But as cold hands are angry with the fire, And mend it still ; Yet hear, O God, only for his blood's sake, Which pleads for me : For though sins plead too, yet like stones they make His blood's sweet current much more loud to be. XL. THE CHURCH-FLOOR. Mark you the floor? that square and speckled stone, Which looks so firm and strong, Is Patience : And the other black and grave, wherewith each one Is checker'd all along, Humility : The gentle rising, which on either hand Is Confidence : But the sweet cement, which in one sure band And Charity. Hither sometimes Sin steals, and stains The marble's neat and curious veins : But all is cleansed when the marble weeps. Sometimes Death, puffing at the door, Blows all the dust about the floor : Blest be the Architect, whose art XLI. THE WINDOWS. LORD, how can man preach thy eternal word ? He is a brittle crazy glass : This glorious and transcendent place, But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story, Making thy life to shine within More reverend grows, and more doth win; Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one When they combine and mingle, bring Doth vanish like a flaring thing, XLII. TRINITY-SUNDAY. LORD, who hast form’d me out of mud, And hast redeem'd me through thy blood, Purge all my sins done heretofore ; For I confess my heavy score, Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me, With faith, with hope, with charity; XLIII. CONTENT. Peace muttering thoughts, and do not grudge to Within the walls of your own breast. [keep Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep, Can on another's hardly rest. Gad not abroad at every quest and call Of an untrained hope or passion. Is wantonness in contemplation. Content and warm to itself alone : appear to other's eye, Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure Complies and suits with all estates ; Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure Take up within a cloister's gates. From either pole unto the centre : He lies warm, and without adventure. The brags of life are but a nine days' wonder: And after death the fumes that spring From private bodies, make as big a thunder As those which rise from a huge King. Only thy Chronicle is lost : and yet Better by worms be all once spent, Thy name in books, which may not rent. When all thy deeds, whose brunt thou feel'st alone, Are chaw'd by others' pens and tongue, And as their wit is, their digestion, Thy nourish'd fame is weak or strong. Then cease discoursing soul, till thine own ground; Do not thyself or friends importune. Hath ever found a happy fortune. XLIV. THE QUIDDITY. My God, a verse is not a crown; It cannot vault, or dance, or play ; It is no office, art, or news ; XLV. HUMILITY. I saw the Virtues sitting hand in hand To execute their call, Gave them about to all. The Lion did present his paw, That went to Temperance. Kill’d in the way by chance. At length the Crow, bringing the Peacock's plume, They leapt upon the throne; F |