Yet thy favour

May give savour
To this poore oblation ;
And it raise

To be thy praise,

And be my salvation.

119. LONGING.

WITH sick and famisht eyes,

With doubling knees and weary bones, To thee my cries,

To thee my grones,

To thee my sighs, my tears ascend:
No end?

My throat, my soul is hoarse;

My heart is wither'd like a ground
Which thou dost curse.

My thoughts turn round,

And make me giddie; Lord, I fall,

Yet call.

From thee all pitie flows.

Mothers are kinde, because thou art,

And dost dispose

To them a part:

Their infants, them; and they suck thee

More free.

Bowels of pitie, heare!

Lord of my soul, love of my minde,

Bow down thine eare!

Let not the winde

Scatter my words, and in the same

Thy name!

Look on my sorrows round!

Mark well my furnace! O what flames,

What heats abound!

What griefs, what shames!

Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine eare,
And heare!

Lord Jesu, thou didst bow

Thy dying head upon the tree:

O be not now

More dead to me!

Lord, heare! Shall he that made the eare

To thee help appertains.

Hast thou left all things to their course,
And laid the reins

Indeed the world's thy book,

Where all things have their leafe assign'd : Yet a meek look

Hath interlin'd.

Thy board is full, yet humble guests

Finde nests.

Thou tarriest, while I die,

And fall to nothing: thou dost reigne,
And rule on high,

While I remain

In bitter grief: yet am I stil'd

Thy childe.

Lord, didst thou leave thy throne,

Not to relieve? how can it be,

That thou art grown

Thus hard to me?

Were sinne alive, good cause there were

To bear.

But now both sinne is dead,

And all thy promises live and bide.
That wants his head;

These speak and chide,

And in thy bosome poure my tears,

As theirs.

Lord JESU, heare my heart,

Which hath been broken now so long,

That ev'ry part

Hath got a tongue!

Thy beggars grow; rid them away

To-day.

My love, my sweetnesse, heare!

By these thy feet, at which my heart

Lies all the yeare,

Pluck out thy dart,

And heal my troubled breast which cryes,

Which dyes.

120. THE BAG.

AWAY despair; my gracious Lord doth heare,
Though windes and waves assault my keel,
He doth preserve it: he doth steer,

Ev'n when the boat seems most to reel.
Storms are the triumph of his art :

Well may he close his eyes, but not his heart.

Hast thou not heard, that my Lord JESUS died?
Then let me tell thee a strange storie.
The God of power, as he did ride
In his majestick robes of glorie,
Resolv'd to light; and so one day
He did descend, undressing all the way.

The starres his tire of light and rings obtain'd, The cloud his bow, the fire his spear,

The sky his azure mantle gain'd.

And when they ask'd, what he would wear;
He smil'd, and said as he did go,

He had new clothes a making here below.

When he was come, as travellers are wont,

He did repair unto an inne.

Both then, and after, many a brunt
He did endure to cancell sinne :

And having giv'n the rest before,
Here he gave up his life to pay our score.

But as he was returning, there came one
That ran upon him with a spear.

He, who came hither all alone,

Bringing nor man, nor arms, nor fear,
Receiv'd the blow upon his side,

And straight he turn'd, and to his brethren cry'd,

If ye have any thing to send or write,

(I have no bag, but here is room)
Unto my father's hands and sight
(Beleeve me) it shall safely come.

That I shall minde, what you impart ;
Look, you may put it very neare my heart.

Or if hereafter any of my friends

Will use me in this kinde, the doore
Shall still be open; what he sends
I will present, and somewhat more,
Not to his hurt. Sighs will convey
Heark despair, away.

Anything to me.

121. THE JEWS.

POORE nation, whose sweet sap and juice Our cyens have purloin'd, and left you drie : Whose streams we got by the Apostles' sluce, And use in baptisme, while ye pine and die : Who by not keeping once, became a debter; And now by keeping lose the letter :

Oh that my prayers! mine, alas !

Oh that some Angel might a trumpet sound;
At which the Church falling upon her face
Should crie so loud, untill the trump were drown'd,

And by that crie of her deare Lord obtain,

That your sweet sap might come again !

L