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Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make
Of strange delights, where we may wish and take. Ladies, look here; this is the thankful glass,
That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well
That washes what it shows. Who can endear Thy praise too much? thou art Heaven's Lieger here, Working against the states of death and hell.
Thou art joy's handsel: heaven lies flat in thee,
OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,
This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss :
LISTEN, Sweet Dove, unto my song,
Where is that fire which once descended
Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,
The Sun, which once did shine alone,
Going about the world, and giving light.
But since those pipes of gold, which brought
Were cut and martyr'd by the fault
Of those who did themselves through their side wound;
Thou shutt'st the door, and keep'st within;
Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink.
Lord, though we change, thou art the same; The same sweet God of love and light: Restore this day, for thy great Name, Unto his ancient and miraculous right.
My stock lies dead, and no increase
Drop from above!
If still the Sun should hide his face,
The dew doth every morning fall;
Death is still working like a mole,
Sin is still hammering my heart
Let suppling grace, to cross his art,
Drop from above
O come! for thou dost know the way.
Remove me where I need not say
Drop from above.
To write a verse or two, is all the praise
That I can raise :
Mend my estate in any ways,
Thou shalt have more.
to Church; help me to wings, and I
Will thither fly;
Or, if I mount unto the sky,
I will do more.
Man is all weakness; there is no such thing
As Prince or King:
His arm is short; yet with a sling
An herb distill'd, and drunk, may dwell next door
To a brave soul: Exalt the poor,
O raise me, then! poor bees, that work all day, Sting my delay,
Who have a work, as well as they,
And much, much more.
KILL me not every day,
Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me
Though I in broken pay
Die over each hour of Methusalem's stay.
If all men's tears were let
Into one common sewer, sea, and brine;
What were they all, compared to thine?
They would discolour thy most bloody sweat.
Thou art my grief alone,
Thou Lord conceal it not: and as thou art
Thy cross took up in one,
By way of imprest, all my future moan.
I CANNOT ope mine eyes,
But thou art ready there to catch
Then we must needs for that day make a match.
My God, what is a heart?
Silver, or gold, or precious stone,
Of all these things, or all of them in one?