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ALL after pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I both tir'd, body and mind,
With full cry of affections quite astray,
I took up in the next inn I could find.
There, when I came, whom found I, but my dear-
My dearest Lord; expecting, till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to him; ready there, To be all passengers' most sweet relief? 0 Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light, Wrapt in night's inantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right,
To man, of all beasts, be not thou a stranger.
Furnish and deck my soul; that thou mayst have
A better lodging than a rack, or grave.
The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for thee?
My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is thy word; the streams, thy grace
Enriching all the place.
Shepherd and fock shall sing, and all my powers
Out-sing the day-light hours.
Then we will chide the Sun, for letting night
Take up his place and right;
We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should
Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a Sun
Shall stay till we have done-
A willing shiner; that shall shine as gladly,
As frost-nipt suns look sadly.
Then we will sing and shine all our own day;
And one another pay.
His beams shall cheer my breast; and both so twine,
Till ev’n his beams sing, and my music shine.
My God, I heard this day,
That none doth build a stately habitation,
But he that means to dwell therein.
What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation
All things are in decay.
For Man is ev'ry thing;
And more. He is a tree, yet bears no fruit.
A beast; yet is, or should be more;
Reason and speech we only bring.
Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute;
They go upon the score.
Man is all symmetry,
Full of proportions, one limb to another,
And to all the world besides.
Each part may call the farthest brother.
For bead with foot hath private amity;
And both, with moons and tides.
Nothing hath got so far,
But Man hath caught and kept it, as his prey.
His eyes dismount the highest star:
He is, in little, all the sphere.
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.
For us the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see, but means our good;
As our delight, or as our treasure.
The whole is either our cupboard of food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.
The stars have us to bed : Night draws the curtain; which the sun withdraws.
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind,
In their descent and being ; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.
Each thing is full of duty:
Waters united are our navigation:
Distinguished, our habitation;
Below, our drink; above, our meat:
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty?
Then how are all things neat!
More servants wait on Man,
Than he'll take notice of. In ev'ry path
He treads down that, which doth befriend him
When sickness makes him pale and wan. Oh, mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.
Since then, my God, thou hast
So brave a palace built; Ob, dwell in it,
That it may dwell with thee at last!
Till then, afford us so much wit, That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee;
And both thy servants bo.
Peace! prattler, do not lour,
Not a fair look, but thou dost call it foul;
Not a sweet dish, but thou dost call it sour;
Music to thee doth howl.
By list’ning to thy chatting fears
I have both lost mine eyes and ears.
Prattler, no more, I say,
My thoughts must work, but like a noiseless sphere;
Harmonious peace must rock them all the day:
No room for prattlers there.
If thou persistest, I will tell thee,
That I have physic to expel thee.
And the receipt shall be
My Saviour's blood. Whenever at his board,
I do but taste it, straight it cleanseth me;
And leaves thee not a word,
No, not a tooth or pail to scratch,
And at my actions carp, or catch.
Yet, if thou talkest still,
Besides my physic, know, there's some for thee;
Some wood or nails, to make a staff or bill
For those that trouble me.
The bloody cross of my dear Lord
Is both my physic and my sword.
RIVERS run, and springs each one
Know their home, and get them gone :
Hast thou tears, or hast thou none ?
If, poor soul, thou hast no tears,
Would thou hadst no faults or fears!
Who hath these, those ill forbears.
Winds still work; it is their plot,
Be the season cold or hot ;
Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not ?
If thou hast no sighs or groans,
Would thou hadst no fesh and bones!
Lesser pains 'scape greater ones.
But, if yet thou idle be,
Foolish soul, who died for thee?
Who did leave his Father's throne,
To assume thy flesh and bone?
Had He life, or had He none?