¶ Employment.

TF as a flower doth fpreade and die, Thou wouldst extend me to fome good, Before I were by frofts extremitie

Nipt in the bud,

The fweetneffe and the praise were thine :
But the extenfion and the room,

Which in thy garland I fhould fill, were mine
At thy great doom.

For as thou doft impart thy grace,
The greater fhall our glorie be.

The measure of our joyes is in this place
The ftuff with thee.

Let me not languish then, and fpend
A life as barren to thy praise,

As is the duft, to which that life doth tend,
But with delayes.

All things are bufie; onely I
Neither bring hony with the bees,

Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandric
To water thefe.

I am no link of thy great chain,
But all my companie is a weed.

Lord place me in thy confort; give one strain

To my poore reed.

The H. Scriptures. I.

Hbook! infinite fweetneffe! let my heart
Suck ev'ry letter, and a honie gain,
Precious for any grief in any part;
To clear the breaft, to mollific all pain,

Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make
A full eternitie; thou art a maffe

Of ftrange delights,where we may wish & take. Ladies, look here; this is the thankfull glaffe

That mends the lookers eyes: this is the well

That washes what it fhows. Who can indeare Thy praife too much? thou art heav'ns Leiger Working against the states of death and hell. (here,

Thou art joyes handfel: heav'n lies flat in thee,
Subject to ev'ry mounters bended knee.

II.

Hthat I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glorie!
Seeing not onely how each verfe doth shine,

But all the conftellations of the ftorie.

This verfe marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then, as difperfed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up fome Chriftians destinie,

Such

Such are thy fecrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

L

Starres are poore books,and oftentimes do miffe:
This book of ftarres lights to eternall blisse,

¶ Whitfunday,

Iften fweet Dove unto my song,
And spreade thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart fo long,
Till it get wing, and flie away with thee.

Where is that fire which once defcended
On thy Apoftles? thou didst then
Keep open house, richly attended,
Feafting all comers by twelve chofen men.

Such glorious gifts thou didft beftow,
That th' earth did like a heav'n appear:
The ftarres were coming down to know

If they might mend their wages, and ferve hare

The funne, which once did shine alone,
Hung down his head, and wifht for night,
When he beheld twelve funnes for one
Going about the world, and giving light.

But fince thofe pipes of gold, which brought
That cordiall water to our ground,

Were cut and martyr'd by the fault

Of thofe,who did themfelves through their fide wound

C 2

Thou

Thou fhutt'ft the doore, and keep'ft within 3 Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink: And if the braves of conqu❜ring finne Did not excite thee, we should wholly fink.

Lord, though we change, thou art the fame The fame fweet God of love and light: Reftore this day, for thy great Name, Unto his ancient and miraculous right.

Mỗ

¶ Grace.

Y ftock lies dead, and no increase Doth my dull husbandrie improve: O let thy graces without ceafe

Drop from abové!

If ftill the funne fhould hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works nights captives: O let grace
Drop from above!

;

'The dew doth ev'ry morning fall
And fhall the dew out-ftrip thy Dove?
The dew, for which graffe cannot call,
Drop from above.

Death is ftill working like a mole,
And digs my grave át each remove
Let grace work too, and on my foul
Drop from above.

Sinne is ftill hammering my heart
Unto a hardneffe, void of love:
Let fuppling grace, to croffe his art,
Drop from above.

come! for thou doft know the way. Or if to me thou wilt not move, Remove me where I need not fay,

Drop from above.

T

Praise.

Owrite a verfe or two, is all the praise,

To wri

That I can raise:

Mead my eftate in any wayes,›
Thou shalt have more.

I go to Church; help me to wings, and I

Will thither fie;

Or, if I mount unto the skie,
I will do more.

Man is all weakneffe; there is no fuch thing

As Prince or King:

His arm is short; yet with a fling
He may do more.

An herb diftill'd, and drunk, may dwell next doore,
On the fame floore,

To a brave foul: exale the poore,
They can do more.

O raise me then! Poore bees, that work all day,
Sting my delay,

Who have a work, as well as they,
And much, much more.

Affliction.

Kill me not ev'ry day,

Thou Lord of life; fince thy one death for me
Is more then all my deaths can be,
Though I in broken pay

Die over each houre of Methufalems stay.

C3

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