73.¶DECAY.

Sweet were the days when Thou didst lodge with Lot,
Struggle with Jacob, sit with Gideon,
Advise with Abraham; when Thy power could not
Encounter Moses' strong complaints and mone:

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Thy words were then, 'Let Me alone.' Deut. ix. 14 One might have sought and found Thee presently At some fair oak, or bush, or cave, or well: Is my God this way? No,' they would reply; 'He is to Sinai gone, as we heard tell;

List, ye may heare great Aaron's bell.'

But now Thou dost Thy self immure and close
In some one corner of a feeble heart;
Where yet both Sinne and Satan, Thy old foes,
Do pinch and straiten Thee, and use much art
To gain Thy thirds and little part.

I see the world grows old, when, as the heat

ΙΟ

shut up

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= since

Of Thy great love,—once spread,—as in an urn formerly Doth closet up itself, and still retreat,

Cold Sinne still forcing it,-till it return,

And calling Justice, all things burn.

Lord, let the angels praise Thy name: Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing;

Folly and sinne play all his game;

His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing

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Man is but grasse,

He knows it-Fill the glasse.'

How canst Thou brook his foolishnesse?
Why, he'l not lose a cup of drink for Thee:
Bid him but temper his excesse,

Not he: he knows where he can better be-
As he will swear-

Then to serve Thee in fear.

What strange pollutions doth he wed, And make his own! as if none knew but he.

No man shall beat into his head

That Thou within his curtains drawn canst see:

"They are of cloth,

Where never yet came moth.'

The best of men, turn but Thy hand For one poore minute, stumble at a pinne;

They would not have their actions scann'd, Nor any sorrow tell them that they sinne, Though it be small,

And measure not their fall.

They quarrell Thee, and would give over The bargain made to serve Thee; but Thy love Holds them unto it, and doth cover

Their follies with the wings of Thy milde Dove,

Not suff'ring those

Who would, to be Thy foes.

VOL. I.

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My God, man cannot praise Thy name : Thou art all brightnesse, perfect puritie;

The sunne holds down his head for shame, Dead with eclipses, when we speak of Thee: How shall infection

Presume on Thy perfection?

As dirtie hands foule all they touch,

And those things most which are most pure and fine,

So our clay-hearts, ev'n when we crouch

To sing Thy praises, make them lesse divine:
Yet either this

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 vertue, no;

Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:

'These preachers make

His head to shoot and ake.'

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O foolish man! where are thine eyes? How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares!

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Thou pull'st the rug, and wilt not rise,
No, not to purchase the whole pack of starres:

'There let them shine;

Thou must go sleep, or dine.'

The bird that sees a daintie bowre

Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,

Wonders and sings, but not His power

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Who made the arbor; this exceeds her wit.

But Man doth know

The spring whence all things flow: 60

And yet, as though he knew it not,

His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reigne;

They make his life a constant blot,

And all the bloud of God to run in vain.

Ah, wretch! what verse

Can thy strange wayes rehearse ?

Indeed, at first Man was a treasure,

A box of jewels, shop of rarities,

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A ring whose posie was 'My pleasure;'

motto

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He was a garden in a Paradise;

Glorie and grace

Did crown his heart and face.

But sinne hath fool'd him; now he is

A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing
To raise him to a glimpse of blisse;
A sick-toss'd vessel, dashing on each thing,
Nay his own shelf:

My God, I mean myself.

75.¶JORDAN.

75

reef

=the joys

When first my verse of heav'nly joyes made mention,
Such was their lustre, they did so excell,
That I sought out quaint words and trim invention;
My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell,

Curling with metaphors a plain intention,
Decking the sense as if it were to sell.

Thousands of notions in my brain did runne,
Off'ring their service, if I were not sped:
I often blotted what I had begunne-
This was not quick enough, and that was dead;
Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sunne,
Much lesse those joyes which trample on his head.
As flames do work and winde when they ascend,
So did I weave myself into the sense;

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But while I bustled I might hear a friend

Whisper, How wide is all this long pretence!
There is in love a sweetnesse ready penn'd;

Copie out onely that, and save expense.'

76.¶PRAYER.

Of what an easie quick accesse,

My blessed Lord, art Thou! how suddenly
May our requests Thine eare invade!

To shew that State dislikes not easinesse,

If I but lift mine eyes my suit is made;

Thou canst no more not heare then Thou canst die.

Of what supreme almightie power

Is Thy great arm, which spans the east and west,
And tacks the centre to the sphere!

By it do all things live their measur'd houre;
We cannot ask the thing which is not there,
Blaming the shallownesse of our request.