Each thing that is, although in use and name
It go for one, bath many wayes in ftore
To honour thee: and so each hymne thy fame
Extolleth many wayes, yet this one more.

I

Then an old

¶ Hope.

Gave to Hope a watch of mine: but he
An anchor gave to me.
prayer-book I did prefent:
And he an optick sent,

With that I gave a vial full of tears:

But he a few green eares.

Ah Loyterer! I'le no more, no more I'le bring:
I did expect a ring.

Sinnes round.

Orie I am, my God, forie I am,

That my offences courfe it in a ring.

My thoughts are working like a bufie flame,
Untill their cockatrice they hatch and bring:
And when they once have perfe&ted their draughts,
My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts,
Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.
They vent the wares, and paffe them with their faults,
And by their breathing ventilate the ill.
But words fuffice not, where are lewd intentions :
My hands do joŷn to finish the inventions.

My hands do joyn to finish the inventions:
And fo my finnes afcend three ftories high,
As Babel grew, before there were diffenfions.
Yet ill deeds loyter not: for they fupply
New thoughts of finning: wherefore to my fhame,
Sorie I am, my God, foris I am.

Time.

M Thy fithe is dull; whet it for shame.

Eeting with Time, Slack thing, faid I,

No marvel, Sir,he did reply,

If it at length deferve fome blame:

But where one man would have me grind it,
Twentie for one too sharp do find it.

Perhaps fome fuch of old did paffe,
Who above all things lov'd this life ;
To whom thy fithe a hatchet was,
Which now is but a pruning-knife.
Chrifts coming hath made man thy debter,
Since by thy cutting he grows better.
And in his bleffing thou art bleft:
For where thou onely wert before
An executioner at best ;

Thou art a gard'ner now,and more,
An usher to convey our fouls

Beyond the utmost starres and poles.

And this is that makes life fo long,
While it detains us from our God.
Ev'n pleasures here increase the
wrong,
And length of dayes lengthen the rod.
Who wants the place where God doth dwell,
Partakes already half of hell.

Of what strange length muft that needs be,
Which ev'n eternitie excludes !

Thus farre Time heard me patiently:
Then chafing faid, This man deludes:
What do I here before his doore?
He doth not crave leffe time,but more.

¶ Grateful

T Gratefulneffe.

Hou that haft giv'n fo much to me, TGive one thing more, a gratefull heart.

See how thy begger works on thee

But thou didst reckon,when at firft
Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,
What it would come to at the worst

To fave.

Perpetuall knockings at thy doore,
Tears fullying thy tranfparent rooms,
Gift upon gift; much would have more,
And comes.

This notwithstanding, thou wentst on,
And didft allow us all our noise :
Nay,thou haft made a figh and grone

Thy joyes.

Not that thou haft not still above
Much better tunes then grones can make ;
But that these countrey-aires thy love

Did take.

Wherefore I crie, and crie again;
And in no quiet canft thou be,
Till I a thankfull heart obtain

Of thee:

Not

Not thankfull, when it pleaseth me
As if thy bleffings had fpare-dayes:
But fuch a heart, whofe pulfe may be
Thy praife.

¶ Peace.
T

Weet Peace,where doft thou dwell? I humbly crave,

Sweet

Let me once know.

I fought thee in a fecret cave,

And ask'd if Peace were there.

A hollow wind did feem to answer, No:

Go feek elsewhere.

I did; and going did a rainbow note:

Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peaces coat:

I will fearch out the matter.

But while I lookt, the clouds immediately

Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spie

A gallant flower,

The crown Imperiall: Sure,faid 1,
Peace at the root muft dwell.

But when I digg'd,I saw a worm devoure

What fhow'd fo well.

At length I met a rev'rend good old man ;

Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:

There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who liv'd with good increase

Of flock and fold.

He

He sweetly liv'd; yet fweetneffe did not fave
His life from foes.

But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:

Which many wondring at, got fome of those
To plant and fet.

It profper'd ftrangely, and did foon disperse
Through all the earth:

For they that tafte it do rehearse,
That vertue lies therein;

A fecret vertue bringing peace and mirth

By flight of finne,

Take of this grain,which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;
Make bread of it: and that repofc
And peace, which ev'ry where

With so much carneftneffe you do pursue,
Is onely there.

¶ Confeffion.

What a cunning gue

Is this fame grief! within my heart I made
Closets, and in them many a cheft;
And, like a mafter in my trade,

In those chefts,boxes ; in each box,a till:
Yet grief knows all,and enters when he will.

No fcrue, no piercer can

Into a piece of timber work and wind,
As Gods afflictions into man,
When he a torture hath defign'd.

They are too fubtil for the subt'lleft hearts;
And fall,like rheums,upon the tendreft parts.

We