Something there was that sow'd debate: Wherefore thou quitt'st thy ancient claim: And now thy Architecture meets with sin; For all thy frame and fabric is within.

There thou art struggling with a peevish heart, Which sometimes crosseth thee, thou sometimes it: The fight is hard on either part.

Great God doth fight, he doth submit.

All Solomon's sea of brass and world of stone
Is not so dear to thee as one good groan.

And truly brass and stones are heavy things,
Tombs for the dead, not temples fit for thee:
But groans are quick, and full of wings,
And all their motions upward be;

And ever as they mount, like larks they sing :
The note is sad, yet music for a king.

LXXXII. HOME.

COME Lord, my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
While thou dost ever, ever stay:

Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick,
My spirit gaspeth night and day.
O show thyself to me,

Or take me up to thee!

How canst thou stay, considering the pace

The blood did make, which thou didst waste?

When I behold it trickling down thy face,
I never saw thing make such haste.
O show thyself to me,

Or take me up to thee!

When man was lost, thy pity look'd about,
To see what help in the earth or sky:
But there was none; at least no help without:
The help did in thy bosom lie.

O show thyself, &c.

There lay thy son and must he leave that nest, That hive of sweetness, to remove Thraldom from those, who would not at a feast Leave one poor apple for thy love?

O show thyself, &c.

He did, he came : O my Redeemer dear,
After all this canst thou be strange?
So many years baptized, and not appear;
As if thy love could fail or change?
O show thyself, &c.

Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay?
My God, what is this world to me?
This world of woe? hence all ye clouds, away,
Away; I must get up and see.

O show thyself, &c.

What is this weary world; this meat and drink, That chains us by the teeth so fast? What is this woman-kind, which I can wink Into a blackness and distaste?

O show thyself, &c.

With one small sigh thou gavest me the other day
I blasted all the joys about me:
And scowling on them as they pined away,
Now come again, said I, and flout me.
O show thyself to me,

Or take me up to thee!

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake, Which way soe'er I look, I see.

Some

may dream merrily, but when they wake, They dress themselves and come to thee. O show thyself, &c.

We talk of harvests; there are no such things, But when we leave our corn and hay: There is no fruitful year, but that which brings The last and loved, though dreadful day. O show thyself, &c.

Oh loose this frame, this knot of man un tie,
That my free soul may use her wing,
Which now is pinion'd with mortality,
As an entangled, hamper'd thing.
O show thyself, &c.

What have I left, that I should stay and groan ? The most of me to heaven is fled :

My thoughts and joys are all pack'd up and gone, And for their old acquaintance plead.

O show thyself, &c.

Come dearest Lord, pass not this holy season,
My flesh and bones and joints do pray:

And e'en my verse, when by the rhyme and reason

The word is, Stay, says ever, Come. O show thyself to me,

Or take me up to thee!

LXXXIII. THE BRITISH CHURCH.

I JOY, dear Mother, when I view
Thy perfect lineaments, and hue

Both sweet and bright:

Beauty in thee takes up her place,
And dates her letters from thy face,
When she doth write.

A fine aspect in fit array,

Neither too mean, nor yet too gay,
Shows who is best :

Outlandish looks may not compare ;
For all they either painted are,
Or else undrest.

She on the hills, which wantonly

Allureth all in hope to be

By her preferr'd,

Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines, That e'en her face by kissing shines,

For her reward.

She in the valley is so shy

Of dressing, that her hair doth lie

About her ears:

While she avoids her neighbour's pride,
She wholly goes on the other side,
And nothing wears.

But, dearest Mother, (what those miss)
The mean thy praise and glory is,
And long may be.

Blessed be God, whose love it was
To double-moat thee with his grace,
And none but thee.

LXXXIV. THE QUIP.

THE merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together, where I lay,

And all in sport to jeer at me.

First, Beauty crept into a rose;

Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she,
Tell me,
pray, whose hands are those?
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and chinking still,
What tune is this, poor man? said he:
I heard in Music you had skill:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he !
He scarce allow'd me half an eye:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.