H°

II.

Ow kind is heav'n to man! If here
One finner doth amend,

Strait there is Joy, and ev'ry sphere

In mufick doth Contend.

And shall we then no voices lift?
Are mercy and falvation

Not worth our thanks? Is life a gift
Of no more acceptation?

Shall he that did come down from thence,
And here for us was flain,

Shall he be now caft off? no fenfe
Of all his woes remain ?

Can neither Love nor fuff'rings bind?
Are we all ftone and Earth ?

Neither his bloudy paffions mind,

Nor one day blesse his birth?
Alas, my God! Thy birth now here
Muft not be numbred in the year.*

The Check.

Eace, peace! I blush to hear thee; when

thou art

A dusty story,

A fpeechleffe heap, and in the midst my heart

*The Puritans abolished the celebration of Christmas.

F

When fix

In the fame livery dreft

Lyes tame as all the reft;

years thence digg'd up, fome youthfull Eie
Seeks there for Symmetry,

But finding none, shall leave thee to the wind,
Or the next foot to Crush,
Scatt'ring thy kind

And humble duft,-tell then, dear flesh,
Where is thy glory?

2.

As he, that in the midft of day Expects
The hideous night,

Sleeps not, but shaking off floth and neglects,
Works with the Sun, and fets

Paying the day its debts;

That for Repose and darkness bound, he might
Reft from the fears i̇'th' night;

So fhould we too. All things teach us to die,

View thy fore-runners. Creatures, giv❜n to be

Thy youth's Companions,

Take their leave, and die; Birds, beafts, each tree All that have growth or breath

Have one large language, Death!

O then play not! but strive to Him, who Can
Make these sad shades pure Sun,

Turning their mifts to beams, their damps to day;

Whose pow'r doth so excell
As to make Clay

A fpirit, and true glory dwell
In duft and ftones.

4.

Heark, how he doth Invite thee! with what voice
Of Love and forrow

He begs and Calls! O that in these thy days
Thou knew'ft but thy own good!

Shall not the Crys of bloud,

Of God's own bloud awake thee? He bids beware
Of drunknes, furfeits, Care;

But thou sleep'ft on; where's now thy protestation,
Thy Lines, thy Love? Away!
Redeem the day;

The day that gives no observation
Perhaps to morrow.

Disorder and frailty.

Hen firft thou didst even from the grave
And womb of darkness becken out

My brutish foul, and to thy slave

Becam❜ft thy felf both guide and Scout;

Even from that hour

Thou got'ft my heart; And though here tost
By winds, and bit with frost,

I pine and shrink,

Breaking the link

"Twixt thee and me; And oftimes creep

Into th' old filence, and dead fleep,

Quitting thy way

All the long day;

Yet, fure, my God! I love thee most.
Alas, thy love!

2.

I threaten heaven, and from my Cell
Of Clay and frailty break and bud,
Touch'd by thy fire and breath; Thy bloud
Too is my Dew, and springing well.
But while I grow

And stretch to thee, ayming at all
Thy ftars and fpangled hall,

Each fly doth taste,
Poyfon, and blaft

My yielding leaves; fometimes a showr
Beats them quite off; and in an hour
Not one poor shoot,

But the bare root

Hid under ground furvives the fall.
Alas, frail weed!

3.

Thus like some sleeping Exhalation,
Which, wak'd by heat and beams, makes up

Unto that Comforter, the Sun,

And foars, and fhines, but e'er we sup
And walk two steps,

Cool'd by the damps of night descends,
And, whence it sprung, there ends,
Doth my weak fire

Pine, and retire;

And, after all my hight of flames,

In fickly Expirations tames,

Leaving me dead

On my first bed,

Untill thy Sun again ascends.

Poor, falling Star!

4.

O, yes! but give wings to my fire;
And hatch my foul, untill it fly
Up where thou art, amongst thy tire
Of Stars, above Infirmity;
Let not perverse,

And foolish thoughts adde to my Bill
Of forward Sins, and Kill

That feed, which thou

In me didft fow;

But dreffe, and water with thy grace
Together with the feed, the place;
And, for his fake

Who died to stake

His life for mine, tune to thy will
My heart, my verse.

Hofea Cap. 6. ver. 4.

O Ephraim what shall I do unto thee? O Judah how fhall I intreat thee? for thy goodness is as a morning Cloud, and as the early Dew it goeth away.

Idle Verfe.

O, go, queint folies, fugred fin,
Shadow no more my door!

I will no longer Cobwebs spin;
I'm too much on the score.