The GOOD CHRISTIANS Complaint;
OR,
Poor CHARITY's
Languishing Lamentation in a late long and tedious Winter;
Seeing Pride, Envy, Hatred, Malice, with many other Vices, Nourish'd like Darlings in the Bosome of Mankind; whilst Love and Mercy, Truth and Chartity, did unregarded Wander like strange Pilgrims. Concluding with a Seasonable Exhortation to a Christian Life.
Licensed according to Order.
AS
Truth was passing through the open Street,
It was his chance poor
Charity to meet,
Distressed in the bitter Frost and Snow,
And for Relief she knew not where to go.
Grief sate Enthron'd between her careful Brow
[...],
For there was few that wou'd her Cause espouse;
Her Cheeks was nipp'd by sharp and freezing Wind,
She sighing said, Is all the World unkind?
Where are those Ancients that were wont to be
Such Benefactors to poor
Charity?
What, are they dead, and left none of their Race,
That are right willing to supply their place?
I find the Widow and the Fatherless,
With Grief and Sorrow languish in distress;
While those that vaunt in rich Embroider'd Gold,
Will not look down their sorrows to behold.
Those who their lives in wanton pleasures lead,
If they behold a Man who stands in need
Of present help, his Grief they will not mind;
O this we do by sad experience find.
The Youthful Gallant ought to Honour Age,
The hoary Head, with Visage Grave and Sage:
But yet instead of this, some swell with Pride,
And poor decripid Age scorn and deride.
Instead of giving them a due Respect,
On their gray Hairs Youth often will reflect;
And commonly reviling Language give,
As if on Earth they were not fit to live.
Instead of Love, which ought to rule and reign,
Just cause we have of Malice to complain:
Amongst us here Revenge is sweet we find,
To such as those who are to Wrath inclin'd.
One Neighbour hates to see another Thrive,
Behold how carefull are they to contrive,
By what slye means they may their Ruine prove;
And this is all for want of Christian Love.
Some Men before they'll pardon an Offence,
Will seek Revenge, tho' at a large Expence:
But if the Lord of Love was so severe,
What would become of sinful Mortals here?
If
Charity amongst the Sons of Men,
Was freely entertain'd, how happy then
Would Christians be, they'd readily forgive
All Wrongs, and here in Love and Friendship live.
But Vice instead of Vertues Men receive,
Which causes
Charity to sigh and grieve;
And while she utters forth her Mournful Cries,
Distilled Tears drop from her melting Eyes.
To see how
Folly like a Darling dear,
Is hugg'd, embrac'd, and likewise cherisht here,
Close in the very Bosome of Mankind,
Whilst
Vertue can no Habitation find.
In Drunkenness some Persons take delight,
With quaffing Cups in Taverns day and night.
Thus they their Wealth in lawless pleasures spend,
While to the Poor they'll neither give nor lend.
Alas! we often hear the Drunkard boast,
Who can continue longest, swallow most;
But it were better we cou'd hear them say,
That for their Sins they love to Fast and Pray.
For fear the Lord in wrath shou'd Vengeance take,
For why, the best of Men may chance to break
His just Commands, but how much more does he,
Who drowns his Soul in floods of Infamy.
That very Sin sends thousands to the Grave,
Their Lives the Learned Doctors cannot save;
Yet sure I am, such Deaths would never be,
If Men had for themselves but
Charity.
Likewise the Sin of Pride does here bear sway,
Who Peacock-like, does gaudy Plumes display;
And at a Blush seems beautiful and fair,
Yet to the World she proves a fatal Snare.
Some Persons they to Pride are so inclin'd,
That night and day there's nothing else they mind;
That time that should be spent in Righteousness,
They here bestow to prank a Modish Dress.
Forgetting that they are but Dust and Clay,
Who notwithstanding all their Garments Gay,
Must stoop to Death, and in a Grave he laid,
Where they shall soon a Feast for Worms be made.
Then what becomes of Grandieur, State and Pride,
And all the Glories of the World beside?
They lye within the limits of a Shroud,
Then why should Man, poor Mortal Man, be Proud?
Yet some against the Rules of solid Sense,
Will nourish Pride, there's none shall them convince;
And many pounds on it will spend, before
They'd give one single Penny to the Poor.
The very painted Harlot which they meet,
At ev'ry crick and corner of the Street,
They will supply with Gold and Silver bright,
Meerly for the leud pleasures of the Night.
But see, does not her Footsteps lead to Death?
Is there not more than Poison in her breath?
To taint thy Soul with the false shows of Love,
Until she does thy utter Ruin prove.
Those that has run this loose perfidious Race,
Has met with Death in shame and sad disgrace;
And did with melting Dying Tears declare,
That Harlots fond allurements brought them there.
Thus Varlets often bitterly complain,
That crying sins has prov'd their fatal bare;
But who is he that ever did repent,
That he in Righteousness his days had spent.
Complaining he had led too strict a Life,
Too free from Malice, Envy, Spleen and Strife;
Too Sober, likewise too Religious here,
Or that a Conscience had been kept too clear.
No, these are Comforts of a Dying Bed,
VVhen we can call to mind how we have led
A Life on Earth, season'd with Christian Grace,
VVhich will conduct us to a resting place.
For this vain World with grief flows like a flood,
Here's little else but Wars and shedding Blood;
Contending still for Superority.
This is for want of Love and Charity.
If we would War and lasting Glory win,
We must like Christian Souldiers Conquer Sin,
The greatest Enemy to all Mankind,
So shall we then Eternal Glory find.
LONDON, Printed for P. Brooksby, J. Deacon, J. Blare, and J. Back. 1692.