Rain, do not hurt my flowers; but gently spend
Your honey drops: prefs not to smell them here;
When they are ripe, their odour will afcend,
And at your lodging with their thanks appear.

How harsh are thorns to pears! and yet they make
A better hedge, and need lefs reparation.

How smooth are filks, compared with a stake,
Or with a stone! yet make no good foundation.

Sometimes thou doft divide thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone
Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and can,
Boat, cable, fail and needle, all in one.

Most herbs that grow in brooks, are hot and dry.
Cold fruit's warm kernels help against the wind.
The lemon's juice and rind cure mutually.
The whey of milk doth loose, the milk doth bind.

Thy creatures leap not, but express a feast,

Where all the guests fit close, and nothing wants. Frogs marry fish and flesh; bats, bird and beast; Sponges, nonfenfe and fenfe; mines, the earth and plants.

To show thou art not bound, as if thy lot

Were worse than ours, fometimes thou shiftest hands.

Most things move the under jaw; the Crocodile not. Most things sleep lying, the Elephant leans or stands.

But who hath praise enough? nay, who hath any? None can exprefs thy works, but he that knows them;

And none can know thy works, which are so many, And fo complete, but only he that owes them.

All things that are, though they have several ways,
Yet in their being join with one advice

To honour thee: and fo I give thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this twice.

Each thing that is, although in use and name
It go for one, hath many ways in store
To honour thee; and fo each hymn thy fame
Extolleth many ways, yet this one more.

93. Hope.

GAVE to hope a Watch of mine: but he
An anchor gave to me.

Then an old Prayer-book I did present :

And he an optic fent.

With that I gave a phial full of tears:

But he a few

green ears.

Ah, Loiterer! I'll no more, no more I'll bring:

I did expect a ring.

94. Sins round.

ORRY I am, my God, forry I am, That my offences course it in a ring. My thoughts are working like a busy flame, Until their Cockatrice they hatch and bring: And when they once have perfected their draughts, My words take fire from my enflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my enflamed thoughts, Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.

They vent the wares, and pass them with their faults, And by their breathing ventilate the ill.

But words fuffice not, where are lewd intentions: My hands do join to finish the inventions :

My hands do join to finish the inventions :
And fo my fins afcend three stories high,
As Babel grew, before there were diffentions.
Yet ill deeds loiter not: for they supply

New thoughts of finning; wherefore, to my shame,
Sorry I am, my God, forry I am.

M

95. Time.

EETING with Time, Slack thing, faid I,

Thy scythe is dull; whet it for shame.

No marvel, Sir, he did reply,

If it at length deferve fome blame :

But where one man would have me grind it, Twenty for one too sharp do find it.

Perhaps fome fuch of old did pass,
Who above all things loved this life;
To whom thy scythe a hatchet was,
Which now is but a pruning-knife.

Christ's coming hath made man thy debtor,
Since by thy cutting he grows better.

And in his bleffing thou art blest :
For where thou only wert before
An executioner at beft,

Thou art a gardener now, and more.
An usher to convey our fouls
Beyond the utmost stars and poles.

And this is that makes life fo long,
While it detains us from our God.

E'en pleasures here increase the

wrong:

And length of days lengthen the rod.

Who wants the place, where God doth dwell, Partakes already half of hell.

Of what strange length must that needs be,
Which e'en eternity excludes !

Thus far Time heard me patiently:
Then chafing faid, This man deludes:
What do I here before his door?
He doth not crave lefs time, but more.

96. Gratefulness.

HOU that haft given so much to me, Give one thing more, a grateful heart. See how thy beggar works on thee

By art.

He makes thy gifts occafion more,
And fays, If he in this be croft,
All thou haft given him heretofore
Is loft.

But thou didst reckon, when at first

Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,

What it would come to at the worst

To fave.

Perpetual knockings at thy door,
Tears fullying thy transparent rooms,

Gift upon gift; much would have more,

And comes.