. Emblems, divine and moral . onscience and thy hand. 1 know thy justice is thyself; I know,Just God, thy very self is mercy too ;If not to thee, where, whither shall I go? Then work thy will; if passion bid me flee,My reason shall obey ; my wings shall beStretchd out no further than from thee to thee. 184 EMIJLEMS. BOOK J; ■S. August, in Psal. fly I ? to what place can I safely fly ? towhat mountain? to what den ? to what strong house?what castle shall I hold? what walls shall hold me?whithersoever I go, myself followeth me: Forwhatsoever thou fliest, O man, thou mayest, butIhy
. Emblems, divine and moral . onscience and thy hand. 1 know thy justice is thyself; I know,Just God, thy very self is mercy too ;If not to thee, where, whither shall I go? Then work thy will; if passion bid me flee,My reason shall obey ; my wings shall beStretchd out no further than from thee to thee. 184 EMIJLEMS. BOOK J; ■S. August, in Psal. fly I ? to what place can I safely fly ? towhat mountain? to what den ? to what strong house?what castle shall I hold? what walls shall hold me?whithersoever I go, myself followeth me: Forwhatsoever thou fliest, O man, thou mayest, butIhy own conscience : wheresoever, O Loud, I go,1 find thee; if angry, a revenger; if appeased, aredeemer: what way have 1, but to fly from theeto thee: that thou mayest avoid thy God, address tathy Lord. Epig. vengeance found thee ? can thy fears command^No rocks to shield thee from her thundring hand ?Knowst thou not where to scape? Ill tell thee where;My soul,make clean thy conscience; hide thee there^ UOOK J. 1S5 jon X. 20. Are not my days feic ? Cease then, and let me alone,that I may bewail myself a little. JMy glass is half unspent; forbear t arrestMy thriftless day too soon: my poor requestIs, that my glass may run but out the rest. 186 EMBLEMS. ROOK o. My tirae-devoured minutes will be doneWithout tliy help; see, see how swift they run;Cut not my thread before my thread be spun. The 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 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 We
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