Feed on thofe vomits of my heart.
I break the fence my own hands made,
Then lay that trefpaffe in the fhade;
Some fig-leafs ftil I do devise,
As if thou hadft nor ears nor Eyes.
Exceffe of friends, of words, and wine
Take up my day, while thou dost shine
All unregarded, and thy book
Hath not fo much as one poor look.
If thou fteal in amidst the mirth
And kindly tell me, I am Earth,
I shut thee out, and let that flip,
Such Mufick spoils good fellowship.
Thus wretched I and most unkind,
Exclude my dear God from my mind,
Exclude him thence, who of that Cell
Would make a Court, fhould he there dwell.
He goes, He yields; And troubled fore
His Holy Spirit grieves therefore;
The mighty God, th' eternal King
Doth grieve for Duft, and Duft doth fing.
But I go on, hafte to Divest
My self of reason, till opprest
And buried in my furfeits I
Prove my own shame and miserie.
Next day I call and cry for thee
Who fhouldft not then come neer to me;
But now it is thy fervant's pleasure
Thou muft and doft give him his measure.
Thou doft, thou com'st, and in a shower
Of healing sweets thy felf doft pour
Into my wounds; and now thy grace
(I know it well,) fills all the place ;
I fit with thee by this new light,
And for that hour thou'rt my delight;
No man can more the world despise,
Or thy great mercies better prize.
I School my Eyes, and ftrictly dwell
Within the Circle of my Cell ;
That Calm and filence are my Joys,
Which to thy peace are but meer noise,
At length I feel my head to ake,
My fingers Itch, and burn to take
Some new Imployment, I begin
To fwell and foame and fret within.
"The Age, the present times are not "To fnudge in, and embrace a Cot; “Action and bloud now get the game, "Difdein treads on the peaceful name; "Who fits at home too bears a loade "Greater than those that gad abroad.” Thus do I make thy gifts giv'n me The only quarrellers with thee; I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, Then would go travel, fight, or die. Thousands of wild and waste Infusions Like waves beat on my resolutions; As flames about their fuel run, And work and wind till all be done, So my fierce foul bustles about, And never refts till all be out. Thus wilded by a peevish heart, Which in thy mufick bears no part, I ftorm at thee, calling my peace
A Lethargy, and meer disease ;
Nay those bright beams shot from thy eyes To calm me in these mutinies,
I stile meer tempers, which take place
At some set times, but are thy grace.
Such is man's life, and fuch is mine,
The worst of men, and yet ftill thine,
Still thine, thou know'ft, and if not so,
Then give me over to my foe.
Yet fince as eafie 'tis for thee
To make man good as bid him be,
And with one glaunce, could he that gain,
To look him out of all his pain,
O send me from thy holy hill
So much of ftrength, as may fulfil
All thy delights whate'er they be,
And facred Institutes in me!
Open my rockie heart, and fill
It with obedience to thy will;
Then feal it up, that as none see,
So none may enter there but thee.
O hear, my God! hear Him, whose bloud
Speaks more and better for my good!
O let my Crie come to thy throne!
My crie not pour'd with tears alone,
(For tears alone are often foul,)
But with the bloud of all my
With fpirit-fighs, and earnest grones,
Faithful and most repenting mones,
With these I crie, and crying pine,
Till thou both mend, and make me thine.
Ome, faplefs Bloffom, creep not still on
Earth
Forgetting thy first birth!
'Tis not from duft; or if fo, why doft thou
Thus call and thirst for dew?
It tends not thither; if it doth, why then
This growth and stretch for heav'n?
Thy root fucks but diseases; worms there seat,
And claim it for their meat.
Who plac'd thee here did something then Infuse,
Which now can tell thee news.
There is beyond the Stars an hill of myrrh,
From which some drops fall here;
On it the Prince of Salem fits, who deals
To thee thy fecret meals;
There is thy Country, and He is the way,
And hath withal the key.
Yet liv'd He here sometimes, and bore for thee
A world of miferie,
For thee, who in the first man's loyns didst fall From that hill to this vale;
And had not he so done, it is most true
Two deaths had been thy due;
But going hence, and knowing well what woes Might his friends discompose,
To shew what strange love He had to our good,
He gave his facred bloud,
By will our fap and Cordial; now in this
Lies fuch a heav'n of blifs,
That who but truly tastes it, no decay
Can touch him any way.
Such fecret life and vertue in it lies,
It will exalt, and rise,
And actuate fuch spirits as are shed,
Or ready to be dead;
And bring new too. Get then this fap, and get
Good ftore of it, but let
The veffel where you put it be for sure
To all your pow'r most pure;
There is at all times, though fhut up, in you
A powerful, rare dew,
Which only grief and love extract; with this
Be fure, and never miss,
To wash your veffel well: Then humbly take
This balm for fouls that ake;
And one who drank it thus affures that you
Shal find a Joy so true,
Such perfect Eafe, and fuch a lively sense
Of grace against all fins,
That you'll Confefs the Comfort fuch, as even
Brings to, and comes from, Heaven.
Hen firft I faw true beauty, and thy Joys
Active as light, and calm without all
Shin'd on my foul, I felt through all my powr's
Such a rich air of sweets, as Evening showrs
Fand by a gentle gale Convey, and breathe
On fome parch'd bank, crown'd with a flowrie wreath;
Odors, and Myrrh, and balm in one rich floud
O'r-ran my heart, and spirited my
My thoughts did fwim in Comforts, and mine eie
Confeft, The world did only paint and lie.
And where before I did no safe Course steer,
But wander'd under tempefts all the year;
Went bleak and bare in body as in mind,
And was blow'n through by every storm and wind,
|