Distraction.

Knit me, that am crumbled duft! the heape

Is all difpers'd and cheape;

Give for a handfull but a thought,
And it is bought.

Hadft thou

Made me a starre, a pearle, or a rain-bow,
The beames I then had fhot

My light had leffend not;

But now

I find my felfe the leffe the more I grow.
The world

Is full of voices; Man is call'd, and hurl'd
By each; he answers all,

Knows ev'ry note and call;
Hence ftill

Fresh dotage tempts, or old ufurps his will.
Yet hadft thou clipt my wings, when Coffin'd in
This quicken'd masse of finne,

And faved that light, which freely thou
Didft then bestow,

I feare

I fhould have spurn'd, and said thou didst forbeare, Or that thy ftore was leffe.

But now fince thou didst bleffe

So much,

I grieve, my God! that thou haft made me fuch.

I grieve?

O, yes! thou know'ft I doe; Come, and releive,

And tame, and keepe downe with thy light,
Duft that would rife and dimme my fight!
Left left alone too long

Amidst the noise and throng,
Oppreffed I,
Striving to fave the whole, by parcells dye.

The Purfuite.

Ord! what a bufie, reftless thing
Haft thou made man!

Each day and houre he is on wing,
Refts not a span.

Then having loft the Sunne and light,
By clouds furpriz'd,

He keepes a Commerce in the night
With aire difguis'd.

Hadft thou given to this active duft
A ftate untir'd,

The loft Sonne had not left the huske,

Nor home defir'd.

That was thy fecret, 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 fick, that found would not take thee!

Mount of Olives.

Weete, facred hill! on whose fair brow
My Saviour fate, fhall I allow
Language to love

And Idolize fome fhade or grove,

Neglecting thee? fuch ill-plac'd wit,
Conceit, or call it what you please,
Is the braine's fit,

And meere disease.

2.

Cotswold, and Cooper's both have met
With learned fwaines, and Eccho yet
Their pipes, and wit;

But thou sleep'ft in a deepe neglect,
Untouch'd by any; And what need
The sheep bleat thee a filly Lay,
That heard'ft both reed

And sheepward play?

3.

Yet if Poets mind thee well,

They fhall find thou art their hill,

And fountaine too.

Their Lord with thee had most to doe.

He wept once, waked whole nights on thee:
And from thence (his fufferings ended,)

Unto glorie

Was attended.

4.

Being there, this spacious ball
Is but his narrow footftoole all;
And what we thinke

Unfearchable, now with one winke
He doth comprise. But in this aire
When he did stay to beare our Ill
And finne, this Hill

Was then his Chaire.

The Incarnation, and Paffion.

Ord! when thou didst thyfelfe undresse,
Laying by thy robes of glory,

To make us more thou wouldst be leffe,
And becam'st a wofull story.

To put on Clouds instead of light,

And cloath the morning-starre with dust,

Was a tranflation of fuch height

As, but in thee, was ne'r expreft.

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 fhell!

Ah, my deare Lord! what couldft thou spye

In this impure, rebellious clay,

That made thee thus refolve to dye

For those that kill thee every day?

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

The Call.

Ome, my heart! come, my head,

"Tis

In fighes, and teares!

now, fince you

have laine thus dead,

Some twenty years.

Awake, awake,

Some pitty take

Upon your felves!

Who never wake to grone nor weepe,
Shall be sentenc'd for their fleepe.

2.

Doe but fee your fad estate,
How many fands

Have left us, while we careles fate

With folded hands;

What stock of nights,
Of dayes, and yeares
In filent flights

Stole by our eares;

How ill have we our felves bestow'd,

Whose funs are all fet in a Cloud!

3.

Yet, come, and let's peruse them all;
And as we paffe,