So ftrength first made a way;

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

For if I fhould (faid he)

Beftow this jewel alfo on my creature,
He would adore my gifts in ftead of me,
And reft in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both fhould lofers be.

Yet let him keep the reft,

But keep them with repining reftiefneffe:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodneffe lead him not, yet wearineffe
May toffe him to my breast.

The Priesthood.

Left Order, which in power doft fo excell,
BThat with th'one hand thou lifteft to the skie,

And with the other throweft down to hell
In thy juft cenfures; fain would I draw nigh,
Fain put thee on, exchanging my lay-fword
For that of th' huly Word.

But thou art fire,facred and hallow'd fire ;
And I but earth and clay: fhould I prefume.
To wear thy habit, the fevere attire
My flender compofitions might confume.
I am both foul and brittle, much unfit
To deal in holy Writ.

Yet

Yet have I often feen, by cunning hand
And force of fire, what curious things are made
Of wretched earth. Where once I fcorn'd to stand,
That earth is fitted by the fire and trade

Of skilfull artifts, for the boards of those
Who make the braveft shows.

But fince those great ones, be they ne're fo great,
Come from the earth,from whence thofe veffels come;
So that at once both feeder, dish, and meat
Have one beginning and one finall fumme:
I do not greatly wonder at the fight,

If earth in earth delight.

But th' holy men of God fuch veffels are
As ferve him up, who all the world commands:
When God vouchfafeth to become our fare,
Their hands convey him, who conveys their hands.
what pure things, moft pure muft 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 finnes and new doctrines of our land
Onely, fince God doth often veffels make
Of lowly matter for high ufes meet,

I throw me at his feet.

There will I lie, untill my Maker feek
For fome mean ftuff whereon to fhow his skill:
Then is my time. The distance of the meek
Doth flatter power. Left good come short of ill
In praifing might, the poore do by fubmiffion
What pride by oppofition.

The

WHither,

T

The Search.

Hither, O, whither art thou fled,

My Lord,my Love?

My fearches are my daily bread;

Yet never prove.

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

And centre both to me deny

And yet the sphere

That thou art there.

Lord, doft thou fome new fabrick mold

Which favour winnes

And keeps thee prefent, leaving th' old

Unto their finnes ?

Where

Where is my God? what hidden place

Conceals thee ftill

What covert dare eclipse thy face

Is it thy will

Olet not that of any thing:

Let rather braffe,

Or fteel, or mountains be thy ring,

And I will paffe.

Thy will such an intrenching is,

As paffeth thought

To it all ftrength, all fubtilties

Are things of nought.

Thy will fuch a ftrange diftance is,

As that to it

Eaft and Weft touch, the poles do kiffe,
And parallels meet

Since then my grief must be as large,

As is thy space,

Thy distance from me ; fee my charge,

Lord, fee my cafe.

O take these barres, thefe lengths away;

Be not Almighty, let me fay,

Turn,and reftore me

Against, but for me.

When thou doft turn, and wiltbe neare;

What edge fo keen,

What point fo piercing can appear

To come between ?

For as thy abfence doth excell

All diftance known

So doth thy nearneffe bear the bell,

Making two one.

Grief.

Grief.

Who will gme tears ? Come all ye fprings,
Dwell in my head and eyes: come clouds, & rain
My grief hath need of all the watrie things,
That nature hath produc'd. Let ev'ry veins
Suck up a river to fupply mine eyes,
My weary weeping eyes too dry for me,
Unleffe they get new conduits, new fupplies
To bear them out, and with my ftate agree.
What are two fhallow foords, two little spouts
Of a leffe world? the greater is but small,
A narrow cupboard for my griefs and doubts,
Which want provision in the midst of all.
Verfes,ye are too fine a thing, too wife

For my rough forrows: ceafe, be dumbe and mute,
Give up your feet and running to mine eyes,
And keep your measures for fome lovers lute,
Whofe grief allows him mufick and a rhyme :
For mine excludes both measure,tune,and time.

Alas, my God!

T The Croffe.

WHat is this ftrange and uncouth thing?

To make me figh,and seek, and faint and die,
Untill I had fome place, where I might fing,

And ferve thee; and not onely I,
But all my wealth and family might combine
Tofetahy honour up, as our defigne.

And