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So that we need not say, Where's this command?
Poore man, thou searchest round

To find out death, but missest life at hand!

60. ¶LENT.

Welcome, deare feast of Lent! who loves not thee,

He loves not temperance or authoritie,

But is a child of passion.

The Scriptures bid us fast: the Church says, 'Now
Give to thy Mother what thou wouldst allow

To ev'ry corporation.'

The humble soul, compos'd of love and fear,
Begins at home, and layes the burden there,

When doctrines disagree;

He sayes, In things which use hath justly got
I am a scandall to the Church, and not
The Church is so to me.'

True Christians should be glad of an occasion

To use their temperance, seeking no evasion,
When good is seasonable;

Unlesse authoritie, which should increase

The obligation in us, make it lesse,

And power it self disable.

Besides the cleannesse of sweet abstinence,

Quick thoughts, and motions at a small expense,

A face not fearing light;

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Whereas in fulnesse there are sluttish fumes,

Sowre exhalations, and dishonest rheumes,

Revenging the delight.

Then those same pendant profits, which the Spring 25 And Easter intimate, enlarge the thing

And goodnesse of the deed;

Neither ought other men's abuse of Lent

Spoil our good use, lest by that argument
We forfeit all our creed.

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It's true we cannot reach Christ's forti'th day;
Yet to go part of that religious way

Is better then to rest:

We cannot reach our Saviour's puritie;
Yet are we bid, 'Be holy ev'n as He :'

In both let's do our best.

Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gene
Is much more sure to meet with Him then one

That travelleth by-wayes;

Perhaps my God, though He be farre before,
May turn, and take me by the hand, and more,
May strengthen my decayes.

Yet, Lord, instruct us to improve our fast
By starving sinne, and taking such repast
As may our faults controll;

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That ev'ry man may revell at his doore,

Not in his parlour-banquetting the poore,

And among those, his soul.

61.VERTUE.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave

red

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Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie,

My musick shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

62.¶THE PEARL.

Matt. xiii.

I know the wayes of Learning; both the head
And pipes that feed the presse, and make it runne;
What Reason hath from Nature borrowed,

Or of itself, like a good huswife, spunne

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In laws and policie; what the starres conspire,
What willing Nature speaks, what forc'd by fire;

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Both th' old discoveries and the new-found seas,

The stock and surplus, cause and historic,

All these stand open, or I have the keyes:

Yet I love Thee.

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I know the wayes of Honour, what maintains

The quick returns of courtesie and wit;

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In vies of favours whether partie gains; which of the two
When glorie swells the heart, and moldeth it
To all expressions both of hand and eye;
Which on the world a true-love knot may tie,
And bear the bundle, wheresoe're it goes;
How many drammes of spirit there must be
To sell my life unto my friends or foes:

Yet I love Thee.

I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,

The lullings and the relishes of it;

The propositions of hot bloud and brains;

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What mirth and musick mean; what Love and Wit Have done these twentie hundred years and more; 25

I know the projects of unbridled store:

My stuffe is flesh, not brasse; my senses live,

And grumble oft that they have more in me
Then He that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love Thee.

I know all these, and have them in

my hand:

Therefore not seeled, but with open eyes

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I flie to Thee, and fully understand

Both the main sale and the commodities;

And at what rate and price I have Thy love,
With all the circumstances that may move:
Yet through the labyrinths, not my groveling wit,
But Thy silk-twist let down from heav'n to me,
Did both conduct and teach me how by it

To climb to Thee.

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63. TENTATION.

Broken in pieces all asunder,

Lord, hunt me not,

A thing forgot,

Once a poore creature, now a wonder,
A wonder tortur'd in the space

Betwixt this world and that of grace.

My thoughts are all a case of knives,

Wounding my heart

With scatter'd smart,

As wat'ring-pots give flowers their lives;

All

Nothing their furie can controll

While they do wound and prick my soul.

my attendants are at strife,

Quitting their place

Unto my face;

Nothing performs the task of life :

The elements are let loose to fight,

And while I live trie out their right.

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