Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

How can't thou flay, confidering the pace

The blood did make which thou didst wafte? When I beheld it trickling down thy face, I never faw thing make fuch haste. O fhew thyself to me,

Or take me up to thee!

When man was loft, thy pity look'd about,
To fee what help in th' earth or sky:
But there was none; at least no help without :
The help did in thy bofom lie.
O fhew thyself, &c.

There lay thy Son: and muft he leave that neft,
That hive of sweetness, to remove
Thraldom from thofe, who would not at a feaft
Leave one poor apple for thy love?
O fhew thyself, &c.

He did, he came: O my Redeemer dear,
After all this canft thou be strange?
So many years baptiz'd, and not appear;
As if thy love could fail or change?
O fhew thyself, &c.

Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay?
My God, what is this world to me?
This world of wo? hence all ye clouds, away,
Away; I must get up and fee.

O fhew thyself, &c.

What is this weary world, this meat and drink,
That chains us by the teeth so fast ?.

What is this woman-kind, which I can wink
Into a blackness and distaste?

O fhew thyself, &c.

With one small figh thou gav'ft me th' other day
I blafted all the joys about me:
And fcouling on them, as they pin'd away,
Now come again, faid I, and flout me.
O fhew thyself to me,

Or take me up to thee?

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,
Which way foe'er I look, I fee.

Some may dream merrily, but when they wake,
They drefs themselves, and come to thee.
O fhew thyself, &c.

We talk of harvest; there are no fuch things,
But when we leave our corn and hay:
There is no fruitful year, but that which brings
The last and lov'd, though dreadful day.
O fhew thyself, &c.

O loose this frame, this knot of man untie,
That my free foul may ufe her wing,
Which now is pinion'd with mortality;
As an entangled, hamper'd thing.
O fhew thyself, &c.

What have I left, that I fhould stay and groan?
The most of me to heav'n is fled :

and gone,

My thoughts and joys are all packt up
And for their old acquaintance plead.
O fhew thyself, &c.

Come, dearest Lord, pass not this holy feason,
My flesh and bones, and joints do pray:

And ev❜n my verse, when by the rhyme and season
The word is Stay, fays ever, Come.

O fhew thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee!

F 3

The British Church.

I Joy, dear mother, when I view

Thy perfect lineaments, and hue
Both fweet and bright.

Beauty in thee takes up her place,
And dates her letters from thy face,
When the doth write.

A fine afpect in fit array,

Neither too mean, nor yet too gay,
Shews who is best.

Outlandish looks may not compare,
For all they either painted are,
Or else undrest.

She on the hills, which wantonly
Allureth all, in hope to be

By her preferr'd,

Hath kiss'd fo long her painted shrines, That ev'n her face by kiffing shines, For her reward.

She in the valley is fo fhy

Of dreffing, that her hair doth lie
About her ears:

While the avoids her neighbour's pride,
She wholly goes on th' other fide,

And nothing wears.

But, dearest mother, (what those miss)
The mean thy praise and glory is,
And long may be.

Bleffed be God, whofe love it was
To double-mote thee with his grace,
And none but thee.

The Quip.

HE merry world on a day
With his twin-bands and mates agree

To meet together, where I lay,

And all in fport to jeer at me.

First, Beauty crept into a rose;
Which when I pluckt not, Sir, faid the,
Tell me, I pray, whofe hands are those ?
But thou fhalt anfwer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and chinking still,
What tune is this, poor man ? faid he :
I heard in mufic you had fkill.
But thou shalt anfer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by,
In filks that whiftled, who but he?
He scarce allow'd me half an eye.
But thou shalt anfwer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration.
But thou shalt anfwer, Lord, for me.

Yet when the hour of thy defign
To answer these fine things fhall come;
Speak not at large, fay, I am thine,
And then they have their answer home,

Vanity.

POOR filly foul, whofe hope and head lies low;

Whofe flat delights on earth do creep and grow; To whom the ftars fhine not so fair as eyes; Nor folid work, as falfe embroideries;

Hark and beware, left what you now do measure, And write for fweet, prove a most four displeasure.

A

O hear betimes, left thy relenting
May come too late!

To purchase heaven for repenting
Is no hard rate.

If fouls be made of earthly mold,
Let them love gold;

If born on high,

Let them unto their kindred fly:
For they can never be at rest,
Till they regain their ancient neft.
Then filly foul take heed; for earthly joy
Is but a bubble, and makes thee a boy.

The Dawning.

WAKE fad heart, whom forrow ever drowns:
Take up thine eyes, which feed on earth;

Unfold thy forehead gather'd into frowns:
Thy Saviour comes, and with him mirth :

Awake, awake;
And with a thankful heart his comforts take.
But thou doft ftill lament, and pine,' and cry,
And feel his death, but not his victory

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »