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But now at even,

Too grosse for heaven, Thou fall’st in teares, and weep’st for thy mistake.


Ah! it is so with me; oft have I prest
Heaven with a lazie breath; but fruitles this
Peirc'd not ; love only can with quick accesse

Unlock the way,

When all else stray,
The smoke and exhalations of the brest.


Yet if, as thou doest melt, and with thy traine
Of drops make soft the earth, my eyes could weep
O’re my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep;

Perhaps at last,

Some such showres past,
My God would give a sunshine after raine.


O Knit me, that am crumbled dust! the beape

Is all dispers’d and cheape;
Give for a handfull but a thought,

And it is bought.

Hadst thou
Made me a starre, a pearle, or a rainbow,

The beames I then had shot
My light had lessend not;

But now
I find myselfe the lesse, the more I grow.

The world
Is full of voices; man is call’d, and hurľa

By each; he answers all,
Knows ev'ry note and call ;

Hence still
Fresh dotage tempts, or old usurps his will.
Yet hadst thou clipt my wings, when collin’d in

This quicken'd masse of sinne,
And saved that light which freely thou

Didst then bestow,

I feare
I should have spurn’d, and said thou didst forbeare,

Or that thy store was lesse.
But now since thou didst blesse

So much,
I grieve, my God! that thou hast made me such.

I grieve?
O, yes! thou know'st I doe; come, and releive,

And tame, and keepe downe with thy light,
Dust that would rise and dimme my sight!

Lest, left alone too long
Amidst the noise and throng,

Oppressed I,
Striving to save the whole, by parcells dye.


LORD! what a busie, restless thing

Hast thou made man !
Each day and houre he is on wing,

Rests not a span.
Then having lost the sunne and light,

By clouds surpriz’d,
He keepes a commerce in the night

With aire disguis’d.
Hadst thou given to this active dust

A state untir'd,
The lost sonne had not left the huske,

Nor home desir'd.
That was thy secret, and it is

Thy mercy too;
For when all failes to bring to blisse,

Then this must doe.
Ah, Lord! and what a purchase will that be,
To take us sick, that sound would not take thee!

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SWEETE, sacred hill! on whose fair brow
My Saviour sate, shall I allow

Language to love
And idolize some shade or grove,

Neglecting thee? Such ill-plac'd wit,
Conceit, or call it what you please,

Is the braine's fit,
And meere disease.


Cotswold and Cooper's both have met
With learned swaines, and eccho yet

Their pipes and wit;
But thou sleep'st in a deepe neglect,
Untouch'd by any; and what need
The sheep bleat thee a silly lay,

That heard'st both reed
And sheepward play?


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Yet if poets mind thee well,
They shall find thou art their hill,

And fountaine too.
Their Lord with thee had most to doe.
Ile wept once, waked whole nights on thee :
And from thence (his sufferings ended)

Unto glorie
Was attended.


Being there, this spacious ball
Is but his narrow footstoole all;

And what we thinke
Unsearchable, now with one winke
He doth comprise. But in this aire
When he did stay to beare our ill

And sinne, this hill
Was then his chaire.


LORD! when thou didst thyselfe undresse,
Laying by thy robes of glory,
To make us more thou wouldst be lesse,
And becam’st a wofull story.

To put on clouds instead of light,
And cloath the morning-starre with dust,
Was a translation of such height
As, but in thee, was ne'r exprest.

Brave wormes and earth! that thus could have
A God enclos’d within your cell,
Your Maker pent up in a grave,
Life lockt in death, heav'n in a shell !

Ah, my deare Lord ! what couldst thou spye
In this impure, rebellious clay,
That made thee thus resolve to dye
For those that kill thee every day ?

O what strange wonders could thee move
To slight thy precious bloud and breath?
Sure it was love, my Lord; for love
Is only stronger far than death!

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