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Then have we too our guardian fires and clouds ;
Our Scripture-dew drops fast: We have our sands and serpents, tents and shrouds ;
Alas! our murmurings come not last.
But where's the cluster? where's the taste Of mine inheritance ? Lord, if I must borrow, Let me as well take up their joy, as sorrow.
But can he want the grape, who hath the wine ?
I have their fruit and more. Blessed be God, who prosper'd Noah's vine,
And made it bring forth grapes good store.
But much more him I must adore, Who of the law's sour juice sweet wine did make, E'en God himself, being pressed for my sake.
CI. LOVE UNKNOWN.
DEAR friend, sit down, the tale is long and sad :
(I sigh to say)
A stream of blood, which issued from the side
heart was well, And clean and fair, as I one even-tide
(I sigh to tell)
Which I had lost, I hasted to my bed :
(I sigh to speak)
but one: It must be he. Your heart was dull, I fear. Indeed a slack and sleepy state of mind Did oft possess me, so that when I pray'd, Though my lips went, my heart did stay behind. But all my scores were by another paid, Who took the debt upon him. Truly, Friend, For ought I hear, your Master shows to you More favour than you wot of. Mark the end. The Font did only, what was old, renew : The Caldron suppled, what was grown too hard : The Thorns did quicken, what was grown too dull : All did but strive to mend, what you had marr’d. Wherefore be cheer'd, and praise him to the full Each day, each hour, each moment of the week, Who fain would have you be, new, tender, quick.
CII. MAN'S MEDLEY.
HARK, how the birds do sing,
And woods do ring.
Man's joy and pleasure
To this life things of sense
Make their pretence : In the other Angels have a right by birth : Man ties them both alone,
And makes them one, (earth. With the one hand touching heaven, with the other
In soul he mounts and flies,
In flesh he dies. He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round, But trimm'd with curious lace,
And should take place After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.
Not, that he may not here
Taste of the cheer : But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head; So must he sip, and think
Of better drink He may
attain to, after he is dead.
But as his joys are double,
So is his trouble.
And bite his lip;
Yet even the greatest griefs
May be reliefs, Could he but take them right, and in their ways. Happy is he, whose heart
Hath found the art To turn his double pains to double praise,
CIII. THE STORM.
If as the winds and waters here below
Do fly and flow,
Sure they would move
Stars have their storms, e'en in a high degree,
As well as we.
Hath a strange force :
There it stands knocking, to thy music's wrong,
And drowns the song. Glory and honour are set by till it
An answer get. Poets have wrong'd poor storms: such days are best; They purge the air without, within the breast.
I BLESS thee, Lord, because I GROW