AN EPIGRAM by BEN JONSON

That you have seen the pride, beheld the sport,
And all the games of fortune, played at court;
Viewed there the mercat, read the wretched rate
At which there are, would sell the prince, and state:
That scarce you hear a public voice alive,
But whispered councils, and those only thrive;
Yet are got off thence, with clear mind, and hands
To lift to heaven: who is't not understands
Your happiness, and doth not speak you blessed,
To see you set apart, thus, from the rest,
To obtain of God, what all the land should ask?
A nation's sin got pardoned! 'Twere a task
Fit for a bishop's knees! O bow them oft,
My lord, till felt grief make our stone hearts soft,
And we do weep, to water, for our sin.
He, that in such a flood, as we are in
Of riot, and consumption, knows the way
To teach the people, how to fast, and pray,
And do their penance, to avert God's rod,
He is the man, and favourite of God.

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