127. PRAISE.

LORD, I will mean and speak thy praise,
Thy praise alone.

My busie heart shall spin it all my dayes:
And when it stops for want of store,
Then will I wring it with a sigh or grone,
That thou mayst yet have more.

When thou dost favour any action,
It runnes, it flies:

All things concurre to give it a perfection.

That which had but two legs before,

When thou dost blesse, hath twelve: one wheel doth To twentie then, or more.

But when thou dost on businesse blow,

It hangs, it clogs :

Not all the teams of Albion in a row

Can hale or draw it out of doore.

Legs are but stumps, and Pharaoh's wheels but logs, And struggling hinders more.

Thousands of things do thee employ
In ruling all

This spacious globe: Angels must have their joy,
Devils their rod,

the sea his shore,

The windes their stint and yet when I did call,
Thou heardst my call, and more.

I have not lost one single tear :

But when mine eyes

Did weep to heav'n, they found a bottle there

[rise

(As we have boxes for the poore) Readie to take them in; yet of a size

That would contain much more.

But after thou hadst slipt a drop
From thy right eye

(Which there did hang like streamers neare the top
Of some fair church to show the sore
And bloudie battell which thou once didst trie)
The glasse was full and more.

Wherefore I sing. Yet since my heart,
Though press'd, runnes thin;

O that I might some other hearts convert,
And so take up at use good store:

That to thy chests there might be coming in
Both all my praise, and more!

WOUNDED I sing, tormented I indite,

Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest:
Sorrow hath chang'd its note: such is his will
Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best.
For well he knows, if but one grief and smart
Among my many had his full career,
Sure it would carrie with it ev'n my heart,
And both would runne until they found a biere
To fetch the bodie; both being due to grief.
But he hath spoil'd the race; and giv'n to anguish
One of Joyes coats, ticing it with relief

To linger in me, and together languish.

I live to shew his power, who once did bring
My joyes to weep, and now my griefs to sing.

129. THE PULLEY.

WHEN God at first made man,

Having a glasse of blessings standing by;
Let us (said he) poure on him all we can :
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;

Then beautie flow'd, then wisdome, honour, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottome lay.

For if I should (said he)

Bestow this jewell also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts in stead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlesnesse :
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least,
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse
May tosse him to my breast.

130. THE PRIESTHOOD.

BLEST Order, which in power dost so excell,
That with th' one hand thou liftest to the sky,
And with the other throwest down to hell
In thy just censures; fain would I draw nigh;
Fain put thee on, exchanging my lay-sword

For that of th' holy word.

But thou art fire, sacred and hallow'd fire;

And I but earth and clay should I

:

presume

To wear thy habit, the severe attire
My slender compositions might consume.
I am both foul and brittle, much unfit

To deal in holy writ.

Yet have I often seen, by cunning hand

And force of fire, what curious things are made

Of wretched earth.

Where once I scorn'd to stand,

That earth is fitted by the fire and trade

Of skilfull artists, for the boards of those

Who make the bravest shows.

But since those great ones, be they ne'er so great,
Come from the earth, from whence those vessels come;
So that at once both feeder, dish, and meat,

Have one beginning and one finall summe :
I do not greatly wonder at the sight,

If earth in earth delight.

But th' holy men of God such vessels are,
As serve him up, who all the world commands.
When God vouchsafeth to become our fare,

Their hands convey him, who conveys their hands:
O what pure things, most pure must those things be,
Who bring my God to me!

Wherefore I dare not, I, put forth my hand

To hold the Ark, although it seem to shake
Through th' old sinnes and new doctrines of our land.
Onely, since God doth often vessels make

Of lowly matter for high uses meet,

I throw me at his feet.

There will I lie, untill my Maker seek

For some mean stuffe whereon to show his skill:

Then is my time.

Doth flatter power.

The distance of the meek

Lest good come short of ill

In praising might, the poore do by submission

What pride by opposition.

131. THE SEARCH,

WHITHER, O, whither art thou fled,

My Lord, my Love?

My searches are my daily bread ;

Yet never prove.

My knees pierce th' earth, mine eies the skie:

And yet the sphere

And centre both to me denie

That thou art there.

Yet can I mark how herbs below

Grow green and gay;

As if to meet thee they did know,

While I decay.

Yet can I mark how starres above

Simper and shine,

As having keyes unto thy love,

While poore I pine.

I sent a sigh to seek thee out,

Deep drawn in pain,

Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout

Returns in vain.