THE Protestant FATHER's ADVICE TO HIS AMBITIOUS SON.
To the Tune of,
State and Ambition.
STate and Ambition, alas, will deceive you,
there's no solid Joy but in Blessings above;
Of all Comforts here, Heaven soon will bereave you,
your Estates and your Bags it will shortly remove;
But he that inherits a Portion of Grace,
he may lye down in Peace and take his sweet rest,
If after this life his Footsteps you'll Trace,
you will find that with Saints and with Angels he's blest.
His Portion is lasting, his Pleasures are certain,
his Joys are unmixt, and his Blessings are sure;
When the comforts of Earth are all fading & parting,
his Peace and his Pleasures shall ever endure:
His Labours shall meet with a Kingdom and Crown,
his Glory and Joy shall never have end;
When the Sun, Moon and Stars shall all tumble down,
with glorious Arch-Angels his time he shall spend.
Oh! then let us mount our Hearts up to Heaven,
let our Souls be rouz'd up above this dull Earth;
In
Sion our Sins shall all be Forgiven,
it's there, only there we can have our true Mirth:
The World, alas, at best is a Bubble,
a Shadow, a Dream, a Thing of no worth;
At best, it breeds Vexation and Trouble,
and Sorrow, and Misery, often brings forth.
Then live such a Life as you wou'd wish dying,
a Life of Religion, of Truth and of Zeal,
For your Time it has Wings and you'll find it still flying,
'twill suddenly post you to Woe or to Weal:
O! happp's that Man, thrice happy is he,
whose end and whose aim are at Blessings above;
The Beauty of
Sion he shortly shall see,
and still be surrounded with heavenly Love.
What heavenly Raptures and Anthems are sounding
in Ears of the Saints and the Angels in rest?
Love, kindness and sweetness in Heaven's abounding,
unspeakable Joy is attending the Blest;
Lute, Timbrel and Harp are warbling out Praise,
and filling the Heaven with glorious Delight,
And the Blest Son of Man with his beauteous Rays,
adorns all his Saints makes them glorious and bright.
Since
Heaven's so glorious, and
Earth's such a trouble,
it's madness and nonsence to dye unprepar'd;
The Richest have found the whole
Globe but a bubble,
they that great Lands & great Fortunes have shard;
No Joy that is real the World can allow,
no Comfort, no Pleasure, no Mirth nor Content;
Then why to this Wealth do Men foolishly bow?
and why are our days so sordidly Spent?
LONDON: Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pye-corner.