Or, when he hungry is, for better food
To feed upon,

Than this alone,

If he bring stomach and digestion good:
And if he be amiss,

This the best Physic is.

The true Panchreston 'tis for every sore
And sickness, which

The poor, and rich

With equal ease may come by. Yea, 'tis more, An antidote, as well

As remedy 'gainst Hell.

'Tis Heaven in perspective, and the bliss

Of glory here,

If

any where,

By Saints on Earth anticipated is,

Whilst faith to every word
A being doth afford.

It is the Looking-glass of souls, wherein

All men may see,

Whether they be

Still, as by nature they are, deform'd with sin; Or in a better case,

As new adorn'd with grace.

"Tis the great Magazine of spiritual arms, Wherein doth lie

The artillery

Of Heaven, ready charged against all harms,
That might come by the blows

Of our infernal foes.

God's Cabinet of revealed counsel 'tis :

Where weal and woe

Are order'd so,

That every man may know which shall be his; Unless his own mistake

False application make.

It is the Index to Eternity.

He cannot miss

Of endless bliss,

That takes this chart to steer his voyage by. Nor can he be mistook,

That speaketh by this Book.

A Book, to which no Book may be compared

Angry at that expression, as too bold,

His thoughts in silence smother,

Till he find such another.

THE PULPIT.

"TIS dinner time: and now I look For a full meal. God send me a good Cook:

This is the dresser-board, and here

I wait in expectation of good cheer.

I'm sure the Master of the house Enough to entertain his guests allows : And not enough of some one sort alone, But choice of what best fitteth every one.

God grant me taste and stomach good: My feeding will diversify my food;

"Tis a good appetite to eat,

And good digestion, that makes good meat.
The best food in itself will be,

Not fed on well, poison, not food, to me.
Let him that speaks look to his words; my ear
Must careful be, both what and how I hear.

"Tis Manna that I look for here,
The bread of Heaven, Angels' food. I fear
No want of plenty, where I know
The loaves by eating, more, and greater, grow;
Where nothing but forbearance makes
A famine; where he only wants, that takes
Not what he will; provided that he would
Take nothing to himself, but what he should.

Here the same fountain poureth forth Water, Wine, Milk, Oil, Honey, and the worth Of all transcendent, infinite

In excellence, and to each appetite

In fitness answerable; so

That none needs hence unsatisfied go,

Whose stomach serves him unto any thing,

That health, strength, comfort, or content can bring.

Yea, dead men here invited are

Unto the bread of life, and whilst they spare

To come and take it, they must blame
Themselves, if they continue still the same.
The body's fed by food, which it
Assimilates, and to itself doth fit:

But, that the soul may feed, itself must be
Transformed to the Word, with it agree.

To milk the strongest men must be As new-born babes, whenever they it see, Desiring, not despising it.

For strong meat babes must stay, and strive to fit
Themselves in time, until they can

Get by degrees (which best beseem a man)
Experience-exercised senses, able

Good to discern from evil, truth from fable.

Here I will wait then; till I see The steward reaching out a mess for me: Resolve I'll take it thankfully,

Whate'er it be, and feed on't heartily.

Although no Benjamin's choice mess, Five times as much as others, but far less; Yea, if it be but a basket full of crumbs, I'll bless the hand, from which, by which, it comes.

Like an invited guest, I will

Be bold, but mannerly withal, sit still

And see what the Master of the feast
Will carve unto me, and account that best
Which he doth choose for me, not I

Myself desire: yea, though I should espy
Some fault in the dressing, in the dishing, or
The placing, yet I will not it abhor.

So that the meat be wholesome, though The sauce shall not be toothsome, I'll not go Empty away, and starve my soul,

To feed my foolish fancy; but control
My appetite to dainty things,

Which oft instead of strength diseases brings :
But, if my Pulpit-hopes shall all prove vain,
I'll back unto the Reading-pew again.

THE COMMUNION TABLE.

HERE stands my banquet ready, the last course, And best provision,

That I must feed upon,

Till death my soul and body shall divorce,
And that I am

Call'd to the marriage-supper of the Lamb.

Some call❜t the Altar, some the holy Table.
The name I stick not at,

Whether't be this, or that,

I care not much, so that I may be able
Truly to know

Both why it is, and may be called so.

And for the matter whereof it is made,
The matter is not much,

Although it be of tuch,1

Or wood, or metal, what will last, or fade;
So vanity

And superstition avoided be.

1 Tuch:' old word for cloth.