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I GAVE to Hope a Watch of mine : but he

An Anchor gave to me.
Then an old Prayer-book I did present :

And he an Optic sent.

With that I gave a Phial full of tears :

But he a few green ears.
Ah, loiterer! I'll no more, no more I'll bring :

I did expect a Ring.


SORRY I am, my God, sorry I am,
That my

offences course it in a ring.
My thoughts are working like a busy flame,
Until their Cockatrice they hatch and bring :
And when they once have perfected 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 pass them with their faults,

And by their breathing ventilate the ill.
But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions :
My hands do join to finish the inventions :

My hands do join to finish the inventions :
And so my sins ascend three storeys high,
As Babel grew, before there were dissensions.

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Yet ill deeds loiter not: for they supply
New thoughts of sinning; wherefore, to my shame,
Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am.



MEETING with Time, Slack thing, said I,
Thy scythe is dull; whet it for shame.
No marvel, Sir, he did reply,
If it at length deserve some blame :

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

Perhaps some such of old did

Who above all things loved this life ;
To whom thy scythe a hatchet was,
Which now is but a pruning-knife.

Christ's coming hath made Man thy debtor,
Since by thy cutting he grows better.

And in his blessing thou art blest :
For where thou only wert before
An executioner at best,
Thou art a gardener now, and more.

An usher to convey our souls
Beyond the utmost stars and poles.

And this is that makes life so long,
While it detains us from our God.
Even pleasures here increase the wrong :
And length of days lengthen the rod.

Who wants the place, where God doth dwell
Partakes already half of hell.

Of what strange length must that needs be,
Which even eternity excludes !
Thus far Time heard me patiently :
Then chafing said, This man deludes :

What do I here before his door?
He doth not crave less time, but more.


Thou that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, a grateful heart.
See how thy beggar works on thee

By art.

He makes thy gifts occasion more,
And says, If he in this be crost,
All thou hast given him heretofore

Is lost.

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

To save.

Perpetual knockings at thy door,
Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift ; much would have more,

And comes.

This notwithstanding, thou went'st on,
And didst allow us all our noise :
Nay, thou hast made a sigh and groan

Thy joys.

Not that thou hast not still above
Much better tunes, than groans can make ;
But that these country-airs thy love

Did take.

Wherefore I cry, and cry again ;
And in no quiet canst thou be,
Till I a thankful heart obtain

Of thee :

Not thankful, when it pleaseth me :
As if thy blessings had spare days :
But such a heart, whose pulse may be

Thy praise.


SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,

Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd, if Peace were there.
A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:

Go seek elsewhere.


I did ; and going did a rainbow note :

Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace's coat :

I will search out the matter.
But while I look'd, the clouds immediately

Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy

A gallant flower,

The Crown Imperial : Sure, said I,

Peace at the root must dwell. But when I digg’d, I saw a worm devour

What show'd so well.

At length 1 met a reverend good old man :

Whom when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began :

There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase

Of flock and fold.

He sweetly lived ; yet sweetness did not save

His life from foes.
But after death out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat : Which many wondering at, got some of those

To plant and set.

It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse

Through all the earth :
For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtue lies therein ;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth

By flight of sin.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,

And grows for you;
Make bread of it: and that


where With so much earnestness you do

pursue, Is only there.

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