Though private prayer be a brave defign,
Yet publick hath more promifes, more love:
And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes a fign.
We all are but cold fuiters; let us move
Where it is warmeft. Leave thy fix and seven;
Pray with the moft; for where moft pray,is heav'n.
When once thy foot enters the Church, be bare.
God is more there than thou: For thou art there
Only by his permiffion. Then beware,
And make thy felf all reverence and fear. (ftate.
Kneeling ne're fpoil'd filk ftocking: Quit thy
All equal are within the Churches gate.
Refort to Sermons, but to prayers moft:
Praying's the end of preaching. O be dreft,
Stay not for th'other pin:
A joy for it worth worlds.
Away thy bleffings, and
Thy clothes being faft, but thy foul loofe about
Why, thou haft loft Thus hell doth jeft extreamly flout thee,
In time of service seal up both thine eyes,
And send them to thy heart; that spying fin,
They may weep out the ftains by them did rife:
Thofe doors being fhut, all by the ear comes in.
Who marks in Church-time others fymmetry,
Makes all their beauty his deformity.
Let vain or bufie thoughts have there no part:
Bring not thy plough,thy plots,thy pleasure thither.
Chrift purg'd his Temple; fo muft thou thy heart.
All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together
To cozen thee. Look to thy action well,
For Churches either are our Heaven or Hell.
Judge not the preacher; for he is thy Judge:
If thou miflike him, thou conceiv'ft him not.
God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge
To pick out treafures from an earthen pot..
The worst fpeak fomething good: Ifall want fenfe, God takes a text, and preacheth patience.
He that gets patience, and the bleffing which Preachers conclude with, hath not loft his pains. He that by being at Church escapes the ditch, Which he might fall in by companions, gains.
He that loves God's abode, and to combine
With Saints on earth, fhall one day with them
(fhine.
Jeft not at preachers language or expreffion:
How know'it thou but thy fins made him mifcarry?
Then turn thy faults and his into confeffion :
God fent him whatsoe're he be: O tarry,
And love him for his Mafter: His condition,
Though it be ill, makes him no ill Physician.
None fhall in Hell fuch bitter pangs endure,
As those who mock at God's way of Salvation.
Whom Oil and Balfams kill, what falve can cure?
They drink with greedinefs a full Damnation.
The fews refufed thunder; and we folly.
Though God do hedge us in, yet who is Holy?
Sum up at night what thou haft done by day;
And in the morning, what thou haft to do.
Dress and undrefs thy Soul: Mark the decay
And growth of it: If with thy watch, that too
Be down, then wind up both: Since we shall be
More furely judg'd, make thy accounts agree.
In brief, acquit thee bravely; play the man.
Look not on pleafures as they come, but go.
Defer not the leaft virtue: Lifes poor pan
Make not an ell, by trifling in thy wo.
If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains:
If well, the pain doth fade, the joy remains.
Avoid profaneness, come not here: Nothing but holy, pure and clear, Or that which groaneth to be so, May at his peril further go Thon whom the former Precepts have Sprinkled, and taught how to behave Thy felf in Church, aryroach and taft The Churches Mystical Repast.
THE ALTAR
A broken Altar LORD thy Servant rears;
Made of a heart& cemented to tears:
Whofe parts are as they hand did frame,
No workmans tool hath touch'd & fame.
A HEART alone
Is such a Stone
As nothing but
Thy power doth aut
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart,
Meets in this frame
To praise thy name
Thatif chance to hold my peace,
Thefe ftones to praif thee may not ceafe.
O let thy blessed Sacrifice be mine,.
And fanctify this Stiar to be thune".
Hall ye, who pafs by, whofe eyes and mind
To me, who took eyes that I might you find.
Was ever grief like mine?
The Princes of my people make a head
Against their Maker: They do with me dead,
Who cannot with, except I give them bread:
Without me each one, who doth now me brave,
Had to this day been an Egyptian flave.
They use that power against me, which I gave:
Was ever grief, &c.
Mine own Apoftle, who the bag did bear,
Though he had all I had, did not forbear
To fell me allo, and to put me there.
For thirty Pence he did my death devise,
Who at three Hundred did the Ointment prize,
Not half so sweet as my fweet Sacrifice.
Therefore my foul melts;and my hearts dear treasure Drops Blood (the only beads) my words to meafure. let this Cup pafs, if it be thy pleasure.
Thefe drops being temper'd with a finners tears, A Balfam are for both the Hemispheres, Curing all wounds, but mine; all but my fears.
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