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


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DEATH, by                    
First Line: Look not so fierce; thy hands are ty'd, I know
Last Line: Borne in a surer birth of immortalitie.
Subject(s): Adam & Eve; Bible; Death; Devil; Immortality; Spiritual Life; Eve; Dead, The; Satan; Mephistopheles; Lucifer; Beelzebub


LOOK not so fierce; thy hands are ty'd, I know,
And must be, till my Master lets them goe.
Come let us parl a while, & see
What makes ye world to fly from Thee.
Perhaps ther's some mistake, & They
Should rather run to be thy Prey.
Frowne not in vaine; I long to feele thy sword;
But Thou & I must stay, till Heavn does give ye word.

What Furies hand rak'd up ye monstrous Deep
Of shame and horrour, thence to fetch an heap
Of shapelesse Shapes, which join'd in one,
Make up thy Constitution?
Was Night thy Mother, or was Hell?
Both which in thy black Looks doe dwell.
Or sin more horrid then both They? Sure none
But such an hideous Shee could beare so foule a Sonne.

No sooner borne but strait Thou learnd'st thy Trade,
And 'twas Destruction: All ye World was made
Thine easy Prize; nor didst Thou spare
To take thy gluttonous fill. But where
Is all bestow'd? Thy craving Look
Keeps sad & thinn, as Famins Book.
All flesh becomes thy food, yet naked bee
Thine ougly Bones: Ther's nought but hunger grows in Thee.

Great was thine Empire, & thy Conquest great:
The proudest Kings bow'd at thy prouder feet.
With bold Corruption Thou did'st tread
On Glories stoutest, fairest Head.
Thou bad'st thy shamelesse Wormes goe feed
In Princes bosomes, & with speed
Gnaw out ye marks of men, that none might know
What difference Humane Dust from common Earth could show.

Thus did thy domineering Dread surprize
The trembling Earth, wch scarcely could suffice
To find Thee roome, wherin to lay
The numerous Nations Thou didst slay.
This made Thee bold & venturous grow:
Doe you not remember how
One day you clamberd up a mighty Crosse?
Not all ye Graves you cause, can bury yt Dayes losse.

Another kind of Adam on that Tree
Thou found'st, whom thy black Mother, though She be
Stronger then Thou, & subtler too,
Durst never hope to overthrow.
Did He not foile Thee in ye fight,
And of thy sting disarme Thee quite?
Indeed Hee seem'd to yeild; but 'twas to lay
A three-dayes Ambushment, ye surer Thee to slay.

Submitted not his seeming conquer'd hands,
And gently wore thy captivating Bands?
Into thy Prison went Hee not
Whose mighty door wth Seales was shut?
Then deemed'st Thou thy Selfe secure,
And of thy hardy Conquest sure:
When from his Ambush thy supposed Slave
Starts up, & leaves to Thee thine owne more usefull Grave?

And now all yt was Death in Thee is Dead;
This was thy Sting, & this lies buried
In that strong Grave; and there must lie
Till all the rest of Thee doth die.
Look not so grim & fierce; we know
Y' are not our Lord, but Servant now.
Or rather y' are our Freind; doe what you can,
You must be courteous now, ev'n in destroying man.

All you can doe is but to set us free
From what is worse then Death, Lifes Miserie.
Have not brave Troops of Martyrs dar'd
You to ye fight? & when you fear'd
They long'd & woo'd, & prayd to bee
Sharers in this Captivitie.
And if their strange Request were still deny'd
In strong desire of one, a thousand Deaths they dy'd.

Sweet Death, so let me call Thee now, thy hand
Alone can bring our shipwrack'd Soules to land.
Thou with this stormy life compar'd
More calme, more sweet, more lovely art.
The Graves Thou ope'st are but ye Gates
Of blest, & everlasting Fates;
Through wch our Dying life doth pass to be
Borne in a surer Birth of Immortalitie.





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