For above all things he abhors deceit :

His words and works and fashion too All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.

Who never melts or thaws

At close temptations: when the day is done,
His goodness fets not, but in dark can run :
The fun to others writeth laws,

And is their virtue; Virtue is his Sun.

Who, when he is to treat

With fick folks, women, those whom paffions sway, Allows for that, and keeps his conftant way: Whom others' faults do not defeat ;

But though men fail him, yet his part doth play.

Whom nothing can procure,

When the wide world runs bias, from his will To writhe his limbs, and fhare, not mend the ill. This is the Marksman, safe and sure, Who ftill is right, and prays to be so still.

MY

XLVIII. AFFLICTION.

Y heart did heave, and there came forth, O God!
By that I knew that thou waft in the grief,

To guide and govern it to my relief,

Making a fceptre of the rod :

Hadft thou not had thy part,

Sure the unruly figh had broke my heart,

But fince thy breath gave me both life and shape,
Thou know'ft my tallies; and when there's affign'd
So much breath to a figh, what's then behind?
Or if fome years with it escape,

The figh then only is

A gale to bring me fooner to my bliss.

Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still
Conftant unto it, making it to be

A point of honour, now to grieve in me,
And in thy members suffer ill.

They who lament one cross,
Thou dying daily, praise thee to thy lofs.

BR

XLIX. THE STAR.

RIGHT fpark, fhot from a brighter place,
Where beams furround

my Saviour's face,

Canft thou be any where

So well as there?

Yet, if thou wilt from thence depart,
Take a bad lodging in my heart;
For thou canst make a debtor,
And make it better.

First with thy fire-work burn to dust

Folly, and worse than folly, luft:

Then with thy light refine,

And make it shine.

So difengaged from fin and fickness,
Touch it with thy celeftial quickness,
That it may hang and move
After thy love.

Then with our trinity of light,

Motion, and heat, let's take our flight
Unto the place where thou

Before didft bow.

Get me a standing there, and place
Among the beams, which crown the face
Of him, who died to part

Glitter, and curl, and wind as they :
That winding is their fashion
Of adoration.

Sure thou wilt joy by gaining me

To fly home like a laden bee
Unto that hive of beams

And garland-streams.

L. SUNDAY.

DAY most calm, most bright,

The fruit of this, the next world's bud,

The indorsement of fupreme delight,

Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay;

The week were dark, but for thy light:
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The working-days are the back part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone

To endless death; but thou doft pull
And turn us round to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone

The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the fpare

And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,

Thredded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.

On Sunday Heaven's gate ftands ope;

Bleffings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,

And did enclose this light for his :
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder mifs.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for thofe

Who want herbs for their wound.

The reft of our Creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the fame shake, which at his paffion
Did the earth and all things with it move.
As Samfon bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our falvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day

We fullied by our foul offence:

Wherefore that robe we caft away,

Having a new at his expense,

Whofe drops of blood paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,

And fit for Paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth :

O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,

Till that we both, being toff'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!