But now thou dost thyself immure and close
In some one corner of a feeble heart;
Where yet both Sin and Satan, thy old foes,
Do pinch and straiten thee, and use much art
To gain thy thirds and little part.

I see the world grows old, when, as the heat
Of thy great love once spread, as in an urn
Doth closet up itself, and still retreat,
Cold Sin still forcing it; till it return,

And, calling Justice, all things burn.

Misery.

LORD, let the angels praise thy name! Man is a foolish thing-a foolish thing; Folly and Sin play all his game.

His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing, "Man is but grass:

He knows it; fill the glass!"

How canst thou brook his foolishness?
Why, he'll not lose a cup of drink for thee.
Bid him but temper his excess;

Not he he knows where he can better be,
As he will swear,

Than to serve thee in fear.

What strange pollutions doth he wed; And make his own; as if none knew but he ! No man shall beat into his head,

That thou within his curtains drawn canst see. They are of cloth;

Where never yet came moth.

The best of men, turn but thy hand
For one poor minute, stumble at a pin.
They would not have their actions scanned,
Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin;
Though it be small,

And measure not their fall.

They quarrel thee; and would give over
The bargain made to serve thee. But thy love
Holds them unto it; and doth cover
Their follies with the wing of thy mild dove,
Not suffering those,

Who would, to be thy foes.

My God! man cannot praise thy name.
Thou art all brightness; perfect purity.
The sun holds down his head for shame,
Dead with eclipses, when we speak of thee.
How shall infection

Presume on thy perfection?

As dirty hands foul all they touch,

And those things most, which are most pure and fine;
So our clay hearts, ev'n when we crouch
To sing thy praises, make them less divine.
Yet either this,

Or none, thy portion is.

Man cannot serve thee: let him go And serve the swine; there, there is his delight; He doth not like this virtue, no ;

Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:

These preachers make

His head to shoot and ache.

O foolish man! where are thine eyes?
How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares;

Thou pull'st the rug, and wilt not rise,
No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars:
There let them shine;

Thou must go sleep-or dine.

The bird that sees a dainty bower
Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,
Wonders and sings,-but not his power
Who made the arbor: this exceeds her wit.
But man doth know

The spring, whence all things flow.

And yet, as though he knew it not, His knowledge winks, and lets his humors reign: They make his life a constant blot, And all the blood of God to run in vain.

Ah, wretch what verse

Can thy strange ways rehearse ?

Indeed, at first, man was a treasure;

A box of jewels; shop of rarities;

A ring, whose posy was, MY PLEASURE. He was a garden in a paradise.

Glory and grace

Did crown his heart and face.

But sin hath fooled him. Now he is
A lump of flesh; without a foot, or wing,
To raise him to a glimpse of bliss:
A sick tossed vessel, dashing on each thing;
Nay, his own shelf.

My God! I mean myself.

Jordan.

WHEN first my lines of heavenly joys made mention,
Such was their lustre, they did so excel,

That I sought out quaint words and trim invention.
My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell,
Curling with metaphors a plain intention;
Decking the sense, as if it were to sell.

Thousands of notions in my brain did run,
Offering their service if I were not sped.
I often blotted what I had begun;
This was not quick enough, and that was dead.
Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the Sun;
Much less, those joys which trample on his head.

As flames do work and wind when they ascend,
So did I weave myself into the sense.

But, while I bustled, I might hear a friend
Whisper-"How wide is all this long pretence!
There is in love a sweetness ready penn'd.
Copy out only that; and save expense."

Prayer.

Or what an easy, quick access,

My blessed Lord, art thou! How suddenly
May our requests thine ear invade !—

To shew, that state dislikes not easiness.
If I but lift mine eyes, my suit is made :

Thou canst no more not hear, than thou canst die.

Of what supreme, almighty power,

Is thy great arm; which spans the east and west,
And tacks the centre to the sphere!

By it, do all things live their measured hour
We cannot ask the thing which is not there,
Blaming the shallowness of our request.

Of what unmeasurable love

Art thou possest; who, when thou couldst not die,
Wert fain to take our flesh and curse,

And for our sakes in person sin reprove!
That, by destroying that which tied thy purse,
Thou mightst make way for liberality.

Since then these three wait on thy throne,
Ease, Power, and Love; I value prayer so,
That, were I to leave all but one,

Wealth, fame, endowments, virtues, all should go.
I and dear prayer would together dwell,
And quickly gain, for each inch lost, an ell.

Obedience.

My God, if writings may
Convey a lordship any way,
Whither the buyer and the seller please,
Let it not thee displease,
If this poor paper do as much as they.
On it my heart doth bleed

As many lines, as there doth need
To pass itself, and all it hath, to thee:
To which I do agree;

And here present it as my special deed.