and moral . very souls a vulgar proverb s crost, he hardly can Be a good bowler and an honest God ! turn thou my Brazil thoughts anew ;New-sole my bowls, and make their bias 11 cease to game, till fairer ground be givn ;Nor wish to win, until the mark be Heavn. 44 EMBLEMS. BOOK i. S. Bernard, Lib. de you sons of Adam, you covetous generations,what have ye to do with earthly riches, which areneither true, nor yours ; gold and silver are real earth,red and white, which only the error of man makes, orrather reputes, precious: In short, if they
. Emblems, divine and moral . very souls a vulgar proverb s crost, he hardly can Be a good bowler and an honest God ! turn thou my Brazil thoughts anew ;New-sole my bowls, and make their bias 11 cease to game, till fairer ground be givn ;Nor wish to win, until the mark be Heavn. 44 EMBLEMS. BOOK i. S. Bernard, Lib. de you sons of Adam, you covetous generations,what have ye to do with earthly riches, which areneither true, nor yours ; gold and silver are real earth,red and white, which only the error of man makes, orrather reputes, precious: In short, if they be yours,carry them with you. S. HiERON. in lust, thou infernal fire, whose fuel is gluttony ;whose flame is pride; whose sparkles are wantonwords ; whose smoke is infamy; whose ashes areuncleanness : whose end is hell. Epig. , well foUowd ? Cupid, bravely led ;Both touchers ; equal fortune makes a dead ;No reed can measure where the conquest lies ;Take my advice ; compound, and share the prize. EMBLEMS. 45 Mundus in exiUum ruit. EPHES. n. 2. Ye walked according to the course of this world,according to the prince of the air, Q WHITHER will this mad-brain world at last Be driven ? WTiere will her restless wheels arrive ?Why hurries on her ill-matchd pair so fast ?0 whither means her furious groom to drive % 4(5 EMBLEMS. BOOK i. What, will her rambling fits be never past IFor ever ranging ? Never once retrieve ? Will earths perpetual progress neer expire ? Her team continuing in their fresh career :And yet they never rest, and yet they never tire. Sols hot-mouthd steeds, whose nostrils vomit flame, And brazen lungs belch forth quotidian fire,Their twelve hours task performd, grow stiff and lame, And their immortal spirits faint and tire :At th azure mountains foot their labours claimThe privilege of rest, where they retire To quench their burning fetlocks, and go steepTheir flaming nostrils in the western deep,Andfresh their tired souls with strength-restoring
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