These two fair suns in heav'nly spheres are plac'd,
Where in the centre, joy triumphing sits:
Thus in all high perfections fully grac'd,

Her mid-day bliss no future night admits;
But in the mirrors of her spouse's eyes
Her fairest self she dresses; there where lies
All sweets, a glorious beauty to imparadise.

His locks like raven's plumes, or shining jet,
Fall down in curls along his ivory neck;
Within their circlets hundred graces set,
And with love-knots their comely hangings deck:
His mighty shoulders, like that giant swain,'
All heaven and earth, and all in both sustain;
Yet knows no weariness, nor feels oppressing pain.

Her amber hair like to the sunny ray,

With gold enamels fair the silver white; There heav'nly loves their pretty sportings play, Firing their darts in that wide flaming light:

Her dainty neck, spread with that silver mould, Where double beauty doth itself unfold, In the own fair silver shrines, and borrow'd gold.

His breast a rock of purest alabaster,

Where Love's self sailing, shipwreck'd often sitteth.

Her's a twin-rock, unknown, but to th' ship-master, Which harbours him alone, all other splitteth.

Where better could her love than here have nested?

Or he his thoughts than here more sweetly feasted?

Then both their love and thoughts in each are ever

rested.

Atlas.

Run now you shepherd-swains; ah! run you thither,

Where this fair bridegroom leads the blessed

way:

And haste, you lovely maids, haste you together With this sweet bride, while yet the sun-shine day Guides your blind steps; while yet loud summons call,

That every

wood and hill resounds withal, Come Hymen, Hymen come, drest in thy golden pall.

The sounding echo back the music flung,

While heavenly spheres unto the voices play'd. But lo! the day is ended with my song,

And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid : Stoop now thy wing, my muse, now stoop thee low:

Hence may'st thou freely play, and rest thee

now;

While here I hang my pipe upon the willow bough.

THE POOR MAN TO THE SCORNFUL RICH

MAN.

IF well thou viewst us, with no squinted eye,
No partial judgment, thou wilt quickly rate
Thy wealth no richer than my poverty,"
My want no poorer than thy rich estate:

Our ends and births alike; in this, as I,
Poor thou wert born, and poor again shalt die.

My little fills my little-wishing mind;

Thou, having more than much, yet seekest more:
Who seeks, still wishes what he seeks to find;
Who wishes, wants; and whoso wants, is poor:
Then this must follow of necessity-
Poor are thy riches, rich my poverty.

Though still thou get'st, yet is thy want not spent,
But, as thy wealth, so grows thy wealthy itch;
But with my little I have much content-
Content hath all; and who hath all, is rich:
Then this in reason thou must needs confess-
If I have little, yet that thou hast less.

Whatever man possesses, God hath lent,
And to his audit liable is, ever,

To reckon how, and when, and where he spent ;
Then this thou bragg'st-thou art a great receiver:
Little my debt, when little is my store-

The more thou hast, thy debt still grows the

more.

But seeing, God himself descended down
To enrich the poor by his rich poverty;

His meat, his house, his grave were not his own,
Yet all is his from all eternity:

Let me be like my Head, whom I adore :
Be thou great, wealthy-I still base and poor.

MISERY AND HAPPINESS.

Most wretched soul, that, here carousing pleasure, With all his heaven on earth; and, ne'er distress'd,

Enjoys those fond delights without all measure,
And freely living thus, is thus deceas'd!

Ah, greatest curse, so to be ever bless'd!
For where to live is heaven, 'tis hell to die :
Ah, wretch that here begins hell's misery!

Most blessed soul, that, lifted up with wings
Of faith and love, leaves this base habitation,
And scorning sluggish earth, to heaven upsprings;
On earth, yet still in heaven by meditation;
With the soul's eyes foreseeing the heavenly station!
Then 'gins his life, when he's of life bereaven,
Ah, blessed soul! that here begins his heaven!

PSALM XLII. METAPHRASED.

Look, as an hart with sweat and blood embrued,
Chas'd, and emboss'd, thirsts in the soil to be:
So my poor soul, with eager foes pursued,
Looks, longs, O Lord!—pines, pants, and faints for
thee:

When, O my God! when shall I come in place
To see thy light, and view thy glorious face?

I dine and sup with sighs, with groans and tears, While all my foes mine ears with taunting load"Who now thy cries, who now thy prayer hears?

Where is (say they) where is thy boasted God?" My molten heart, deep plung'd in sad despairs, Runs forth to thee in streams of tears and

prayers.

With grief I think on

days,

those sweet now-past

When to thy house my troops with joy I led:
We sang, we danc'd, we chanted sacred lays—
No men so haste to wine, no bride to bed.

Why droop'st, my soul? why faint'st thou in my

breast?

Wait still with praise: his presence is thy rest.

My famish'd soul, driv'n from thy sweetest word,
(From Hermon hill, and Jordan's swelling brook,)
To thee laments, sighs deep to thee, O Lord!
To thee sends back her hungry, longing look:
Floods of thy wrath breed floods of grief and fears,
And floods of grief breed floods of plaints and

tears.

His early light with morn these clouds shall clear, These dreary clouds, and storms of sad despairs, Sure am I in the night his songs to hear,

Sweet songs of joy, as well as he my prayers: I'll say "My God, why slight'st thou my distress,

66

While all my foes my weary soul oppress ?

My cruel foes both thou and me upbraid;

They cut my heart, they vaunt that bitter word— Where is thy trust? Where is thy hope?' they

said;

Where is thy God? Where is thy boasted Lord ?'" Why droop'st, my soul? Why faint'st thou in my breast?

Wait still with praise: his presence is thy rest.

G