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Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth,
Should move: they make us holy, happy, rich.
When the world's up, and ev'ry swarm abroad,
Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart
Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse,
Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick;
To God, thy countrie, and thy friend be true;
The perjurer's a devil let loose : what can
up his hands, that dares mock God and man?
Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick thou To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind
Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too;
A sweet self-privacy in a right soul
To all that seek thee bear an open heart;
It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowres,
Seal not thy eyes up from the poor; but give
stray, The bread we cast returns in fraughts one day.
Spend not an hour so as to weep another,
smother A viperous thought; some syllables are swords.
Unbitted tongues are in their penance double ; They shame their owners, and their hearers
Injure not modest bloud, while spirits rise
Who makes his jest of sins, must be at least,
Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed;
Who so returns not, cannot pray aright,
To heighten thy devotions, and keep low
stands fast; Above are restles motions, running lights, Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights.
When seasons change, then lay before thine eys His wondrous method; mark the various scenes In heav'n; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice, Calmes, tempests, light, and darknes by his means. Thou canst not misse his praise: each tree, herb,
flowre, Are shadows of his wisedome and his pow'r.
To meales when thou doest come, give him the praise
A thankless feeder is a theif, his feast
High-noon thus past, thy time decays; provide Thee other thoughts ; away with friends and
mirth; The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide Under the dark and melancholy earth.
All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span.
Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all
Man is a summer's day; whose youth and fire
When night comes, list thy deeds ; make plain the
way 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not with delays; But perfect all before thou sleep'st: then say, “ Ther's one sun more strung on my bead of days.” What's good score up for joy; the bad well
scann'd Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one
houre Before thy time; be not a stranger there, Where thou may’st sleep whole ages ; life's poor
This conversation ; but the good man lyes
Being laid, and drest for sleep, close not thy eyes
rise, And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will bring New flames; besides where these lodge, vain
heats mourn And die; that bush, where God is, shall not
When thy nap's over, stir thy fire, unrake
Briefly, doe as thou would'st be done unto,