Since then, my God, thou hast
So brave a palace built; Oh, dwell in it,
That it may dwell with thee at last
Till then, afford us so much wit,
That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee; And both thy servants bo.
PEACE! prattler, do not lour.
Not a fair look, but thou dost call it foul;
Not a sweet dish, but thou dost call it sour;
Music to thee doth howl.
By list'ning to thy chatting fears
I have both lost mine eyes and ears.
Prattler, no more, I say,
My thoughts must work, but like a noiseless sphere;
Harmonious peace must rock them all the day:
No room for prattlers there.
If thou persistest, I will tell thee,
That I have physic to expel thee.
And the receipt shall be
My Saviour's blood. Whenever at his board.
I do but taste it, straight it cleanseth me;
And leaves thee not a word,
No, not a tooth or nail to scratch,
And at my actions carp, or catch.
Yet, if thou talkest still,
Besides my physic, know, there's some for thes;
Some wood or nails, to make a staff or bill
For those that trouble me.
The bloody cross of iny dear Lord
Is both my physic and my sword.
Can'st be idle, can'st thou play,
Foolish soul, who sinn'd to day?
RIVERS run, and springs each one
Know their home, and get them gone:
Hast thou tears, or hast thou none?
If, poor soul, thou hast no tears,
Would thou hadst no faults or fears!
Who hath these, those ill forbears.
Winds still work; it is their plot,
Be the season cold or hot:
Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not?
If thou hast no sighs or groans,
Would thou hadst no flesh and bones'
Lesser pains 'scape greater ones.
But, if yet thou idle be,
Foolish soul, who died for thee?
Who did leave his Father's throne,
To assume thy flesh and bone?
Had He life, or had He none?
If he had not liv'd for thee,
Thou hadst died most wretchedly;
And two deaths had been thy fee.
He so far thy good did plot,
That his own self he forgot.
Did he die, or did he not?
If he had not died for thee,
Thou hadst liv'd in misery;
Two lives worse than ten deaths be.
And hath any space of breath
"Twixt his sins and Saviour's death!
He that loseth gold, though dross,
Tells to all he meets his cross:
He that sins, hath he no loss
He that finds a silver vein,
Thinks on it, and thinks again :
Brings my Saviour's death no gain?
Who in heart not ever kneels,
Neither sin nor Saviour feels.
O SACRED Providence, who, from end to end, Strongly and sweetly movest! shall I write, And not of thee, through whom my fingers bend To hold my quill? shall they not do thee right?
Of all the creatures, both in sea and land,
Only to man thou hast made known thy ways,
And put the pen alone into his hand,
And made him secretary of thy praise.
Beasts fain would sing; birds ditty to their notes;
Trees would be tuning on their native lute
To thy renown: but all their hands and throats
Are brought to man, while they are lame and mute.
Man is the world's High-Priest; he doth present
The sacrifice for all; while they below
Unto the service mutter an assent,-
Such as springs use that fall, and winds that blow.
He that to praise and laud thee doth refrain,
Doth not refrain unto himself alone,
But robs a thousand, who would praise thee fain,
And doth commit a world of sin in one.
The beasts say, 'Eat me; but if beasts must teach,
The tongue is yours to eat, but mine to praise.'
The trees say, 'Pull me; but the hand you stretch,
Is mine to write, as it is yours to raise.'
Wherefore, most sacred Spirit, I here present,
For me and all my fellows, praise to thee:
And just it is that I should pay the rent,
Because the benefit accrues to me.
We all acknowledge both thy power and love,
To be exact, transcendent, and divine;
Who dost so strongly and so sweetly move,
While all things have their will, yet none but thine.
For either thy command or thy permission
Lay hands on all; they are thy right and left.
The first puts on with speed and expedition,
The other curbs sin's stealing pace and theft.
Nothing escapes them both; all must appear,
And be dispos'd, and dress'd, and tun'd by thec.
Who sweetly temper'st all. If we could hear
fhy skill and art, what music would it be !
Thou art, in small things great; not small in any:
Thy even praise can neither rise nor fall.
Thou art in all things, one; in each thing, many; For thou art infinite in one, and all.
Tempests are calm to thee; they know thy hand,
And hold it fast, as children do their father's,
Which cry and follow. Thou hast made poor sand
Check the proud sea, ev'n when it swells and gathers.
Thy cupboard serves the world; the meat is set,
Where all may reach; no beast but knows his feed.
Birds teach us hawking; fishes have their net;
The great prey on the less; they, on some weed.
Nothing engender'd doth prevent his meat;
Flies have their tables spread, ere they appear.
Some creatures have in winter what to eat;
Others do sleep, and envy not their cheer.
How finely dost thou times and seasons spin,
And make a twist checquer'd with night and day!
Which, as it lengthens, winds, and winds us in;
As bowls go on, but turning all the way.
Each creature hath a wisdom for his good.
The pigeons feed their offspring, crying,
When they are callow; but withdraw their food,
When they are fledge, that need may teach them flying.
Bees work for man; and yet they never bruise
Their master's flow'r; but leave it, having done,
As fair as ever, and as fit to use:
So both the flow'r doth stay, and honey run.
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