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I school my eyes, and strictly dwell
Within the circle of my cell ;
That calm and silence are my joys,
Which to thy peace are but meer noise.
At length I feel my head to ake,
My fingers itch, and burn to take
Some new imployment; I begin
To swell and foame and fret within.

“ The age, the present times, are not
To snudge in, and embrace a cot;
Action and bloud now get the game,
Disdein treads on the peaceful name;
Who sits at home, too, bears a loade

Greater than those that gad abroad.”
Thus do I make thy gifts giv'n me
The only quarrellers with thee;
I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie,
Then would go travel, fight, or die.
Thousands of wild and waste infusions
Like waves beat on my resolutions ;
As flames about their fuel run,
And work and wind till all be done,
So
my

fierce soul bustles about,
And never rests till all be out.
Thus wilded by a peevish heart,
Which in thy musick bears no part,
I storm at thee, calling my peace
A lethargy and meer disease;
Nay, those bright beams, shot from thy eyes
To calm me in these mutinies,

I stile meer tempers, which take place
At some set times, but are thy grace.

Such is man's life, and such is mine,
The worst of men, and yet still thine ;
Still thine, thou know'st, and if not so,
Then give me over to my foe.
Yet since as easie 'tis. for thee
To make man good as bid him be,
And with one glaunce, could he that gain,
To look him out of all his pain,
O send me from thy holy hill
So much of strength as may fulfil
All thy delights whate'er they be,
And sacred institutes in me!
Open my rockie heart, and fill
It with obedience to thy will;
Then seal it up, that as none see,
So none may enter there but thee.

O hear, my God! hear Him whose bloud Speaks more and better for my good! O let my crie come to thy throne ! My crie not pour'd with tears alone, (For tears alone are often foul,) But with the bloud of all my soul ; With spirit-sighs and earnest grones, Faithful and most repenting mones, With these I crie, and crying pine, Till thou both mend, and make me thine.

THE SAP.

COME, sapless blossom, creep not still on earth

Forgetting thy first birth!
'Tis not from dust; or if so, why dost thou

Thus call and thirst for dew ?
It tends not thither; if it doth, why then

This growth and stretch for heav'n?
Thy root sucks but diseases; worms there seat,

And claim it for their meat.
Who plac'd thee here did something then infuse,

Which now can tell the news.
There is beyond the stars an hill of myrrh,

From which some drops fall here;
On it the Prince of Salem sits, who deals

To thee thy secret meals ;
There is thy country, and he is the way,

And hath withal the key.
Yet liv’d he here sometimes, and bore for thee

A world of miserie, -
For thee who in the first man's loyns didst fall

From that hill to this vale;
And had not he so done, it is most true

Two deaths had been thy due ;
But going hence, and knowing well what woes

Might his friends discompose, To shew what strange love he had to our good, He gave

his sacred bloud,

and get

By will our sap and cordial; now in this

Lies such a heav'n of bliss,
That who but truly tastes it, no decay

Can touch him any way.
Such secret life and vertue in it lies,

It will exalt, and rise,
And actuate such spirits as are shed,

Or ready to be dead;
And bring new too. Get then this sap,

Good store of it, but let
The vessel where you put it be for sure

To all your pow'r most pure;
There is at all times, though shut up, in you

A powerful, rare dew,
Which only grief and love extract; with this

Be sure, and never miss,
To wash your vessel well: then humbly take

This balm for souls that ake;
And one who drank it thus assures that you

Shal find a joy so true,
Such perfect ease, and such a lively sense

Of grace against all sins,
That you'll confess the comfort such, as even

Brings to, and comes from, Heaven.

MOUNT OF OLIVES.

WHEN first I saw true beauty, and thy joys
Active as light, and calm without all noise,
Shin'd on my soul, I felt through all my pow'rs
Such a rich air of sweets, as evening showrs
Fand by a gentle gale convey, and breathe
On some parch'd bank, crown'd with a flowrie

wreath ;
Odors, and myrrh, and balm in one rich floud,
O'r-ran my heart, and spirited my bloud;
My thoughts did swim in comforts, and mine eie
Confest the world did only paint and lie.
And where before I did no safe course steer,
But wander'd under tempests all the year ;
Went bleak and bare in body as in mind,
And was blow'n through by every storm and winde
I am so warm’d now by this glance on me,
That midst all storms I feel a ray of thee.
So have I known some beauteous paisage rise
In suddain flowres and arbours to my eies,
And in the depth and dead of winter bring
To my cold thoughts a lively sense of spring.

Thus fed by thee, who dost all beings nourish, My wither'd leafs again look green and flourish; I shine and shelter underneath thy wing, Where sick with love I strive thy name to sing ; Thy glorious name! which grant I may so do, That these may be thy praise, and my joy too!

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