The best of men, turn but thy hand
or one poor minute, ftumble at a pin:
They would not have their actions fcan'd,
Nor any forrow tell them that they fin,
Though it be small,

And measure not their fall.

They quarrel thee, and would give over
The bargain made to ferve thee: But thy love
Holds them unto it, and doth cover
Their follies with the wing of thy mild dove,
Not fuff'ring those

: Who would, to be thy foes.

My God, man cannot praise thy name: Thou art all brightness, perfect purity: The fun holds down his head for shame, Dead with eclipfes, when we fpeak of thee. How fhall infection

Prefume on thy perfection?

As dirty hands foul all they touch,

And those things moft which are most pure and fine :
So our clay hearts, ev'n when we crouch
To fing thy praifes, make them less divine.
Yet either this,

Or none thy portion is.

Man cannot ferve thee; let him go
And serve the fwine; there, there is his delight:
He doth not like this virtue, no;
Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:

These preachers make

His head to fhoot and ake.

Of what fupreme almighty power
Is thy great arm, which spans the East and Weft,
And tacks the centre to the sphere!

By it do all things live their measur'd hour:
We cannot ask the thing which is not there,
Blaming the fhallowness of our request.

Of what unmeasurable love

Art thou poffeft, who when thou could'st not die,
Wert fain to take our flesh and curse,
And for our fakes in perfon fin reprove ;
That by deftroying that which tied thy purse,
Thou might'ft make way for liberality!

Since then these three wait on thy throne,
Eafe, Power, and Love; I value prayer fo,
That were I to leave all but one,

Wealth, fame, endowments, virtues all should go :
I and dear prayer would togetherdwell,
And quickly gain, for each inch loft, an ell.

Obedience.

My God, if writings may

Convey a lordship any way,

Whither the buyer and the feller please;
Let it not thee displease,
If this poor paper do as much as they.
On it my heart doth bleed
As many lines, as there doth need
To pass itself and all it hath to thee:
To which I do agree,

And here prefent it as my fpecial deed.

If that hereafter pleasure

Cavil, and claim her part and measure, As if this paffed with a refervation,

Or fome fuch words in fashion;

I here exclude the wrangler from thy treasure.

O let thy facred will

All thy delight in me fulfil :
Let me not think an action mine own way,
But as thy love shall sway,
Refigning up the rudder to thy fkill.

Lord, what is man to thee,

That thou fhould't mind a rotten tree? Yet fince thou can'st not chuse but see my actions; So great are thy perfections, Thou may'st as well my actions guide, as fee. Besides, thy death and blood

Show'd a strange love to all our good: Thy forrows were in earnest; no faint proffer, Or fuperficial offer

Of what we might not take, or be withstood;

Wherefore I all forego :

To one word only I fay, No.

When in the deed there was an intimation
Of a gift or donation,

Lord, let it now by way of purchase go.

He that will pafs his land,
As I have mine, may fet his hand
And heart unto this deed, when he hath read;
And make the purchase spread
To both our goods, if he to it will stand.

F

How happy were my part,

If fome kind man would thrust his heart Into these lines; till in heaven's court of rolls, They were by winged fouls

Enter'd for both, far above their defert !

PEACE,

Conscience.

EACE, pratler, do not lower:

Not a fair look, but thou doft call it foul:
Not a fweet difh, but thou doft call it sower:
Mufic to thee doth howl.

By lift'ning to thy chatting fears

I have both loft mine eyes and ears.

Pratler, no more, I say:

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My thoughts muft work, but like a noiseless sphere.
Harmonious peace must rock them all the day:
No room for pratlers there.

If thou perfifteft, I will tell thee,
That I have phyfic to expel thee,

And the receipt shall be

My Saviour's blood: whenever had his board
I do but tafte it, ftraight it cleanseth me,
And leaves thee not a word,,

No not a tooth or nail to fcratch,
my actions carp or catch.

And at

Yet if thou talkeft ftill,

Befides my phyfic, know there's fome for thee:
Some wood or nails to make a staff or bill
For thofe that trouble me:

That bloody crofs of my dear Lord
Is both my phyfic and my fword.

Sion.

LORD, with what glory waft thou ferv'd of old, When Solomon's temple food and flourished! Where most things were of pureft gold;

The wood was all embellifhed

With flowers and carvings, mystical and rare:
All fhew'd the builder's, crav'd the feer's care.
Yet all this glory, all this pomp and state
Did not affect thee much, was not thy aim,
Something there was that fow'd debate:
Wherefore thou quitt'ft thy ancient claim :
And now thy architecture meets with fin;
For all thy frame and fabrick is within.

There thou art ftruggling with a peevish heart,
Which sometimes croffeth thee, thou fometimes it:
The fight is hard on either part.

Great God doth fight, he doth submit.
All Solomon's fea of brass and world of stone
Is not fo dear to thee as one good groan..
And truly brass and ftones are heavy things:
Tombs for the dead, not temples fit for thee:
But groans are quick and full of wings,
And all their motions upward be;

And ever as they mount, like larks they fing:
The note is fad, yet music for a king.

C

Home.

OME Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is fick,
While thou doft ever, ever ftay:

Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,

My fpirit gafpeth night and day.
O fhew thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

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