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THE TEMPER.

It cannot be. Where is that mighty joy,
Which just now took up all my heart?
Lord! if Thou must needs use Thy dart,
Save that, and me; or sin for both destroy.

The grosser world stands to Thy word and art; But Thy diviner world of grace

Thou suddenly dost raise and race,

And every day a new Creator art.

O fix Thy chair of grace, that all my powers
May also fix their reverence:

For when Thou dost depart from hence,
They grow unruly, and sit in Thy bowers.

Scatter, or bind them all to bend to Thee:
Though elements change, and heaven move,
Let not Thy higher court remove,
But keep a standing Majesty in me.

JORDAN.

WHO says that fictions only and false hairs Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? Is all good structure in a winding stair?

May no lines pass, except they do their duty

Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it not verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbors shadow coarse-spun lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?
Must all be veil'd, while he that reads, divines,
Catching the sense at two removes ?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime.
I envy no man's nightingale, or spring;
Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme,
Who plainly say, "My God, my King."

EMPLOYMENT.

Ir, as a flower doth spread and die, Thou wouldst extend me to some good, Before I were by frost's extremity

Nipt in the bud;

The sweetness and the praise were Thine;
But the extension and the room,

Which in Thy garland I should fill, were mine

At Thy great doom.

For as Thou dost impart Thy grace,

The greater shall our glory be.

The measure of our joys is in this place,

The stuff with Thee.

Let me not languish then, and spend
A life as barren to Thy praise

As is the dust to which that life doth tend,
But with delays.

All things are busy; only I

Neither bring honey with the bees,

Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry
To water these.

I am no link of Thy great chain,

But all my company is a weed.

Lord, place me in Thy concert; give one strain To my poor need.

THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.

PART I.

OH Book! infinite sweetness! let my heart
Suck every letter, and a honey gain,
Precious for any grief in any part;

To clear the breast, to mollify all pain.

Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make A full eternity: thou art a mass

Of strange delights, where we may wish and

take.

Ladies, look here; this is the thankful glass,

That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well That washes what it shows. Who can endear Thy praise too much? thou art Heaven's lieger here,

Working against the states of death and hell.

Thou art joy's handsel: heaven lies flat in thee, Subject to every mounter's bended knee.

PART II.

OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glory!

Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the story.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christian's destiny.

Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in everything
Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss : This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.

WHITSUNDAY.

LISTEN, Sweet Dove, unto my song,
And spread Thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and fly away with Thee.

Where is that fire which once descended On Thy Apostles? Thou didst then Keep open house, richly attended, Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.

Such glorious gifts Thou didst bestow, That the earth did like a heaven appear: The stars were coming down to know If they might mend their wages, and serve here.

The sun, which once did shine alone,
Hung down his head, and wished for night,

When he beheld twelve suns for one

Going about the world, and giving light.

But since those pipes of gold, which brought
That cordial water to our ground,

Were cut and martyr'd by the fault

Of those who did themselves through their side

wound;

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