THE TEMPER. It cannot be. Where is that mighty joy, 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 For when Thou dost depart from hence, Scatter, or bind them all to bend to Thee: 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 Shepherds are honest people; let them sing: 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; 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 As is the dust to which that life doth tend, All things are busy; only I Neither bring honey with the bees, Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry 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 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, Seeing not only how each verse doth shine, This verse marks that, and both do make a motion Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good, Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss : This book of stars lights to eternal bliss. WHITSUNDAY. LISTEN, Sweet Dove, unto my song, 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, When he beheld twelve suns for one Going about the world, and giving light. But since those pipes of gold, which brought Were cut and martyr'd by the fault Of those who did themselves through their side wound; |