For I had given the key to none, but one:
It must be he. Your heart was dull, I fear.
Indeed a slack and sleepy state of mind
Did oft possess me, so that when I pray'd,
Though my lips went, my heart did stay behind.
But all my scores were by another paid,
Who took the debt upon him. Truly, Friend,
For ought I hear, your Master shows to you
More favour than you wot of. Mark the end.
The Font did only, what was old, renew:
The Caldron suppled, what was grown too hard:
The Thorns did quicken, what was grown too dull:
All did but strive to mend, what you had marr'd.
Wherefore be cheer'd, and praise him to the full
Each day, each hour, each moment of the week,
Who fain would have you be, new, tender, quick.

MAN'S MEDLEY.

HARK, how the birds do sing,
And woods do ring.

All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,
Man's joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter, than in present, is.

To this life things of sense
Make their pretence :

In th' other Angels have a right by birth:

Man ties them both alone,

And makes them one,

With th' one hand touching heaven, with the other earth.

In soul he mounts and flies,

In flesh he dies.

He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round,
But trimm'd with curious lace,
And should take place

After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.

Not, that he may not here

Taste of the cheer:

But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head; So must he sip, and think

Of better drink

He may attain to, after he is dead.

But as his joys are double,
So is his trouble.

He hath two winters, other things but one:
Both frosts and thoughts do nip,
And bite his lip;

And he of all things fears two deaths alone.

Yet even the greatest griefs
May be reliefs,

Could he but take them right, and in their ways.
Happy is he, whose heart

Hath found the art

To turn his double pains to double praise.

THE STORM.

IF as the winds and waters here below
Do fly and flow,

My sighs and tears as busy were above;

Sure they would move

And much affect thee, as tempestuous times
Amaze poor mortals, and object their crimes.

Stars have their storms, even in a high degree,
As well as we.

A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse
Hath a strange force:

It quits the earth, and mounting more and more,
Dares to assault thee, and besiege thy door.

There it stands knocking, to thy music's wrong,
And drowns the song.

Glory and honour are set by till it

An answer get.

Poets have wrong'd poor storms: such days are best; They purge the air without, within the breast.

PARADISE.

I BLESS thee, Lord, because I GROW
Among thy trees, which in a ROW
To thee both fruit and order ow.

What open force, or hidden CHARM
Can blast my fruit, or bring me HARM,
While the enclosure is thine ARM?

Enclose me still, for fear I START.
Be to me rather sharp and TART,
Than let me want thy hand and Art.

When thou dost greater judgments SPARE, And with thy knife but prune and PARE, Even fruitful trees more fruitful ARE.

Such sharpness shows the sweetest FRIEND: Such cuttings rather heal than REND: And such beginnings touch their END.

THE METHOD.

POOR heart, lament,

For since thy God refuseth still,
There is some rub, some discontent,
Which cools his will.

Thy Father could

Quickly effect, what thou dost move;
For he is Power: and sure he would;
For he is Love.

Go search this thing,

Tumble thy breast, and turn thy book: If thou hadst lost a glove or ring,

Wouldst thou not look?

What do I see

Written above there? Yesterday
I did behave me carelessly,

And should God's ear

To such indifferents chained be,

Who do not their own motions hear?
Is God less free?

But stay! what's there?

Late when I would have something done,
I had a motion to forbear,
Yet I went on.

And should God's ear,

Which needs not man, be tied to those
Who hear not him, but quickly hear
His utter foes?

Then once more pray:

Down with thy knees, up with thy voice:
Seek pardon first, and God will say,
Glad heart, rejoice.

DIVINITY.

As men, for fear the stars should sleep and nod,
And trip at night, have spheres supplied;

As if a star were duller than a clod,

Which knows his way without a guide :

Just so the other heaven they also serve,
Divinity's transcendent sky :

Which with the edge of wit they cut and carve.
Reason triumphs, and Faith lies by.

Could not that wisdom, which first broach'd the wine,
Have thicken'd it with definitions?

And jagg'd his seamless coat, had that been fine,
With curious questions and divisions?