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The water is the Fish's element:
Leave her but there, and she is well content,
So’s he, who in the path of life doth plod,
Take all, says he, let me but have my
The water is the Fish's element:
Her sportings there to her are excellent:
So is God's service unto holy men,
They are not in their element till then.
This pretty Bird, ho! how she flies and sings !
But could she do so if she had not wings ?
Her wings bespeak my faith, her songs my peace;
When I believe and sing my doubtings cease.
The Bee goes out and honey home doth bring;
And some who seek that honey find a sting.
Now wouldst thou have the honey, and be free
From stinging ; in the first place, kill the Bee.
This Bee an emblem truly is of sin, Whose sweet, unto a many, death hath been. Wouldst thou have sweet from sin, and yet not die! Sin, in the first place, thou must mortify.
Well, with the Day I see the clouds appear
And mix the light with darkness every where;
This threatens those who on long journies go,
That they shall meet with slabby rain or snow.
Else while I gaze, the sun doth with his beams,
Belace the clouds, as 'twere with bloody streams;
Then suddenly those clouds do wat’ry grow,
And weep and pour their tears out where they go.
Thus 'tis when gospel light doth usher in
Tous, both sense of grace, and sense of sin ;
Yea, when it makes sin red with Jesus' blood,
Then we can weep till weeping does us good.
'Tis strange to see how over-nice are some
About their clothes, their bodies, and their home:
While what's of worth they slightly pass it by,
Not doing it at all, or slovenly.
Their houses must well furnish'd be in print ;
While their immortal soul has no good in't.
Its outside also they must beautify,
Whilst there is in't scarce common honesty.
Their bodies they must have trick'd up and trim :
Their inside full of filth up to the brim.
Upon their clothes there must not be a spot,
Whereas their lives are but one common blot.
How nice, how coy are some about their diet, That can their crying souls with hog's meat quiet, All must be drest l'a hair, or else 'tis naught; While of the living bread they have no thought. Thus for their outside they are clean and nice, While their poor inside stinks with sin and vice.
MEDITATIONS UPON A CANDLE.
Man's like a Candle in a candlestick,
Made up of tallow, and a little wick;
For what the Candle is, before 'tis lighted,
Just such be they who are in sin benighted.
Nor can a man his soul with grace inspire,
More than the candles set themselves on fire.
Candles receive their light from what they are not: Men grace from Aim, for whom at first they care not.
We manage Candles when they take the fire; God, Men, when he with grace doth them inspire.
And biggest Candles give the better light,
As grace on biggest sinners shines most bright.
The Candle shines to make another see,
A saint unto his neighbour light should be.
The blinking candle we do much despise:
Saints dim of light, are high in no man's eyes.
Again, though it may seem to some a riddle,
We use to light our Candle at the middle:
True light doth at the Candle's end appear,
And grace the beart first reaches by the ear.
But 't is the wick the fire doth kindle on,
As 't is the heart that grace first works upon.
Thus both do fasten upon what's the main,
And so their life and vigour do maintain.
The tallow makes the wick yield to the fire,
And sinful flesh doth make the soul desire
That grace may kindle on it, in it burn;
So evil makes the soul from evil turn.
But Candles in the wind are apt to flare;
And Cbristians, in a tempest, to despair.
We see the flame with smoke attended is ;
Aud in our holy lives there's much amiss.
Sometimes a thief will candle-light annoy:
And Justs do seek our graces to destroy.
What brackish is will make a Candle sputter ;
'Twixt sin and grace there's oft’ a heavy clutter,
Sometimes the light burns dim, 'cause of the spuff, And sometimes, 't is blown quite out with a puff'; But watchfulness preventeth both these evils, Keeps Candles light, and grace in spite of devils.
But let vot snuffs nor puffs make us to doubt ;
Our Candles may be lighted, though puff"d out.
I be Candle in the night doth all excel,
Nor sun, por moon, nor stars then shine so well.
So is the Christian in our hemisphere,
Whose light sbews others how their course to steer.
Wheo Candles are put out, all's in confusion;
Where Christian's are not, devils make intrusion.
They then are happy who such Candles bave,
All others dwell in darkness and the grave.
But Candles that do blink within the socket,
And Saints whose eyes are always in their pocket,
Are much alike; such Candles make us fumble;
And at such Saints, good men and bad do stumble.
Good Candles do n't offend, except sore eyes,
Nor hurt, unless it be the silly flies:
Thus none like burning Candles in the night,
Nor ought to holy living for delight.
But let us draw towards the Candle's end :
The fire, you see, doth wick and tallow spend;
As grace man's life, until his glass is run,
And so the Candle and the Mau is done,
The Man now lays him down upon bis bed;
The wick yields up its fire; and so is dead.
The Candle now extinct is, but the Man,
By grace, mounts up to glory, there to stand.
Two Sacraments I do believe there be,
Ev'n Baptism, and the Supper of the Lord: Both mysteries Divine; which do to me,
By God's appointment, benefit afford :
But shall they be my God, or shall I have
Of them so foul and impious a thought,
To thiuk that from the curse they can me save?
Bread, wine, nor water, me no ransom bought.
THE SUN'S REFLECTION ON THE
CLOUDS IN A FAIR MORNING.
Look yonder! ah! methinks mine eyes do see
Clouds edged with silver, as tine garments be!
They look as if they saw the goldeu face,
That makes black clouds most beautiful with grace.
Uuto the saints sweet incense of their prayer,
These smoky curled clouds I do compare.
For as these clouds seem edged, or laced with gold,
Their prayers returu with blessings manifold.
God gave us Clothes to hide our nakedness,
And we by them do it expose to view, Our pride and unclean miuds, to an excess,
By our apparel we to others shew.
THE SINNER AND THE SPIDER.
What black, what ugly crawling thing art tbou ?
A Spider, ay; truly a filthy creature !
Not filthy as thyself in name or feature.
My name intailed is to my creation ;
My features from the God of thy salvation.