John Beaumont Poems

Yee that in lowly valleyes weeping sate,
And taught your humble soules to mourne of late
For sinnes, and sufFrings breeding griefes and feares,
And made the riuers bigger with your teares,
...

Pilgrim.

What darknes clouds my senses ? hath the day
Forgot his season, and the sunne his way ?
Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might,
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CAN I, who haue for others oft compil'd
The Songs of Death, forget my sweetest child.
Which like a flow'r crusht, with a blast is dead,
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Faire easteme starre, that art ordain'd to runne
Before the sages to the rising sunne,
Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud
Of this poore stable can thy Maker shroud :
...

Behold what riuers feeble nature spends,
And melts vs into seas at losse of friends:
Their mortall state this fountaine neuer dies,
But fills the world with worlds of weeping eies.
...

What pensill shall I take or where begin
To paint the vgly face of odious sinne ?
Mdu sinning oft, though pardon'd oft, exceeds
The falling angels in malicious deeds :
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Enough delight, O mine eternall good!
I feare to perish in this fiery flood;
And doubt, lest beames of such a glorious light
Should rather blind me, then extend my sight:
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Ah ! who would loue a creature, who would place
His heart, his treasure, in a thing so base ?
Which time consuming, like a moth, destroyes,
And stealing death will rob him of his ioyes.
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Is man, the best of creatures, growne the worst?
He once most blessed was, now most accurst:
His whole felicity is endlesse strife,
No peace, no satisfaction crownes his life:
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Muse, that art dull and weake,
Opprest with worldly paine,
If strength in thee remaine
Of things diuine to speake,
...