Or hath sweetness in the bread To subdue the smell of sin, Flowers, and gums, and powders giving All their living, Lest the enemy should win? Doubtless, neither star nor flower Such a sweetness to impart : And with it perfumes my heart. But as Pomanders and wood Yet being bruised are better scented; God, to show how far his love Could improve, Here, as broken, is presented. When I had forgot my birth, And on earth In delights of earth was drown'd; God took blood, and needs would be And so found me on the ground. Having raised me to look up, In a cup Sweetly he doth meet my taste. Wine becomes a wing at last. For with it alone I fly To the sky: Where I wipe mine eyes, and see Who hath done so much for me. Let the wonder of this pity And take up my lines and life: Hands and breath, Strive in this, and love the strife. THE POSY. LET wits contest, And with their words and posies windows fill: Less than the least Of all thy mercies, is my posy still. This on my ring, This by my picture, in my book I write ; Or say, or dictate, this is my delight. Invention rest; Of all God's mercies, is my posy still. N A PARODY. SOUL's joy, when thou art gone, Which cannot be, Because thou dost abide in me, Yet when thou dost suppress Of thy abode, And in my powers not stir abroad, O what a damp and shade No stormy night Can so afflict or so affright Ah, Lord! do not withdraw, Lest want of awe Make sin appear; And when thou dost but shine less clear, Say, that thou art not here. And then what life I have, While Sin doth rave, And falsely boast, That I may seek, but thou art lost! Thou and alone thou know'st. O. what a deadly cold Doth me infold! I half believe, That Sin says true: but while I grieve, THE ELIXIR. TEACH me, my God and King, Not rudely, as a beast, A man that looks on glass, All may of thee partake: A servant with this clause Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, Makes that and th' action fine. THE TEMPLE. Ꭺ ᏢᎪᎡᏟ SOUL's joy, wher A WREATH Whi Because t And o parland of deserved praise Syire and like, that I may know thy wars DEATH. DEATH, thon Wast core an uncouth Lideous thing The sad effect of sadder groans : Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing For we consider'd thee as at some six Or ten years hence, After the loss of life and sense, Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks. |