The Bracelet

Not that in colour it was like thy hair,For armlets of that thou mayst let me wear;Nor that thy hand is oft embrac'd and kiss'd,For so it had that good which oft I miss'd;Not for that seely old morality,That as those links are tied our love should be;Nor for the luck sake; but the bitter cost. Oh shall twelve righteous angels, which as yetNo leaven of vile solder did admit,Nor yet by any fault have stray'd or goneFrom the first state of their creation,Angels, which heaven commanded to provideAll things to me, and be my faithful guide,To gain new friends, t'appease great enemies,To comfort my soul, when I lie or rise;Shall these twelve innocents, by thy severeSentence (dread judge) my sins great burden bear?Shall they be damn'd, and in the furnace thrown,And punished for offenses not their own?They save not me, they do not ease my painsWhen in that hell they are burnt and tied in chains.Were they but crowns of France, I cared not,For most of them their natural country rotI think possesses; they come here to useSo lean, so pale, so lame, so ruinous.And howso'er French kings most Christian be,Their crowns are circumcis'd most Jewishly.Or were they Spanish stamps, still travailing,That are become as Catholic as their king,Those unlick'd bear-whelps, unfil'd pistolets,That, more then cannon-shot, avails or lets,Which, negligently left unrounded, lookLike many-angled figures in the bookOf some great conjurer, which would enforceNature, as these do Justice, from her course;Which, as the could quickens head, feet, and heart,As streams, like veins, run through th'earths every part,Visit all countries, and have slyly madeGorgeous France ruin'd, ragged, and decay'd,Scotland, which knew no state, proud in one day,And mangled seventeen-headed Belgia.Or were it such gold as that where with allAlmighty chemics from each mineralHaving by subtle fire a soul out-pull'dAre dirtily and desperately gull'd;I would not spit to quench the fire they were in,For they are guilty for much heinous sin.But shall my harmless angels perish? ShallI lose my guard, my ease, my food, my all?Much hope, which they should nourish, will be dead,Much of my able youth, and lustiheadWill vanish; if thou love, let them aloneFor thou wilt love me less when they are gone. Oh be content, that some loud-squeaking crier,Well-pleas-d with one lean threadbare groat for hire,May like devil rore through every street,And gall the finders conscience if they meet.Or let me creep to some dread conjurer,Which with fantastic schemes fulfills much paper,Which hath divided heaven in tenements,And with whores, thieves and murderers stuffed his rentsSo full, that though he pass them all in sin,He leaves himself no room to enter in.And if, when all his art and time is spent,He say 'twill ne'r be found; oh be content.Receive from him the doom ungrudginglyBecause he is the mouth of destiny. Thou sat'st (alas) the gold doth still remainThough it be chang'd, and put into a chain.So, in the first, fall'n Angels rest stillWisdom and knowledge, but 'tis turn'd to ill;As these should do good works, and should provideNecessities, but now must nurse thy pride.And they are still bad angels, mine are none,For form gives being, and their form is gone.Pity these angels yet, their dignitiesPass Virtues, Powers, and Principalities. But thou art resolute; thy will be done.Yet with such anguish as her only sonThe mother in the hungry grave doth lay,Unto the fire these martyrs I betray.Good souls, for you give life to every thing,Good angels, for good messages you bring,Destin'd you might have been to such a oneAs would have lov'd and worship'd you alone,One which would suffer hunger, nakedness,Yea death, ere he would make your number less;But I am guilty of your sad decay,May your few fellows longer with me stay. But oh, thou wretched finder, whom I hateSo much that I'almost pity thy estate;Gold being the heaviest metal amongst all,May my most heavy curse upon thee fall.Here fetter'd, manacl'd, and hang'd in chainsFirst may thou be, then chain'd to hellish pains;Or be with foreign gold brib'd to betrayThy country, and fail both of that and thy pay.May the next thing thou stoop'st to reach containPoison, whose nimble fume rot thy moist brain,Or libels, or some interdicted thing,Which negligently kept thy ruin bring.Lust-bred diseases rot thee and dwell with theeItchy desire and no ability.May all the hurt which ever God hath wrought,All misfortunes which all devils ever thought,Want after plenty, poor and gouty age,The plagues of travelers, love and marriageAfflict thee, and at thy life's latest momentMay thy swollen sins themselves to thee present. But I forgive. Repent thou honest man.Gold is restorative; restore it then.Or if with it thou be loath to departBecause 'tis cordial, would 'twere at thy heart.