But now at even, Too grosse for heaven, Thou fall'st in teares, and weep'st for thy mistake. II. Ah! it is so with me; oft have I prest Heaven with a lazie breath; but fruitles this When all else stray, The smoke and exhalations of the brest. III. Yet if, as thou doest melt, and with thy traine Some such showres past, My God would give a sunshine after raine. DISTRACTION. O KNIT me, that am crumbled dust! the heape Give for a handfull but a thought, 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. Is full of voices; man is call'd, and hurl'd Knows ev'ry note and call; Fresh dotage tempts, or old usurps his will. And saved that light which freely thou 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, Amidst the noise and throng, Striving to save the whole, by parcells dye. THE PURSUITE. LORD! what a busie, restless thing Each day and houre he is on wing, Then having lost the sunne and light, He keepes a commerce in the night Hadst thou given to this active dust The lost sonne had not left the huske, 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, MOUNT OF OLIVES. I. 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, And meere disease. II. Cotswold and Cooper's both have met But thou sleep'st in a deepe neglect, And sheepward play? III. 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. IV. Being there, this spacious ball Unsearchable, now with one winke Was then his chaire. THE INCARNATION AND PASSION. LORD! when thou didst thyselfe undresse, To make us more thou wouldst be lesse, To put on clouds instead of light, And cloath the morning-starre with dust, 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 O what strange wonders could thee move |