Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ASHWEDNESDAY, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT

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ASHWEDNESDAY, by            
First Line: Right welcome pleasant bitter day
Last Line: Being as gods discerning good & evill.
Subject(s): Abstinence; Ash Wednesday; Lent

RIGHT Welcome pleasant bitter Day:
Smiles never did so sweetly play
Upon ye sleek
And shining cheek
Of Joy, as now
On thy sterne brow
Severer Frowns, in whose black furrows lie
Deep sowne ye Seeds of true Festivitie.

O how much sweeter is ye Pill
Which honest Bitternes doth fill
With healing Powers,
Then all ye Flowers
And Creame, yt we
And Luxurie
Suck from abundant Diet's treacherous Breasts,
Whose Office, sweetly is to choke Her Guests.

Let Sugars tempting baits be spread
On things, which flatteries help doe need:
No need hast Thou
Such charmes to throw
Upon thy face,
Whose potent grace
Though spread with palest ashes, yet can move
The Noblest Spirits with Thee to fall in love.

For in those Ashes sure there lie
Sparks of that Fire, wch cannot die:
Embers of Love
Which nobly prove
Their Royall Race
When in ye Face
Of Heavn they flie, & with full fervour rise
In flaming Pietie to their native skies.

Envy no other Crowned Day
Who art a purer Feast then they:
None of thy Sweets
Consist in Meats,
And things where Beasts
May be ye Guests:
Angelick is thy Entertainement since
Thou art the Festival of ABSTINENCE.

A Feast wch doth invite each Guest
Not to devoure, but to Regest
To clense ye Heart
And every Part
Where Luxurie
Had made a Stie:
A Feast, where they most welcome are, & most
Merry, who of ye deepest sadnesse tast.

A Feast, which knows no other wine
But what is Princely, & Divine,
Which grows not in
Canarie's sun
Nor Grecian Hills;
A Wine, which fills
Gods Sacred Bottles & doth onely rise
From ye fair Fountaines of repentent Eyes.

A Feast, where we may feed & be
Fatned up for Eternitie:
And learne below
How We may grow
Fit for that Upper
All-glorious Supper,
Which Gods Magnificent Lamb doth there prepare
For those, that Feast themselves with fasting here.

A Feast, whose Musik doth rebound
A welcome & delicious Sound
Unto His Eares
Who tunes ye Sphears.
A Feast where Groanes
And dolorous Tones
Wait on each draught of Teares, whose variation
Makes ye grave Musik of Mortification.

Sit downe, Dear Friends, loe a soft Bed
Of Ashes here is ready spread.
Sit downe & feast
Your fill: at least
Sit downe to cross
Our ancient Losse;
Feed here, & countermine ye envious Devill,
Being as Gods discerning Good & Evill.

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