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Absents within the line conspire, and sense

Things distant doth unite;

Herbs sleep unto the East, and some fowles thence Watch the returns of light.

But hearts are not so kind: false, short delights Tell us the world is brave,

And wrap us in imaginary flights
Wide of a faithfull grave.


Thus Lazarus was carried out of town;
For 'tis our foe's chief art

By distance all good objects first to drown,
And then besiege the heart.

But I will be my own death's-head; and though
The flatt'rer say, I live,

Because incertainties we cannot know,

Be sure not to believe.


My soul, there is a countrie
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentrie
All skilfull in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles,

And one born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend
And (O my soul! awake)
Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There growes the flowre of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortresse, and thy ease.
Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure
But One, who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.



O MY chief good!

My dear, dear God!

When thy blest bloud

Did issue forth forc'd by the rod,

What pain didst thou

Feel in each blow!

How didst thou weep,
And thyself steep

In thy own precious, saving teares!

What cruell smart

Did teare thy heart!

How didst thou grone it
In the spirit,

O thou, whom my soul loves and feares!


Most blessed Vine!

Whose juice so good
I feel as wine,

But thy faire branches felt as bloud,

How wert thou prest

To be my feast!
In what deep anguish
Didst thou languish!

What springs of sweat and bloud did drown thee!

How in one path

Did the full wrath

Of thy great Father
Crowd and gather,

Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee!


How did the weight

Of all our sinnes,

And death unite

To wrench and rack thy blessed limbes!

How pale and bloudie
Lookt thy body!

How bruis'd and broke
With every stroke!

How meek and patient was thy spirit!

How didst thou cry,
And grone on high,

"Father, forgive,

And let them live!

I dye to make my foes inherit!"


O blessed Lamb!

That took'st my sinne,
That took'st my shame,

How shall thy dust thy praises sing?

I would I were

One hearty teare!
One constant spring!
Then would I bring

Thee two small mites, and be at strife
Which should most vie,

My heart or eye,
Teaching my years
In smiles and tears

To weep, to sing, thy death, my life.


Rom. viii. 19.

Etenim res creatæ exerto capite observantes expectant revelationem filiorum Dei.


AND do they so? have they a sense
Of ought but influence?

Can they their heads lift, and expect,
And grone too? why, th' elect
Can do no more: my volumes said
They were all dull and dead;
They judg'd them senslesse, and their state
Wholly inanimate.

Go, go; seal up thy looks,
And burn thy books!


I would I were a stone, or tree,
Or flowre by pedigree,

Or some poor highway herb, or spring To flow, or bird to sing!

Then should I, tyed to one sure state, All day expect my date.

But I am sadly loose, and stray

A giddy blast each way:
O let me not thus range!
Thou canst not change.


Sometimes I sit with thee, and tarry
An hour or so; then vary.
Thy other creatures in this scene
Thee only aym and mean:
Some rise to seek thee, and with heads
Erect peep from their beds;

Others, whose birth is in the tomb,

And cannot quit the womb,
Sigh there, and grone for thee,
Their liberty.


O let not me do lesse! Shall they
Watch, while I sleep or play?
Shall I thy mercies still abuse

With fancies, friends, or newes?

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