How harsh are thorns to pears! and yet they make
A better hedge, and need lesse reparation.
How smooth are silks compared with a stake
Or with a stone! yet make no good foundation.
Sometimes Thou dost divide Thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite; the Indian nut alone

Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and can,
Boat, cable, sail, and needle, all in one.

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cocoa

Most herbs that grow in brooks are hot and dry,
Cold fruits' warm kernells help against the winde; 130
The lemmon's juice and rinde cure mutually;
The whey of milk doth loose, the milk doth binde.

Thy creatures leap not, but expresse a feast,
Where all the guests sit close, and nothing wants:
Frogs marry fish and flesh; bats, bird and beast; 135
Sponges, non-sense and sense; mines, th' earth and plants.
To show Thou art not bound, as if Thy lot
Were worse then ours, sometimes Thou shiftest hands :
Most things move th' under-jaw, the crocodile not;
Most things sleep lying, th' elephant leans or stands.
But who hath praise enough? nay, who hath any? 141
None can expresse Thy works but he that knows them
And none can know Thy works, which are so many
And so complete, but onely He that owes them.
All things that are, though they have sev'rall wayes,
Yet in their being joyn with one advise

VOL. I.

Owns

146

S

To honour Thee; and so I give Thee praise
In all my other hymnes, but in this twice.
Each thing that is, although in use and name
It go for one, hath many wayes in store
To honour Thee; and so each hymne Thy fame
Extolleth many wayes, yet this one more.

91.HOPE.

I gave to Hope a watch of mine; but he
An anchor gave to me.

Then an old Prayer-book I did present;

And he an optick sent.

With that I gave a vial full of tears ;

But he, a few green eares.

Ah, loyterer! I'le no more, no more I'le bring:

I did expect a ring.

92. SINNE'S ROUND.

Sorrie I am, my God, sorrie I a

am

That my offences course it in a ring.

My thoughts are working like a busie flame,

Until their cockatrice they hatch and bring:

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telescope

5

And when they once have perfected their draughts, 5 My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts,
Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill;
They vent the wares, and passe them with their faults,
And by their breathing ventilate the ill;

Ætna

IO

But words suffice not; where are lewd intentions,
My hands do joyn to finish the inventions.
My hands do joyn to finish the inventions,
And so my sinnes ascend three stories high,
As Babel grew before there were dissentions.
Yet ill deeds loyter not; for they supplie
New thoughts of sinning: wherefore, to my shame,
Sorrie I am, my God, sorrie I am.

93.¶TIME.

Meeting with Time, Slack thing,' said I

'Thy sithe is dull; whet it, for shame.'

15

'No marvell, sir,' he did replie,

'If it at length deserve some blame;

But where one man would have me grinde it,

5

Twentie for one too sharp do finde it.'

For where thou onley wert before

An executioner at best,

Thou art a gard'ner now; and more,

An usher to convey our souls

Beyond the utmost starres and poles.

15

And this is that makes life so long,

While it detains us from our God;

20

Ev'n pleasures here increase the wrong,

And length of dayes lengthens the rod.

Who wants the place where God doth dwell,
Partakes already half of hell.

lacks

Of what strange length must that needs be
Which ev'n eternitie excludes !'

25

Thus farre Time heard me patiently;

Then chafing said: "This man deludes;

What do I here before his doore?

He doth not crave lesse time, but more.'

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94. GRATEFULNESSE.

Thou that hast giv'n so much to me,

Give one thing more, a gratefull heart:
See how Thy beggar works on Thee

By art:

5

He makes Thy gifts occasion more,
And sayes, if he in this be crost,
All Thou hast given him heretofore
Is lost.

But Thou didst reckon, when at first

Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,

What it would come to at the worst

To save.

10

Perpetuall knockings at Thy doore,
Tears sullying Thy transparent rooms,

Gift upon gift; much would have more,
And comes.

This notwithstanding, Thou went'st on,
And didst allow us all our noise;
Nay, Thou hast made a sigh and grone
Thy joyes.

Not that Thou hast not still above
Much better tunes then grones can make,
But that these countrey-aires Thy love

Did take.

Wherefore I crie, and crie again,
And in no quiet canst Thou be,
Till I a thankfull heart obtain

Of Thee.

Not thankfull when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare dayes;
But such a heart whose pulse may be

Thy praise.

15

20

=captivate

25

30

95.¶PEACE.

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell, I humbly crave?

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd if Peace were there.

A hollow winde did seem to answer, 'No;
Go seek elsewhere.'

5