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Neither ought other men's abuse of Lent
'Tis true, we cannot reach Christ's fortieth day;
We cannot reach our Saviour's purity;
Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone,
Perhaps my God, though he be far before,
Yet, Lord, instruct us to improve our fast
That every man may revel at his door,
SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet Rose, whose hue angry and brave
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
My Music shows ye
have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives
But though the whole world turn to coal,
I KNOW the ways of Learning; both the head
Or of itself, like a good housewife, spun
Yet I love thee.
I know the ways of Honour, what maintains
In vies of favours whether party gains,
I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,
The propositions of hot blood and brains ;
What mirth and music mean; what love and wit
My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,
I know all these, and have them in my hand:
Both the main sale, and the commodities;
To climb to thee.
BROKEN in pieces all asunder,
A thing forgot,
Once a poor creature, now a wonder,
My thoughts are all a case of knives,
As watering-pots give flowers their lives.
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,
Oh, help, my God! let not their plot
And also thee,
Who art my life: dissolve the knot,
As the sun scatters by his light
Then shall those powers, which work for grief,
Enter thy pay,
And day by day
Labour thy praise and my relief;
With care and courage building me,
Till I reach heaven, and much more, thee.
My God, I heard this day,
That none doth build a stately habitation
What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation All things are in decay.
For Man is every thing,
And more He is a tree, yet bears no fruit ;
Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute,
Man is all symmetry,
Full of proportions, one limb to another,
Nothing hath got so far,
But Man hath caught and kept it, as his
He is in little all the sphere.
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they Find their acquaintance there.