Thy mercies and allurements all,
Thy shooting-stick and mallet call.
But when all this done we see,
Who shall the CORRECTOR be;
O Lord, what thou set'st cann't be ill,
It needs then no corrector's skill.
Now tho' these graces all are set,
Our hearts are but white paper yet;
And by Adam's first transgression,
Fit only for the worst impression,
Thy Holy Spirit the pressman make,
From whom we may perfection take;
And let him no time defer,
To print on us thy character.
Let the ink be black as jet;
What though, it is comely yet,
As courtains of King Solomon,
Or Kedar's tents to look upon.
Be victory the press's head,
That o'er oppression it may tread.
Let divine contemplation be
The skrews, to raise us up to thee:
The press's two cheeks (unsubdu'd)
Strong constancy and fortitude:
Our slavish flesh let be the till,
Whereon lay what trash you will:
The nut and spindle gentleness,
To move the work with easiness;
The platten is affliction,

Which makes good work, being hard set on :
The bar the spirits' instrument,

To satisfie our punishment :

The blankets a resemblance hath

Of mercy in the midst of wrath: VOL. VI.

The

The frisket, thy preventing grace,

Keeps us from many a sully'd face:
Christ Jesus is the level stone,

That our hearts must be wrought upon:

The coffin, wherein it doth ly,
Is rest to all eternity:

The cramp-irons, that it moves on still,
Are the good motions of the will:
The rounce the spirit's inspiration,
Working an holy agitation :

The girts the gift of continence,
The tether of th' unbridled sense :
The winter, whereon all doth ly,
Is patience in adversity:

The footstep humbleness of mind,
That in it self no wroth can find.
If there be such a chance as this,
That any letter batter'd is,
Being come unto thy view,
Take it out, put in a new.
Or if Satan, that foul fiend,
Marr, with a pretence to mend,
And being at thy goodness vext,
Makes blasphemy of thy pure text,
Find it out, O Lord, and then
Print our hearts new o'er agen.
O Lord, unto this work make hast,
Tis a work that long will last;
And when this white paper's done,
Work a reiteration.

PROSE

PROSE WRITERS.

PROSE WRITERS.

I CONCLUDE very reluctantly the poetical part of this last volume, both because I know from experience that it will not be that which is least acceptable to the reader, and because I have still in my possession, many pleasing and beautiful specimens from early printed books. But "sat prata biberunt," I have another promise. and another duty to fulfil, towards which much curiosity has been excited, but which I must also, and for a similar reason, be compelled to discharge partially and imperfectly. It seemed necessary and expedient to finish the undertaking within the compass of six volumes: a copious Index to the whole was also much called for: I must satisfy myself, therefore, with compressing in the limits which remain, as many literary rarities as I can, and endeavour to make them as miscellaneous as possible.