Yet if thou shunnest, I am thine :
I must be so, if I am mine.
There is no articling with thee:
I am but finite, yet thine infinitely."

Church Rents and Schisms.

BRAVE Rose, alas! where art thou? in the chair,
Where thou didst lately so triumph and shine,
A worm doth sit, 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 unhallowed steps do crush and grind
Their beauteous glories. Only shreds of thee,
And those all bitten, in thy chair I see.

Why doth my mother blush? is she the rose,
And shows it so? Indeed, Christ's precious blood
Gave you a color once; which when your foes
Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good,
And made you look much fresher then before.
But when debates and fretting jealousies
Did worm and work within you more and more,
Your color 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 neighbors saw, like a north wind

They rushed in, and cast them in the dirt
Where Pagans tread. O mother, dear and kind,
Where shall I get me eyes enough to weep,-
As many eyes as stars? Since it is night,
And much of Asia and Europe fast asleep,
And e'en all Afric; 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.

Justice.

O DREADFUL Justice! what a fright and terror Wast thou of old;

When sin and error

Did show and shape thy looks to me, And through their glass discolor thee! He that did but look up, was proud and bold.

The dishes of thy balance seemed to gape,
Like two great pits;

The beam and scape

Did like some tort'ring engine show:

Thy hand above did burn and glow,

Daunting the stoutest hearts, the proudest wits.

But now that Christ's pure vail presents the sight, I see no fears:

Thy hand is white;

Thy scales like buckets, which attend

And interchangeably descend,

Lifting to heaven from this well of tears.

For where, before, thou still didst call on me,

Now I still touch

And harp on thee.

God's promises have made thee mine: Why should I justice now decline? Against me there is none; but for me, much.

The Pilgrimage.

I TRAVELLED on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.

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

I left on th' one, and on the other side,
The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Fancy's meadow, strewed
With many a flower.

Fain would I here have made abode,
But I was quickened by my hour.

So to Care's copse I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion; which

Some call the wold;

A wasted place, but sometimes rich.

Here I was robbed of all my gold,

Save one good angel, which a friend had tied
Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,

Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still, When I had gained the brow and top, A lake of brackish waters on the ground Was all I found.

With that abashed, and struck with many a sting Of swarming fears,

I fell, and cried, Alas, my King!

Can both the way and end be tears?

Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived.

My hill was further: so I flung away;
Yet heard a cry,

Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives. If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,

And but a chair.

The Hold-Fast.

I THREATENED to observe the strict decree

Of my dear God, with all my power and might;

But I was told by one it could not be ;

Yet I might trust in God to be my light.

Then will I trust, said I, in him alone.
Nay, e'en to trust in him, was also his;
We must confess that nothing is our own.
Then I confess that he my succor is.

But to have nought is ours; not to confess

That we have nought. I stood amazed at this;

Much troubled, till I heard a friend express,
That all things were more ours by being his.
What Adam had, and forfeited for all,
Christ keepeth now, who cannot fail or fall.

Complaining.

Do not beguile my heart,
Because thou art

My power and wisdom. Put me not to shame,
Because I am

Thy clay that weeps, thy dust that calls.

Thou art the Lord of glory;
The deed and story

Are both thy due. But I, a silly fly,

That live or die,

According as the weather falls.

Art thou all justice, Lord?
Shews not thy word

More attributes? Am I all throat or eye,
To weep or cry?

Have I no parts but those of grief?

Let not thy wrathful power
Afflict my hour,—

My inch of life: or let thy gracious power

Contract my hour,

That I may climb and find relief.