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Affront those joys, wherewith thou didst endow, And long since wed
My poor soul, e'en sick of love;
It may a Babel prove, Commodious to conquer heaven and thee Planted in me.
WHO is the honest man?
He that doth still and strongly good pursue,
Whose honesty is not
So loose or easy, that a ruffling wind
Who, when great trials come,
Nor seeks, nor shuns them; but doth calmly stay,
All being brought into a sum,
Whom none can work or woo,
To use in any thing a trick or sleight;
His words and works and fashion too
All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.
Who never melts or thaws
At close temptations: when the day is done,
And is their virtue; Virtue is his Sun.
Who, when he is to treat
With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, Allows for that, and keeps his constant way: Whom others' faults do not defeat ;
But though men fail him, yet his part doth play.
Whom nothing can procure,
When the wide world runs bias, from his will
My heart did heave, and there came forth, O God! By that I knew that thou wast in the grief,
To guide and govern it to my relief,
Making a sceptre of the rod :
Hadst thou not had thy part,
Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart.
But since thy breath gave me both life and shape,
The sigh then only is
A gale to bring me sooner to my bliss.
Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still Constant unto it, making it to be
A point of honour, now to grieve in me,
And in thy members suffer ill.
They who lament one cross, Thou dying daily, praise thee to thy loss.
BRIGHT spark, shot from a brighter place, Where beams surround my Saviour's face, Canst thou be any where
So well as there ?
Yet, if thou wilt from thence depart,
First with thy fire-work burn to dust
And make it shine.
So disengaged from sin and sickness,
Then with our trinity of light,
Motion, and heat, let's take our flight
Unto the place where thou
Before didst bow.
Get me a standing there, and place
Among the beams, which crown the face
Sin and my heart:
That so among the rest I may
Glitter, and curl, and wind as they :
Sure thou wilt joy, by gaining me
O DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Th' indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay; The week were dark, but for thy light: Thy Torch doth show the way.
The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Man had straight forward gone
We could not choose but look on still;
Sundays the pillars are,
On which heaven's palace arched lies:
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
More plentiful than hope.
This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his :
Who want herbs for their wound.
The Rest of our Creation
Our great Redeemer did remove