Let the wonder of this pity

Be my ditty,

And take up my lines and life:

Hearken under pain of death,

Hands and breath,

Strive in this, and love the ftrife.

CLIV. THE POSY.

ET wits conteft,

And with their words and pofies windows fill:

Lefs than the leaft

Of all thy mercies, is my pofy ftill.

This on my ring,

This by my picture, in my book I write ;
Whether I fing,

Or fay, or dictate, this is my delight.

Invention reft;
Comparisons go play; wit use thy will:
Lefs than the leaft

Of all God's mercies, is my posy still.

CLV. A PARODY.

SOUL'S

OUL'S joy, when thou art gone,
And I alone,

Which cannot be,

Because thou doft abide with me,

And I depend on thee;

Yet when thou doft fupprefs

The cheerfulness

Of thy abode,

And in my powers not stir abroad,
But leave me to my load:

O what a damp and shade
Doth me invade!

No stormy night

Can fo afflict or so affright
As thy eclipfed light.

Ah Lord! do not withdraw,

Left want of awe

Make fin appear;

And when thou doft but shine less clear,

Say that thou art not here.

That Sin fays true: but while I grieve, Thou comeft and doft relieve.

CLVI. THE ELIXIR.

TEA

EACH me, my God and King,
In all things thee to see,

And what I do in any thing,
To do it as for thee:

Not rudely, as a beast,
To run into an action;
But ftill to make thee prepoffeft,
And give it his perfection.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye;

Or if he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heaven espy.

All may of thee partake:
Nothing can be fo mean,

Which with his tincture (for thy fake)
Will not grow bright and clean.

A fervant with this claufe
Makes drudgery divine:

Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws,
Makes that and the action fine.

This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold:

For that which God doth touch and own

Cannot for lefs be told.

A

CLVII. A WREATH.

WREATHED garland of deserved praise, Of praise deserved, unto thee I give, I give to thee, who knowest all my ways, My crooked winding ways, wherein I live, Wherein I die, not live; for life is straight, Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee, To thee, who art more far above deceit, Than deceit seems above fimplicity.

Give me fimplicity, that I may live,

So live and like, that I may know thy ways, Know them and practise them: then shall I give For this poor wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

CLVIII. DEATH.

EATH, thou waft once an uncouth hideous

DEA

Nothing but bones,

The fad effect of fadder groans:

[thing,

Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not fing.

For we confidered thee as at fome fix

Or ten years hence,

After the lofs of life and sense,

Flesh being turn'd to dust, and bones to sticks.

We look'd on this fide of thee, shooting short;
Where we did find

The fhells of fledge fouls left behind, Dry duft, which sheds no tears, but may extort.

But fince our Saviour's death did put fome blood Into thy face:

Thou art grown fair and full of grace,

Much in requeft, much fought for, as a good.

For we do now behold thee

gay and glad,

As at doomsday;

When fouls fhall wear their new array,

And all thy bones with beauty fhall be clad,

Therefore we can go die as fleep, and trust
Half that we have

Unto an honest faithful grave;
Making our pillows either down, or dust.

CLIX. DOOMSDAY.

OME away,

C Make no delay.

Summon all the duft to rife,

Till it ftir, and rub the eyes;

While this member jogs the other,

Each one whispering, Live you, brother?

Come away,

Make this the day.

Dust, alas, no music feels,

But thy trumpet: then it kneels,
As peculiar notes and strains

Cure Tarantula's raging pains.