I muse which shows more love,

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The day or night; that is the gale, this th' harbour;

That is the walk, and this the arbour;

Or that the garden, this the grove.

My God, Thou art all love :

Not one poore minute 'scapes Thy breast,

But brings a favour from above;

And in this love, more then in bed, I rest.

30

While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intombe my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust,
To which the blast of Death's incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust
My bodie to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and finde his birth
Written in dustie heraldrie and lines;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jeat and marble, put for signes,

To sever the good fellowship of dust,

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And spoil the meeting: what shall point out them, When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat 15 To kisse those heaps which now they have in trust? Deare flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stemme And true descent, that, when thou shalt grow fat,

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know
That flesh is but the glasse which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,-
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

36. ¶ CHURCH MUSICK.

Sweetest of sweets, I thank you: when displeasure
Did through my bodie wound my minde,
You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure
A daintie lodging me assign'd.

Now I in you without a bodie move,

Rising and falling with your wings;

We both together sweetly live and love,

Yet say sometimes, 'God help poore kings!

Comfort, I'le die; for if you poste from me,

Sure I shall do so, and much more ;

But if I travell in your companie,

You know the way to heaven's doore.

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37. CHURCH LOCK AND KEY.

I know it is my sinne which locks Thine eares
And bindes Thy hands,
Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears,
Or else the chilnesse of my faint demands.

VOL. I.

K

But as cold hands are angrie with the fire,

And mend it still,

So I do lay the want of

my desire

Not on my sinnes or coldnesse, but Thy will.

Yet heare, O God, onely for His bloud's sake,

Which pleads for me:

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For though sinnes plead too, yet, like stones, they make His bloud's sweet current much more loud to be.

38. THE CHURCH FLOORE.

the floore? that square and speckled stone, Which looks so firm and strong,

IS PATIENCE:

And th' other black and grave, wherewith each one
Is checker'd all along,

HUMILITIE:

The gentle rising, which on either hand

Leads to the quire above,

IS CONFIDENCE:

But the sweet cement, which in one sure band
Ties the whole frame, is Love
And CHARITIE.

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Hither sometimes Sinne steals, and stains
The marble's neat and curious veins;
But all is cleansèd when the marble weeps.

Sometimes Death, puffing at the doore,

Blows all the dust about the floore;

But while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps.

Blest be the Architect Whose art

Could build so strong in a weak heart!

39. THE WINDOWS.

Lord, how can man preach Thy eternall word?
He is a brittle crazie glasse;

Yet in Thy temple Thou dost him afford
This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window through Thy grace.

But when Thou dost anneal in glasse Thy storie,
Making Thy life to shine within

The holy preachers, then the light and glorie
More rev'rend grows, and more doth win;
Which else shows watrish, bleak, and thin.
Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one
When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and aw; but speech alone
Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
And in the eare, not conscience, ring.

40. TRINITIE SUNDAY.

Lord, Who hast form'd me out of mud,

And hast redeem'd me through Thy bloud,
And sanctifi'd me to do good,

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Purge all my sinnes done heretofore;
For I confesse my heavie score,
And I will strive to sinne no more.

Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me,
With faith, with hope, with charitie,
That I may ruune, rise, rest with Thee.

41. CONTENT.

Peace, mutt'ring thoughts, and do not grudge to keep Within the walls of your own breast:

Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep,

Can on another's hardly rest.

Gad not abroad at ev'ry quest and call asking, seeking 5

Of an untrained hope or passion;

To court each place or fortune that doth fall
Is wantonnesse in contemplation.

Mark how the fire in flint doth quiet lie,

Content and warm t' it self alone;
But when it would appeare to others' eye,
Without a knock it never shone.

Give me the pliant minde, whose gentle measure
Complies and suits with all estates;

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Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure

Take up within a cloister's gates.