These are Thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flow'rs that glide;
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide.
Who would be more,

Swelling through store,

Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

133. DOTAGE.

False-glozing pleasures, casks of happinesse,

Foolish night-fires, women's and children's wishes,

Chases in arras, guilded emptinesse,

Shadows well-mounted, dreams in a career,

Embroider'd lyes, nothing between two dishes:

These are the pleasures here.

True-earnest sorrows, rooted miseries,

Anguish in grain, vexations ripe and blown,

Sure-footed griefs, solid calamities,

Plain demonstrations evident and cleare,

Fetching their proofs ev'n from the very bone:
These are the sorrows here.

But O the folly of distracted men!

Who griefs in earnest, joyes in jest pursue;
Preferring, like brute beasts, a loathsome den
Before a Court, ev'n that above so cleare,
Where are no sorrows, but delights more true
Then miseries are here!

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134. THE SONNE.

Let forrain nations of their language boast
What fine varietie each tongue affords ;

I like our language, as our men and coast;
Who cannot dresse it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly do we give one onely name

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To parents' issue and the sunne's bright starre!
A sonne is light and fruit; a fruitfull flame

Chasing the father's dimnesse, carried far

From the first man in the East to fresh and new
Western discov'ries of posteritie.

So in one word our Lord's humilitie

We turn upon Him in a sense most true;

For what Christ once in humblenesse began,

We Him in glorie call The Sonne of Man.

Sun

135.¶A TRUE HYMNE.

My Joy, my Life, my Crown!
My heart was meaning all the day,

Somewhat it fain would say,

And still it runneth mutt'ring up and down

With only this, My Joy, my Life, my Crown!

Yet slight not these few words;

If truly said, they may take part
Among the best in art :

The finenesse which a hymne or psalme affords

Is when the soul unto the lines accords.

VOL. I.

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HE Who craves all the minde,

And all the soul, and strength, and time,

If the words onely ryme,

Justly complains that somewhat is behinde

To make his verse, or write a hymne in kinde.

Whereas, if th' heart be mov'd,

Although the verse be somewhat scant,

God doth supplie the want;

As when th' heart says, sighing to be approv'd,

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'O could I love!' and stops, God writeth 'Lov'd.' 20

136. THE ANSWER.

My comforts drop and melt like snow;

I shake my head, and all the thoughts and ends
Which my fierce youth did bandie, fall and flow
Like leaves about me, or like summer-friends,
Flyes of estates and sunne-shine. But to all
Who think me eager, hot, and undertaking,
But in my prosecutions slack and small;
As a young exhalation, newly waking,
Scorns his first bed of dirt, and means the sky,
But cooling by the way, grows pursie and slow
And settling to a cloud, doth live and die

In that dark state of tears,-to all that so

Show me and set me I have one reply,

Which they that know the rest know more then I.

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137. A DIALOGUE-ANTHEM.

CHRISTIAN. DEATH.

CHRISTIAN.

Alas, poore Death! where is thy glorie?
Where is thy famous force, thy ancient sting?

DEATH.

Alas, poore mortall, void of storie !

Go spell and reade how I have kill'd thy King.

CHRISTIAN.

Poore Death! and who was hurt thereby?

Thy curse being laid on Him makes thee accurst.

DEATH.

Let losers talk, yet thou shalt die;

These arms shall crush thee.

CHRISTIAN.

Spare not, do thy worst:

I shall be one day better then before;

Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.

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138. THE WATER-COURSE.

Thou who dost dwell and linger here below,
Since the condition of this world is frail,

Where of all plants afflictions soonest grow,

If troubles overtake thee, do not wail;

For who can look for lesse that loveth

{

Life?
Strife? 5

But rather turn the pipe and water's course
To serve thy sinnes, and furnish thee with store
Of sov'raigne tears, springing from true remorse ;
That so in purenesse thou mayst Him adore

Who gives to man, as He sees fit,

(Salvation.
Damnation.

IO

139. SELF-CONDEMNATION.

Thou who condemnest Jewish hate

For choosing Barabbas a murderer

Before the Lord of glorie,

Look back upon thine own estate,

Call home thine eye, that busie wanderer,

That choice may be thy storie.

He that doth love, and love amisse,

This world's delights before true Christian joy,
Hath made a Jewish choice:

The World an ancient murderer is;
Thousands of souls it hath and doth destroy
With her enchanting voice.

He that hath made a sorrie wedding Between his soul and gold, and hath preferr'd

False gain before the true,

Hath done what he condemnes in reading;

For he hath sold for money his deare Lord,
And is a Judas-Jew.