Woe to the worldly men, whose covetous
Ambition labours to joyne house to house,
Lay field to field; till their Enclosures edge
The Playne, girdling a Country with one hedge:
That leave no place unbought, no peece of Earth
Which they will not engrosse, making a dearth
Of all Inhabitants, untill they stand
Unneighbour'd, as unblest, within their Land.
This Sinne cryes in God's eare, who hath decree'd
The ground they sowe shall not returne the Seed.
They that unpeopled Countryes to create
Themselves sole Lords; made many desolate
To build up their owne house, shall find at last
Ruine and fearefull desolation cast
Upon themselves. Their Mansion shall become
A Desart, and their Palace prove a Tombe.
Their vines shall barren be, Their Land yeild Tares;
Their house shall have no dwellers; They no heires.
Woe unto those that with the morning Sunne
Rise to drink wine, and sitt till he have runne
His weary course; not ceasing untill night
Have quench't their understanding with the Light:
Whose raging thirst, like fire, will not be tam'd,
The more they poure, the more they are enflam'd.
Woe unto them that only mighty are
To wage with wine; in which unhappy warre
They who the glory of the day have won,
Must yeild them foil'd and vanquisht by the Tun.
Men that live thus, as if they liv'd in jest,
Fooling their time with Musick, and a Feast;
That did exile all sounds from their soft eare
But of the Harp, must this sad discord heare
Compos'd in threats: The feet which measures tread
Shall in Captivity be fettered:
Famine shall scourge them for their vast excesse,
And Hell revenge their monstrous Drunkennesse;
Which hath enlarg'd itself, to swallowe such,
Whose throats ne're knew enough, though still too much.
Woe unto those that countenance a Sinne,
Siding with Vice, that it may credit winne
By their unhallow'd Vote. That doe benight
The Truth with Errour, putting Dark for Light,
And Light for Dark. That call an Evill, Good,
And would by Vice have Vertue understood.
That with their frowne can sowre an honnest cause,
Or sweeten any bad by their applause.
That justify the wicked for reward,
And voyd of morall goodnes or regard,
Plott with Detraction, to traduce the fame
Of him, whose meritt hath enroll'd his name
Among the Just. Therfore God's vengefull ire
Glowes on his People, and becomes a fire,
Whose greedy and exalted flame shall burne
Till they, like straw or chaffe, to nothing turne.
Because they have rebell'd against the right,
To God and Law perversly opposite;
As Plants, which Sun nor Shewres did ever blesse,
So shall their Root convert to Rottennes:
And their Succession's Budd, in which they trust,
Shall (like Gomorrah's fruit) moulder to dust.
Woe unto those that drunk with self conceit
Value their owne designes at such a rate
Which humane wisdome cannot reach; That sitt
Enthron'd, as sole Monopolists of Witt:
That out-look reason, and suppose the Ey
Of Nature blind to their discovery,
Whilst they a title make to understand
What ever Secret's bosom'd in the Land.
But God shall imp their pride, and let them see
They are but fooles in a sublime degree:
He shall bring downe, and humble those proud Eyes
In which false glasses only they lookt wise:
That all the world may laugh, and learne by it,
There is no folly to pretended Witt.
Woe unto those that draw Iniquity
With cordes: and by a vaine security
Lengthen the sinfull trace; Till their owne Chayne
Of many linkes, form'd by laborious paine,
Doe pull them into Hell: That, as with Lines
And Cartroapes, dragg on their unwilling Crimes:
Who, rather then they will committ no Sinne,
Tempt all occasions to let it in.
As if there were no God, who must exact
The strict account for e'ry vitious fact,
Nor Judgment after Death. If any bee,
Let Him make speed (say they) that wee may see.
Why is his Work retarded by delay?
Why doth himself thus linger on the way?
If there be any Judge, or future Doome,
Let It and Him with speed togither come.
Unhappy men that challenge and defy
The comming of that dreadfull Majesty!
Better by much for You, he did reverse
His purpos'd Sentence on the Universe;
Or that the creeping Minutes might adjourne
Those flames, in which You, with the Earth, must burne:
That Time's revolting hand could lagg the Yeere,
And so put back His Day, which is too neere.
Behold his Signes advanc't, like Colours fly,
To tell the World that His approach is nigh;
And in a furious March Hee's comming on,
Swift as the raging Inundation,
To scowre the sinfull World. 'Gainst which is bent
Artillery that never can be spent:
Bowes strung with vengeance and Flame-feather'd Darts
Headed with Death, to wound transgressing Hearts.
His Charriot Wheeles rapt in the Whirlewinde's gyre,
His Horses hoov'd with flint, and shod with fire.
In which amaze where e're the fixe their Eye,
Or on the melting Earth, or upp, on high,
To seek Heav'ns shrunk Lights, nothing shall appeare
But Night and Horrour in their Hemisphaere:
Nor shall th' affrighted Sense more objects know,
Then dark'ned Skyes above, and Hell below.
Ambition labours to joyne house to house,
Lay field to field; till their Enclosures edge
The Playne, girdling a Country with one hedge:
That leave no place unbought, no peece of Earth
Which they will not engrosse, making a dearth
Of all Inhabitants, untill they stand
Unneighbour'd, as unblest, within their Land.
This Sinne cryes in God's eare, who hath decree'd
The ground they sowe shall not returne the Seed.
They that unpeopled Countryes to create
Themselves sole Lords; made many desolate
To build up their owne house, shall find at last
Ruine and fearefull desolation cast
Upon themselves. Their Mansion shall become
A Desart, and their Palace prove a Tombe.
Their vines shall barren be, Their Land yeild Tares;
Their house shall have no dwellers; They no heires.
Woe unto those that with the morning Sunne
Rise to drink wine, and sitt till he have runne
His weary course; not ceasing untill night
Have quench't their understanding with the Light:
Whose raging thirst, like fire, will not be tam'd,
The more they poure, the more they are enflam'd.
Woe unto them that only mighty are
To wage with wine; in which unhappy warre
They who the glory of the day have won,
Must yeild them foil'd and vanquisht by the Tun.
Men that live thus, as if they liv'd in jest,
Fooling their time with Musick, and a Feast;
That did exile all sounds from their soft eare
But of the Harp, must this sad discord heare
Compos'd in threats: The feet which measures tread
Shall in Captivity be fettered:
Famine shall scourge them for their vast excesse,
And Hell revenge their monstrous Drunkennesse;
Which hath enlarg'd itself, to swallowe such,
Whose throats ne're knew enough, though still too much.
Woe unto those that countenance a Sinne,
Siding with Vice, that it may credit winne
By their unhallow'd Vote. That doe benight
The Truth with Errour, putting Dark for Light,
And Light for Dark. That call an Evill, Good,
And would by Vice have Vertue understood.
That with their frowne can sowre an honnest cause,
Or sweeten any bad by their applause.
That justify the wicked for reward,
And voyd of morall goodnes or regard,
Plott with Detraction, to traduce the fame
Of him, whose meritt hath enroll'd his name
Among the Just. Therfore God's vengefull ire
Glowes on his People, and becomes a fire,
Whose greedy and exalted flame shall burne
Till they, like straw or chaffe, to nothing turne.
Because they have rebell'd against the right,
To God and Law perversly opposite;
As Plants, which Sun nor Shewres did ever blesse,
So shall their Root convert to Rottennes:
And their Succession's Budd, in which they trust,
Shall (like Gomorrah's fruit) moulder to dust.
Woe unto those that drunk with self conceit
Value their owne designes at such a rate
Which humane wisdome cannot reach; That sitt
Enthron'd, as sole Monopolists of Witt:
That out-look reason, and suppose the Ey
Of Nature blind to their discovery,
Whilst they a title make to understand
What ever Secret's bosom'd in the Land.
But God shall imp their pride, and let them see
They are but fooles in a sublime degree:
He shall bring downe, and humble those proud Eyes
In which false glasses only they lookt wise:
That all the world may laugh, and learne by it,
There is no folly to pretended Witt.
Woe unto those that draw Iniquity
With cordes: and by a vaine security
Lengthen the sinfull trace; Till their owne Chayne
Of many linkes, form'd by laborious paine,
Doe pull them into Hell: That, as with Lines
And Cartroapes, dragg on their unwilling Crimes:
Who, rather then they will committ no Sinne,
Tempt all occasions to let it in.
As if there were no God, who must exact
The strict account for e'ry vitious fact,
Nor Judgment after Death. If any bee,
Let Him make speed (say they) that wee may see.
Why is his Work retarded by delay?
Why doth himself thus linger on the way?
If there be any Judge, or future Doome,
Let It and Him with speed togither come.
Unhappy men that challenge and defy
The comming of that dreadfull Majesty!
Better by much for You, he did reverse
His purpos'd Sentence on the Universe;
Or that the creeping Minutes might adjourne
Those flames, in which You, with the Earth, must burne:
That Time's revolting hand could lagg the Yeere,
And so put back His Day, which is too neere.
Behold his Signes advanc't, like Colours fly,
To tell the World that His approach is nigh;
And in a furious March Hee's comming on,
Swift as the raging Inundation,
To scowre the sinfull World. 'Gainst which is bent
Artillery that never can be spent:
Bowes strung with vengeance and Flame-feather'd Darts
Headed with Death, to wound transgressing Hearts.
His Charriot Wheeles rapt in the Whirlewinde's gyre,
His Horses hoov'd with flint, and shod with fire.
In which amaze where e're the fixe their Eye,
Or on the melting Earth, or upp, on high,
To seek Heav'ns shrunk Lights, nothing shall appeare
But Night and Horrour in their Hemisphaere:
Nor shall th' affrighted Sense more objects know,
Then dark'ned Skyes above, and Hell below.