"Sh'has o'er my Soul an easie Conquest won."

— Pordage, Samuel (bap. 1633, d. c. 1691)

Place of Publication
Printed for Charles Lee
"Sh'has o'er my Soul an easie Conquest won."
Metaphor in Context
My Country-men, Let not your discontent
Draw you to actions you will soon repent,
What e'er your fears and jealousies may be,
Let them not break the bonds of Loyalty.
I dare, and you may too, my Father trust,
For he's so merciful, so good, so just,
That he of no mans Life will make a Prey,
Or take it in an Arbitrary way.
To Heav'n, and to the King submit your cause,
Who never will infringe your ancient Laws;
But if he should an evil Action do,
To run to Arms, 'tis no pretence for you.
The King is Judge of what is just and fit,
And if he judge amiss you must submit,
Tho griev'd you must your constant duty pay,
And your Redress seek in a lawful way.
Hushai tho he of Treason be accus'd,
Such loyal precepts in my soul infus'd,
That I the hazard of my life will run,
Rather than prove my self a Rebel Son.
Our Foes, have sought to' infect my Father's mind,
To think, you to Rebellion are inclin'd:
To stir you to Rebellion is their aim,
And they are mad, to see you justly tame.
Upon your Heads, they fain would lay their sin,
'Tis War they seek, but would have you begin:
Pretence they want, who for the King do seem,
To bring in, and set up Eliakim.
I am afraid the Baalites cursed Plot,
By many laught at, and by most forgot,
Is carried on still, in their hidden Mine,
I fear, but dare not, the event, divine.
May Heav'n defend my Father's Life, and late,
Full ripe with Age, in peace, may he' yield to Fate.
I know, my Friends, for Him's your chiefest Care,
For him, as much as for your selves, you fear,
Upon his Life our happiness depends,
With it the peace of all Judea ends,
Be vigilant, your foes Designs prevent,
Let not loud murmures shew your discontent:
Your Loyal Duty to your Soveraign pay,
Your Griefs present him in a Lawful way:
Be not too anxious for our common Friend,
God, and his Innocence will him defend:
Sit down in quiet, murmure not, but pray,
Submit to Heaven, your King, and Laws obey.
Youth, Beauty, and the Grace wherewith he spoke,
The Eyes, Ears, Hearts, of all the people took,
Their murmures then to joyful shouts were turn'd,
And they rejoyc'd, who lately murmuring mourn'd:
With Loyalty he did their Breasts inflame,
And they with shouts blest Azaria's name.
The joyful Cry th'row all the City flew,
God save the King, and Azaria too.
To him the Princes, his best Friends resort,
Resolv'd as Suppliants, to repair to Court;
In humble wise, to shew the King their Grief,
And on their bended Knees to seek Relief.
They 'approach'd the Throne, to it their homage paid,
Then to the King, the Loyal Nashon said.
Great Sir, whom all good Subjects truly Love,
Tho all things that you do they can't approve,
We, whom the Throne has with high Honours blest,
Present you here the prayers of the rest:
Our bended Knees, as low as Earth we bow,
And humbly prostrate supplicate you now:
The blessing of your Love to us restore,
And raise us to your Favour, Sir, once more.
Where is the Joy, the Peace, and Quiet flown,
All had, when first you did ascend the Throne;
Now murmuring discontents assault our Ears,
And loud Complaints of jealousies, and fears:
Bad instruments help to blow up this Fire,
And with ill minds, their own worse Arts admire,
Whilst, by their means, you think your Friends your Foes,
For your best friends, your Enemies suppose;
Suspect your Loyal Subjects, and believe
The Sanhedrim would you of Rights bereive.
Your people, who do love your gentle Sway,
And willingly their God, and you obey,
Who for Religion ever zealous were,
For that, for you, and for themselves do fear.
Clear as the Sun, by sad effects they find,
A Baalite to succeed you is design'd:
Sir, they would not dispute with you, his right,
But they can n're indure a Baalite.
Tho whilst you live, they are secure and blest,
Yet are they with a thousand fears opprest,
Think your Life still in danger of the Plot,
Which now is laugh'd at, and almost forgot.
They see the Baalites Hellish Plot run down,
And on the Pharisees a false one thrown;
Your zealous faithful Jews all Rebels made,
Their ruine hatch'd, you, and themselves betray'd.
Oh! Sir, before things to extreams do run,
Remember, at the least, you have a Son,
Let the Sanhedrim with your wisdom joyn,
To keep unbroken still the Royal line;
And to secure our fears, that after you,
None shall succeed but a believing Jew.
Sir, this is all your Loyal Subjects Crave,
On you, as on a God, they cry to save.
Kings are like Gods on Earth, when they redress,
Their peoples Griefs, and save them in distress.
With loads of careful thoughts, the King opprest,
And long revolving in his Royal Breast,
Th' event of Things--at last he silence broke,
And, with an awful Majesty, he spoke.
I've long in Peace Judeas Scepter swaid,
None can Complain, I Justice have delay'd:
My Clemency, and Mercy has been shown,
Blood, and Revenge did ne'r pollute my Throne;
I and my People happy, kindly strove,
Which should exceed, my Mercy or their Love:
Who, till of late, more ready were to give
Supplies to me, than I was to receive.
Oh! happy days, and oh! unhappy change;
That makes my Sanhedrims, and my people strange,
And now, when I am in the Throne grown old,
With grief I see my Subjects Love prove cold.
They fear not my known Mercy to offend,
And with my awful Justice dare contend;
But yet their Crimes my mercy shan't asswage,
I'm ready to forgive th' offending Age,
And though they should my Kingly power slight,
I'le still keep for them my forgiving right.
I feel a tenderness within me spring,
I am my Peoples Father, and their King,
And tho I think, they may have done me wrong.
I can't remember their offences long.
Nature is mov'd, and sues for a Reprieve,
They are my Children, and I must forgive.
My many jealous fears I shan't repeat,
My Heart with a strong pulse of Love doth beat,
Nature I feel has made a sudden start,
And a fresh source springs from the Father's heart.
A stubborn Bow, drawn by the force of men,
The force remov'd, flies swifty back agen.
'Tis hard a Fathers nature to o'ercome,
How easily does she her force assume!
Sh'has o'er my Soul an easie Conquest won,
And I remember now I have a Son,
Whose Youth had long been my paternal Care,
Rais'd to the height his noble frame could bear,
And Heav'n has seem'd to give his Soul a turn,
As if ordain'd by Fate for Empire born.
By our known Laws I have the Scepter sway'd,
By them I govern'd, them my Rule I made.
To them I sought to frame my soveraign Will,
By them my Subjects I will govern still:
They, not the People, shall proclaim my Heir,
Yet I will hearken to my Subjects Prayer,
And of a Baalite will remove their fear.
From hence I'le banish every Priest of Baal,
And the wise Sanhedrim together call:
That Body with the Kingly Head shall join,
Their Counsel and their Wisdom mix with mine,
All former strife betwixt us be forgot,
And in Oblivion buried every Plot.
We'l try to live in Love and Peace again,
As when I first began my happy Reign.
Before our Trait'rous Foes with secret toil
Did fair Judea's blessed Peace embroil.
May all my latter days excel my first,
And he who then disturbs our Peace be curst.
Searching "conque" and "soul" in HDIS (Poetry)
Samuel Pordage, Azaria and Hushai, A Poem (London: Printed for Charles Lee, 1682). <Link to EEBO><Link to Google Books>
Date of Entry

The Mind is a Metaphor is authored by Brad Pasanek, Assistant Professor of English, University of Virginia.