The best of men, turn but thy hand For one poor minute, stumble at a pin: They would not have their actions scann'd, Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin, Though it be small, And measure not their fall. They quarrel thee, and would give over Who would, to be thy foes. My God, man cannot praise thy name: Presume on thy perfection? As dirty hands foul all they touch, And those things most, which are most pure and fine; Or none thy portion is. Man cannot serve thee; let him go And serve the swine; there, there is his delight: He doth not like this virtue, no— Give him his dirt to wallow in all night: These preachers make His head to shoot and ache Oh foolish man, where are thine eyes? Thou must go sleep-or dine. The bird that sees a dainty bower The spring whence all things flow: And yet, as though he knew it not, His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign: They make his life a constant blot, And all the blood of God to run in vain. Ah wretch! what verse Can thy strange ways rehearse ? Indeed at first man was a treasure, A box of jewels, shop of rarities, A ring, whose posy was, " My pleasure:" He was a garden in a paradise: Glory and grace Did crown his heart and face. But sin hath fool'd him. Now he is My God, I mean myself. PRAYER. Or what an easy quick access, My blessed Lord, art thou! how suddenly May our requests thine ear invade ! To show that state dislikes not easiness. If I but lift mine eyes, my suit is made : Thou canst no more not hear, than thou canst die. Of what supreme almighty power Is thy great arm, which spans the east and west, Of what unmeasurable love Art thou possess'd, who when thou couldst not die, Since then these three wait on thy throne, Wealth, fame, endowments, virtues, all should go: SION. LORD, with what glory wast thou serv'd of old, The wood was all embellished With flowers and carvings, mystical and rare: Yet all this glory, all this pomp and state There thou art struggling with a peevish heart, Which sometimes crosseth thee, thou sometimes it: The fight is hard, on either part. Great God doth fight, he doth submit. All Solomon's sea of brass and world of stone And truly brass and stones are heavy things: And ever as they mount, like larks they sing: THE BRITISH CHURCH. I JOY, dear mother, when I view Beauty in thee takes up her place, A fine aspect in fit array, Neither too mean, nor yet too gay, Outlandish looks may not compare, She on the hills, which wantonly By her preferr'd, Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines, That ev'n her face by kissing shines, For her reward. She in the valley is so shy Of dressing, that her hair doth lie While she avoids her neighbour's pride, She wholly goes on the other side And nothing wears. |