XXII. Sir John Beaumont

YEE that in lowly valleyes weeping sate,

And taught your humble soules to mourne of late

For sinnes, and suff’rings breeding griefes and feares,

And made the riuers bigger with your teares,

Now cease your sad complaints till fitter time,

And with those three belou’d apostles clime

To lofty Thabor, where your happy eyes

Shall see the sunne of glory brightly rise:

Draw neere, and euer blesse that sacred hill,

That there no heate may parch, no frost may kill

The tender plants; nor any thunder blast

That top, by which all mountaines are surpast.

By steepe and briery paths ye must ascend:

But if ye know to what high scope ye tend,

No let nor danger can your steps restraine—

The crags will easie seeme, the thickets plaine.

Our Lord there stands, not with his painefull crosse

Laid on his shoulders, mouing you to losse

Of precious things, nor calling you to beare

That burden which so much base worldlings feare.

Here are no promist hopes obscur’d with clouds,

No sorrow with dim vailes true pleasure shrowds,

But perfect ioy, which here discouered shines,

To taste of heauenly light your thoughts inclines,

And able is to weane deluded mindes

From fond delight, which wretched mortals blinds.

Yet let not sense so much your reason sway,

As to desire for euer here to stay;

Refusing that sweet change which God prouides

To those whom with his rod and staffe he guides.

Your happinesse consists not now alone

In those high comforts, which are often throwne

In plenteous manner from our Sauiour’s hand,

To raise the fall’n, and cause the weake to stand:

But ye are blest, when being trodden downe,

Ye taste his cup, and weare his thorny crowne.