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Condemning thoughts, like mad ecclipses, scowl
Upon his soul,

And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout.

Yet digg'd the mole, and, lest his ways be found,
Workt under ground,

Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
That policie;

Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
Were gnats and flies;

It rain'd about him bloud and tears; but he
Drank them as free.

III.

The fearfull miser, on a heap of rust,
Sate pining all his life there; did scarce trust
His own hands with the dust;

Yet would not place one peece above, but lives
In feare of theeves.

Thousands there were, as frantick as himself,
And hugg'd each one his pelf;

The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense,
And scorn'd pretence;

While others, slipt into a wide excesse,
Said little lesse ;

The weaker sort, slight, triviall wares inslave,
Who think them brave,

And poor, despised truth sate counting by

Their victory.

IV.

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing and weep, soar'd up into the ring;
But most would use no wing.

"O fools," said I, "thus to prefer dark night
Before true light!

To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
Because it shews the way,

The way, which, from this dead and dark abode,
Leads up to God;

A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he!"

But, as I did their madnes so discusse,
One whisper'd thus,

"This ring the bridegroome did for none provide, But for his bride."

First Epistle of John ii. 16, 17.

All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.

And the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doth the will of God abideth for ever.

THE MUTINIE.

I.

WEARY of this same clay and straw, I laid
Me down to breathe, and casting in my heart
The after-burthens and griefs yet to come,
The heavy sum

So shook my brest, that, sick and sore dismai'd,
My thoughts, like water which some stone doth start,

Did quit their troubled channel, and retire
Unto the banks, where, storming at those bounds,
They murmur'd sore; but I, who felt them boyl,
And knew their coyl,

Turning to Him who made poor sand to tire
And tame proud waves, If yet these barren grounds
And thirstie brick must be, said I,

My taske and destinie,

II.

Let me so strive and struggle with thy foes,
(Not thine alone, but mine too,) that, when all
Their arts and force are built unto the height,
That Babel-weight

May prove thy glory and their shame; so close
And knit me to thee, that, though in this vale
Of sin and death I sojourn, yet one eie
May look to thee, to thee the Finisher

And Author of my faith; so shew me home,
That all this foam

And frothie noise, which up and down doth flie,
May find no lodging in mine eie or eare;
O seal them up! that these may flie
Like other tempests by.

III.

Not but I know thou hast a shorter cut

To bring me home than through a wildernes,
A sea, or sands, and serpents; yet since thou,
As thy words show,

Though in this desart I were wholy shut,
Canst light and lead me there with such redress

That no decay shal touch me; O be pleas'd
To fix my steps; and whatsoever path
Thy sacred and eternall will decreed
For thy bruis'd reed,

O give it full obedience, that, so seiz'd
Of all I have, I may nor move thy wrath
Nor grieve thy Dove, but, soft and mild,
Both live and die thy child.

Rev. ii. 17.

To him that overcometh wil I give to eate of the hidden manna; and I will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth, saving he that receiveth it.

THE CONSTELLATION.

FAIR, ordered lights, whose motion, without noise, Resembles those true joys

Whose spring is on that hill where you do grow, And we here taste sometimes below,

With what exact obedience do you move,
Now beneath, and now above;

And, in your vast progressions, overlook
The darkest night and closest nook!

Some nights I see you in the gladsome East,
Some others near the West;

And when I cannot see, yet do you shine,
And beat about your endles line.

Silence and light and watchfulnes with you
Attend and wind the clue;

No sleep nor sloth assailes you, but poor man
Still either sleeps, or slips his span.

He gropes beneath here, and, with restless care, First makes, then hugs, a snare;

Adores dead dust, sets heart on corne and grass, But seldom doth make heav'n his glass.

Musick and mirth, if there be musick here,
Take up and tune his year;

These things are kin to him, and must be had,
Who kneels, or sighs a life, is mad.

Perhaps some nights he'll watch with you, and peep, When it were best to sleep;

Dares know effects, and judge them long before, When th' herb he treads knows much, much

more.

But seeks he your obedience, order, light,
Your calm and wel-train'd flight,

Where, though the glory differ in each star,
Yet is there peace still and no war.

Since placed by Him who calls you by your names, And fixt there all your flames,

Without command you never acted ought,

And then you in your courses fought.

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