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So o'er fled minutes I retreat
Unto that hour,

Which shew'd thee last, but did defeat
Thy light and pow'r.

I search, and rack my soul to see
Those beams again;

But nothing but the snuff to me
Appeareth plain.

That, dark and dead, sleeps in its known
And common urn;

But those, fled to their Maker's throne, There shine and burn.

O could I track them! But souls must Track one the other;

And now the spirit, not the dust,

Must be thy brother.

Yet I have one pearle, by whose light

All things I see ;

And in the heart of earth and night
Find heaven and thee.



BLEST be the God of harmony and love!

The God above!

And holy Dove!

Whose interceding, spirituall grones

Make restless mones
For dust and stones;
For dust in every part,
But a hard, stonie heart.


O how in this thy quire of souls I stand,

Propt by thy hand,
A heap of sand!


Which busie thoughts, like winds, would scatter

And put to flight,

But for thy might;

Thy hand alone doth tame

Those blasts, and knit my frame;


So that both stones and dust, and all of me,
Joyntly agree
To cry to thee;

And in this musick, by thy martyrs' bloud
Seal'd and made good,
Present, O God,

The eccho of these stones,
My sighes and grones!



O THOU! the first-fruits of the dead,

And their dark bed,

When I am cast into that deep

And senseless sleep,



wages of my sinne,
O then,

Thou great Preserver of all men,

Watch o're that loose

And empty house,

Which I sometimes liv'd in!


It is in truth a ruin'd peece,

Not worth thy eyes;

And scarce a room, but wind and rain

Beat through and stain

The seats, and cells within;

Yet thou,

Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low,

And in this cott,

All filth and spott,

Didst with thy servant inne.


And nothing can, I hourely see,
Drive thee from me.

Thou art the same, faithfull and just,

In life or dust.

Though then thus crumm'd I stray

In blasts,

Or exhalations and wasts,

Beyond all eyes
Yet thy love spies

That change, and knows thy clay.


The world's thy boxe: how then, there tost,

Can I be lost?

But the delay is all; tyme now
Is old and slow;

His wings are dull and sickly.
Yet he

Thy servant is, and waits on thee.
Cutt then the summe,

Lord, haste, Lord, come,

O come, Lord Jesus, quickly!

Rom. viii. 23.

And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of the spirit, even wee ourselves grone within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.



LORD, with what 'courage and delight
I doe each thing,

When thy least breath sustaines my wing!

I shine and move

Like those above,

And, with much gladnesse
Quitting sadnesse,

Make me faire dayes of every night.


Affliction thus meere pleasure is;
And hap what will,

If thou be in't, 'tis welcome still.

But since thy rayes

In sunnie dayes

Thou dost thus lend,
And freely spend,

Ah! what shall I return for this?


O that I were all soul! that thou
Wouldst make each part

Of this poor sinfull frame pure heart!

Then would I drown

My single one;

And to thy praise
A concert raise

Of hallelujahs here below.



SURE, there's a tye of bodyes! and as they
Dissolve with it to clay,

Love languisheth, and memory doth rust
O'r-cast with that cold dust;

For things thus center'd, without beames or action, Nor give nor take contaction;

And man is such a marygold, these fled,

That shuts, and hangs the head.

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