Sin.

Он, that I could a sin once see!
We paint the devil foul; yet he
Hath some good in him, all agree.
Sin is flat opposite to th' Almighty, seeing
It wants the good of virtue and of being.

But God more care of us hath had.
If apparitions make us sad,

By sight of sin we should grow mad.
Yet, as in sleep we see foul death, and live;
So devils are our sins in perspective.

Even Song.

BLEST be the God of Love,

Who gave me eyes, and light, and power, this day,

Both to be busy, and to play.

But much more blest be God above,

Who gave me sight alone,

Which to himself he did deny ;-
For when he sees my ways, I die.
But I have got his Son, and he hath none.

What have I brought thee home
For this thy love? Have I discharged the debt,
Which this day's favor did beget?

I ran; but all I brought was foam.

Thy diet, care, and cost,

Do end in bubbles, balls of wind

Of wind, to thee whom I have crost;
But balls of wild-fire, to my troubled mind.

Yet still thou goest on:

And now with darkness closest weary eyes,
Saying to man-" It doth suffice;
Henceforth repose; your work is done."

Thus in thy ebony box

Thou dost enclose us; till the day

Put our amendment in our way,

And give new wheels to our disordered clocks.

I muse which shews more love,

The day or night: that is the gale, this the harbor; That is the walk, and this the arbor;

Or, that the garden, this the grove.

My God! thou art all love;

Not one poor minute 'scapes thy breast,
But brings a favor from above;

And in this love, more than in bed, I rest.

Church Monuments.

WHILE that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intomb my flesh; that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust,
To which the blast of Death's incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust

My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements; and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry, and lines

Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet and marble, put for signs

To sever the good fellowship of dust,

And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent; that, when thou shalt grow fat

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass which holds the dust,
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below,
How tame these ashes are! how free from lust!-
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

Church Music.

SWEETEST of sweets, I thank you; when displeasure
Did, through my body wound my mind,
You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure
A dainty lodging me assigned.

Now I in you without a body move,

Rising and falling with your wings:

We both together sweetly live and love;

Yet say sometimes, God help poor kings!

Comfort, I'll die; for, if you post from me,
Sure I shall do so, and much more;

But if I travel in your company,

You know the way to heaven's door.

Church Lock and Key.

I KNOW it is my sin which locks thine ears,
And binds thy hands,

Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears;—
Or else the chillness of my faint demands.

But, as cold hands are angry with the fire,
And mend it still;

So I do lay the want of my desire,

Not on my sins or coldness, but thy will.

Yet hear, O God! only for his blood's sake,

Which pleads for me.

For though sins plead too, yet, like stones, they make His blood's sweet current much more loud to be.

The Church Floor.

MARK you the floor? That square and speckled stone,
Which looks so firm and strong,
IS PATIENCE.

And th' other black and grave, wherewith each one
Is chequered all along,
HUMILITY.

The gentle rising, which on either hand
Leads to the choir above,

IS CONFIDENCE.

But the sweet cement, which in one sure band
Ties the whole frame, is LOVE
And CHARITY.

Hither sometimes Sin steals, and stains The marble's neat and curious veins ; But all is cleansed when the marble weeps. Sometimes Death, puffing at the door, Blows all the dust about the floor:

But while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps.
Blest be the Architect, whose art
Could build so strong in a weak heart.

The Windows.

LORD, how can man preach thy eternal word?
He is a brittle crazy glass:

Yet in thy Temple thou dost him afford

This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,
Making thy life to shine within

The holy preachers; then the light and glory

More rev'rend grows, and more doth win,—
Which else shews wat'rish, bleak and thin.