Then close again the seam,

Which thou haft open'd; do not spread thy robe In hope of great things. Call to mind thy dream, An earthly globe,

On whofe meridian was engraven,

These feas are tears, and heaven the haven.

CX. ARTILLERY.

S I one evening fat before my cell,
Methought a star did shoot into

A my lap.
As

I rofe, and shook my clothes, as knowing well,
That from fmall fires comes oft no small mishap :
When fuddenly I heard one fay,

Do as thou useft, disobey,

Expel good motions from thy breast, Which have the face of fire, but end in rest.

I, who had heard of music in the spheres,
But not of speech in stars, began to muse:
But turning to my God, whose ministers
The stars and all things are; If I refuse,

Dread Lord, faid I, so oft my good;
Then I refuse not e'en with blood
To wash away my stubborn thought:
For I will do, or suffer what I ought.

But I have alfo ftars and shooters too,
Born where thy fervants both artilleries use.
My tears and prayers night and day do woo,
And work up to thee; yet thou dost refuse.

Not but I am (I must say still)

Much more obliged to do thy will,

Than thou to grant mine: but because Thy promise now hath e'en fet thee thy laws.

Then we are shooters both, and thou doft deign
To enter combat with us, and conteft

With thine own clay. But I would parley fain :
Shun not my arrows, and behold my breast.
Yet if thou fhunnest, I am thine:
I must be fo, if I am mine.
There is no articling with thee:
I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.

CXI. CHURCH-RENTS AND SCHISMS.

BRAVE

RAVE rofe, (alas!) where art thou? in the chair, Where thou didst lately fo triumph and fhine, A worm doth fit, whose many feet and hair Are the more foul, the more thou wert divine. This, this hath done it, this did bite the root And bottom of the leaves: which when the wind Did once perceive, it blew them under foot, Where rude unhallow'd steps do crush and grind Their beauteous glories. Only fhreds of thee, And those all bitten, in thy chair I fee.

Why doth my Mother blush? is fhe the rose,
And shows it fo? Indeed Chrift's precious blood
Gave you a colour once; which when your foes
Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good,

And made you look much fresher than before.
But when debates and fretting jealoufies

Did worm and work within you more and more,
Your colour faded, and calamities

Turned your ruddy into pale and bleak:

Your health and beauty both began to break.

Then did your several parts unloose and start:
Which when your neighbours faw, like a north wind
They rushed in, and caft them in the dirt
Where Pagans tread. O Mother dear and kind,
Where fhall I get me eyes enough to weep,
As many eyes as stars? fince it is night,
And much of Afia and Europe fast asleep,
And e'en all Africk; would at least I might
With these two poor ones lick up all the dew,
Which falls by night, and pour it out for you!

CXII. JUSTICE.

DREADFUL juftice, what a fright and terror

Waft thou of old,

When fin and error

Did fhow and fhape thy looks to me,

And through their glass discolour thee! He that did but look up, was proud and bold.

The dishes of thy balance feem'd to gape,

Like two great pits;
The beam and scape

L

Did like fome tottering engine show: Thy hand above did burn and glow, Daunting the ftouteft hearts, the proudest wits.

But now that Christ's pure veil presents the fight, I fee no fears:

Thy hand is white,

Thy fcales like buckets, which attend
And interchangeably descend,

Lifting to heaven from this well of tears.

For where before thou ftill didft call on me,

Now I ftill touch

And harp on thee.

God's promises hath made thee mine: Why fhould I juftice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much.

A long it was and weary way.
The gloomy cave of Defperation

I left on the one, and on the other fide

The rock of Pride.

And fo I came to fancy's meadow ftrow'd

With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,

But I was quicken'd by my hour.

So to care's copfe I came, and there got through With much ado.

That led me to the wild of paffion; which

Some call the world;

A wafted place, but fometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,

Save one good Angel, which a friend had tied

Close to my fide.

At length I got unto the gladfome hill,

Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing ftill,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,

A lake of brackish waters on the ground

Was all I found.

With that abash'd and struck with many a fting

Of fwarming fears,

I fell, and cried, Alas, my King;

Can both the way and end be tears?

Yet taking heart I rofe, and then perceived

I was deceived:

My hill was further: fo I flung away,

Yet heard a cry

Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives: If that be all, said I,

After fo foul a journey death is fair,

And but a chair.