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Neither his bloudy passions mind,
Nor one day blesse his birth ?
PEACE, peace! I blush to hear thee; when thou A dusty story,
[art A speechlesse heap, and in the midst my heart,
In the same livery drest,
Lyes tame as all the rest ;
Seeks there for symmetry,
Or the next foot to crush,
Scatt'ring thy kind
Where is thy glory?
As he that in the midst of day expects
The hideous night,
Works with the sun, and sets
Paying the day its debts;
Rest from the fears i'th' night;
So should we too. All things teach us to die,
And point us out the way;
While we passe by,
Thy glimpse of light.
View thy forerunners. Creatures, giv'n to be
Thy youth's companions, Take their leave, and die ; birds, beasts, each tree,
All that hath growth or breath,
Have one large language, Death!
Make these sad shades pure sun,
Whose pow'r doth so excell
As to make clay
In dust and stones.
Heark, how he doth invite thee! with what voice
Of love and sorrow
Thou knew'st but thy own good!
of bloud, Of God's own bloud, awake thee? He bids beware
Of drunknes, surfeits, care; But thou sleep'st on: where's now thy protestation,
Thy lines, thy love? Away!
Redeem the day;
DISORDER AND FRAILTY.
WHEN first thou did'st, even from the grave
Even from that hour
I pine and shrink,
Breaking the link "Twixt thee and me; and oftimes creep Into the old silence and dead sleep,
Quitting thy way
All the long day;
Alas, thy love!
I threaten heaven, and from my cell
But while I grow,
Each fly doth taste,
Poyson, and blast
Not one poor shoot,
But the bare root,
Alas, frail weed !
Thus like some sleeping exhalation,
And walk two steps,
Leaving me dead
first bed, Until thy sun again ascends.
Poor, falling star!
O, yes ! but give wings to my fire;
Let not perverse
That seed which thou
But dresse, and water with thy grace,
And, for His sake
Who died to stake
My heart, my verse.
Hosea vi. 4.
0 Ephraim, what shall I do unto thee? O Judah, how shall I intreat thee? for thy goodness is as a morning cloud, and as the early dew it goeth away.
Go, go, queint follies, sugred sin,
Shadow no more my door!
I'm too much on the score.
For since amidst my youth and night
My great Preserver smiles,
And joyn against their wiles.
Blind, desp’rate fits, that study how
To dresse and trim our shame,
Vice in a fairer name;