Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make
A full eternity: thou art a mass

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,
Subject to every mounter's bended knee.

PART II.

OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glory!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the story.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christian's destiny.

Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in every thing
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss :
This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.

WHITSUNDAY.

LISTEN, Sweet Dove, unto my song,
And spread thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and fly away with thee.

Where is that fire which once descended
On thy Apostles? thou didst then
Keep open house, richly attended,
Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.

Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,
That th' earth did like a heaven appear:
The stars were coming down to know
If they might mend their wages, and serve here.

The Sun, which once did shine alone,
Hung down his head, and wish'd for night,
When he beheld twelve Suns for one

Going about the world, and giving light.

But since those pipes of gold, which brought
That cordial water to our ground,

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;
Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink :
And if the braves of conquering sin

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.

GRACE.

My stock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandry improve :
O let thy graces without cease

Drop from above!

If still the Sun should hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works night's captives: O let grace
Drop from above!

The dew doth every morning fall;
And shall the dew outstrip thy Dove?
The dew, for which grass cannot call,
Drop from above.

Death is still working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove :
Let grace work too, and on my soul
Drop from above.

Sin is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardness, void of love :

Let suppling grace, to cross his art,

Drop from above

O come! for thou dost know the way.
Or if to me thou wilt not move,

Remove me where I need not say

Drop from above.

PRAISE.

To write a verse or two, is all the praise

I go

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
He may do more.

An herb distill'd, and drunk, may dwell next door
On the same floor,

To a brave soul: Exalt the poor,
They can do more.

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.

AFFLICTION.

KILL me not every day,

Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me
Is more than all my deaths can be,

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?
Wherein if they were set,

They would discolour thy most bloody sweat.

Thou art my grief alone,

Thou Lord conceal it not: and as thou art
All my delight, so all my smart:

Thy cross took up in one,

By way of imprest, all my future moan.

MATINS.

I CANNOT ope mine eyes,

But thou art ready there to catch
My morning-soul and sacrifice:

Then we must needs for that day make a match.

My God, what is a heart?

Silver, or gold, or precious stone,
Or star, or rainbow, or a part

Of all these things, or all of them in one?