Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still Constant unto it, making it to be

A point of honour, now to grieve in me,

And in thy members suffer ill.

They who lament one cross, Thou dying daily, praise thee to thy loss.

THE STAR.

BRIGHT spark, shot from a brighter place, Where beams surround my Saviour's face, Canst thou be any where

So well as there ?

Yet, if thou wilt from thence depart,
Take a bad lodging in my heart;
For thou canst make a debtor,
And make it better.

First with thy fire-work burn to dust
Folly, and worse than folly, lust:
Then with thy light refine,

And make it shine.

So disengaged from sin and sickness,
Touch it with thy celestial quickness,
That it may hang and move
After thy love.

Then with our trinity of light,

Motion, and heat, let's take our flight

Unto the place where thou

Before didst bow.

Get me a standing there, and place

Among the beams, which crown the face
Of Him who died to part
Sin and my heart:

That so among the rest I may

Glitter, and curl, and wind as they :
That winding is their fashion

Of adoration.

Sure thou wilt joy, by gaining me
To fly home like a laden bee
Unto that hive of beams
And garland-streams.

SUNDAY.

O DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Th' indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay; The week were dark, but for thy light: Thy Torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The working-days are the back-part ;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death; but thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,

We could not choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone
The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,

Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,

And did enclose this light for his :
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.

The Rest of our Creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at his passion
Did th' earth and all things with it move.
As Samson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day

We sullied by our foul offence:

Wherefore that robe we cast away,

Having a new at his expense,

Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,
And fit for Paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:

O let me take thee at the bound,

Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!

AVARICE.

MONEY, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe,

Whence comest thou, that thou art so fresh and fine? I know thy parentage is base and low : Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine.

Surely thou didst so little contribute

To this great kingdom, which thou now hast got,
That he was fain, when thou wast destitute,
To dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot.

Then forcing thee, by fire he made thee bright:
Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we
Have with our stamp and seal transferr'd our right;
Thou art the man, and man but dross to thee.

Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich; And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.

How well her name an Army doth present,
In whom the Lord of hosts did pitch his tent!

TO ALL ANGELS AND SAINTS.

O GLORIOUS Spirits, who after all your bands
See the smooth face of God, without a frown,
Or strict commands;

Where every one is king, and hath his crown,
If not upon his head, yet in his hands:

Not out of envy or maliciousness
Do I forbear to crave your special aid.

I would address

My vows to thee most gladly, blessed Maid,
And Mother of my God, in my distress:

Thou art the holy mine, whence came the gold,
The great restorative for all decay

In young and old;

Thou art the cabinet where the jewel lay:
Chiefly to thee would I my soul unfold.