All my

attendants are at ftrife,

Quitting their place

Unto my face:

Nothing performs the task of life:
The elements are let loose to fight,
And while I live, try out their right.

Oh help, my God! let not their plot
Kill them and me,

And also thee,

Who art my life: diffolve the knot,
As the fun scatters by his light

All the rebellions of the night.

Then shall those powers, which work for grief,

Enter thy pay,

And day by day

Labour thy praise and my relief;

With care and courage building me,
Till I reach heaven, and much more, thee.

MY

LXVI. MAN.

God, I heard this day,

That none doth build a ftately habitation,

But he that means to dwell therein.

What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation All things are in decay.

For Man is every thing,

And more: He is a tree, yet bears no fruit ;
A beast, yet is, or should be more :

Reason and speech we only bring.

Parrots

may

thank us,

if they are not mute,

They go upon the score,

Man is all fymmetry,

Full of proportions, one limb to another,
And all to all the world befides:

Each part may call the fartheft, brother:
For head with foot hath private amity,
And both with moons and tides.

Nothing hath got so far,

But Man hath caught and kept it, as his prey. eyes difmount the highest star:

His

He is in little all the sphere.

Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.

For us the winds do blow;

The earth doth reft, heaven move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we fee, but means our good,

As our delight, or as our treasure:
The whole is, either our cupboard of food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.

The ftars have us to bed;

Night draws the curtain, which the fun withdraws:

Mufic and light attend our head.

All things unto our flesh are kind

In their descent and being; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.

Each thing is full of duty:

Waters united are our navigation;

Distinguished, our habitation;

Below, our drink; above, our meat: Both are our cleanliness. Hath one fuch beauty? Then how are all things neat!

More fervants wait on Man,

Than he'll take notice of: in every path

He treads down that which doth befriend him, When fickness makes him pale and wan. Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him.

Since then, my God, thou haft

So brave a Palace built; O dwell in it,
That it may dwell with thee at last!

Till then, afford us fo much wit,
That, as the world ferves us, we may serve thee,
And both thy fervants be.

Cbor.

LXVII. ANTIPHON.

RAISED be the God of love,

PRAISET

Men. Here below,

Angels. And here above:

Chor. Who hath dealt his mercies fo,

Ang. To his friend,

Men. And to his foe;

Cbor. That both grace and glory tend

Ang. Us of old,

Men. And us in the end.

Chor. The great Shepherd of the fold
Ang. Us did make,

Men. For us was fold.

Chor. He our foes in pieces brake:
Ang. Him we touch;

Men. And him we take.

Chor. Wherefore fince that he is fuch,
Ang. We adore,

Men. And we do crouch.

Chor. Lord, thy praises fhall be more.
Men. We have none,

Ang. And we no store.

Chor. Praised be the God alone

Who hath made of two folds one.

LXVIII. UNKINDNESS.

LORD, make me coy and tender to offend :

In friendship, first I think, if that agree,

Which I intend,

Unto my friend's intent and end.

I would not use a friend, as I use Thee.

If any touch my friend, or his good name,
It is my honour and my love to free

His blafted fame

From the least spot or thought of blame.

I could not use a friend, as I use Thee.

My friend may spit upon my curious floor:
Would he have gold? I lend it instantly;
But let the poor,

And thou within them ftarve at door.

I cannot use a friend, as I use Thee.

When that my friend pretendeth to a place,
I quit my interest, and leave it free:

But when thy grace

Sues for my heart, I thee difplace;

Nor would I use a friend, as I use Thee.

Yet can a friend what thou haft done fulfill?
O write in brass, My God upon a tree

His blood did fpill,

Only to purchase my good will: Yet ufe I not my foes, as I use Thee.

LXIX. LIFE.

I

MADE a pofy, while the day ran by:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.

But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon moft cunningly did steal away,
And wither'd in my

hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part

Time's gentle admonition; Who did so sweetly death's fad taste convey, Making my mind to fmell my fatal day,

Yet fugaring the suspicion.