O come! for thou doft know the way: Drop from above. Praise. To write a verfe or two is all the praise That I can raise : Mend my eftate in any ways, I go to Church; help me to wings, and I Or if I mount unto the sky, Man is all weakness, there is no fuch thing As prince or king: His arm is fhort, yet with a fling An herb diftill'd, and drunk, may dwell next door, To a brave foul: Exalt the poor, O raise me then! Poor bees that work all day Who have a work as well as they, Affliction. KILL me not ev'ry day, Thou Lord of life; fince thy own death for me Is more than all my deaths can be, Though I in broken pay Die over each hour of Methusalem's stay. D 3 If all men's tears were let Into one common fewer, fea, and brine; They would difcolour thy most bloody fweat. Thou art my grief alone, Thou Lord conceal it not: And as thou art By way of impreft, all my future moan. Mattens. I Cannot ope mine eyes, But thou art ready there to catch Then we must needs for that day make a match. Silver, or gold, or precious stone, That thou should ft it fo eye and woo, As if that thou hadst nothing else to do? Amounts (and richly) to ferve thee: That this new light, which now I fee, May both the work and workman fhow: Then by a fun-beam I will climb to thee, a Sin. H that I could a fin once fee! OH We paint the devil foul, yet he But God more care of us hath had, By fight of fin we should grow mad. Even-Song. BLEST be the God of Love, Who gave me eyes, and light, and power this day, Both to be bufy, and to play. But much more bleft be God above, Who gave me fight alone, Which to himfelf he did deny: For when he fees my ways, I die: What have I brought thee home I ran; but all I brought was fome. Thy diet, care, and coft, Do end in bubbles, balls of wind; Yet ftill thou goest on, And now with darkness closest weary eyes, Thus in thy ebony-box Thou doft enclofe us till the day And give new wheels to our diforder'd clocks. I mufe which fhews more love, The day or night; that is the gale, this th' harbour; My God, thou art all love. Not one poor minute scapes thy breast, And in this love, more than in bed, I rest. WHI Church-Monuments. HILE that my foul repairs to her devotion, My body to the school, that it may learn To fever the good fellowship of dust, And spoil the mecting. What fhall point out them, SWE Church-Music. WEETEST of fweets, I thank you; when displeasure You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure Now I in you without a body move, Rifing and falling with your wings: We both together fweetly live and love, Yet fay fometimes, God help poor kings. Comfort, I'll die; for if you poft from me, Sure I fhall do fo, and much more: But if I travel in your company, I You know the way to heaven's door. Church Lock and Key... Know it is my fin, which locks thine ears Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears; |