Sometimes thou dost divide thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone
Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and can,
Boat, cable, sail and needle, all in one.

Most herbs that grow in brooks, are hot and dry.
Cold fruit's warm kernels help against the wind.
The lemon's juice and rind cure mutually.
The whey of milk doth loose, the milk doth bind.

Thy creatures leap not, but express a feast, Where all the guests sit close, and nothing wants. Frogs marry fish and flesh; bats, bird and beast; Sponges, nonsense and sense; mines, the earth and

[plants.

To show thou art not bound, as if thy lot
Were worse than ours, sometimes thou shiftest hands.
Most things move the under jaw; the Crocodile not.
Most things sleep lying, the Elephant leans or stands.

But who hath praise enough? nay, who hath
any?
None can express thy works, but he that knows them;
And none can know thy works, which are so many,
And so complete, but only he that owes them.

All things that are, though they have several ways,
Yet in their being join with one advice

To honour thee: and so I give thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this twice.

Each thing that is, although in use and name
It
go for one,
hath many ways in store
To honour thee; and so each hymn thy fame
Extolleth many ways, yet this one more.

XCIII. HOPE.

I GAVE to hope a watch of mine: but he
An anchor gave to me.

Then an old prayer-book I did present:

And he an optic sent.

With that I gave a phial full of tears:
But he a few green ears.

Ah, Loiterer! I'll no more, no more I'll bring:
I did expect a ring.

XCIV. SINS ROUND.

SORRY I am, my God, sorry I am,
That my offences course it in a ring.
My thoughts are working like a busy flame,
Until their cockatrice they hatch and bring:
And when they once have perfected their draughts,
My words take fire from my enflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my enflamed thoughts,
Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.
They vent the wares, and pass them with their faults,
And by their breathing ventilate the ill.
But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions:
My hands do join to finish the inventions:

My hands do join to finish the inventions:
And so my sins ascend three stories high,

As Babel grew, before there were dissentions.
Yet ill deeds loiter not for they supply

New thoughts of sinning; wherefore, to my shame,
Sorry I am, my God, sorry
I am.

XCV. TIME.

MEETING with Time, slack thing, said I,
Thy scythe is dull; whet it for shame.
No marvel Sir, he did reply,

If it at length deserve some blame :

But where one man would have me grind it,
Twenty for one too sharp do find it.

Perhaps some such of old did pass,
Who above all things loved this life;
To whom thy scythe a hatchet was,
Which now is but a pruning-knife.

Christ's coming hath made man thy debtor,
Since by thy cutting he grows better.

And in his blessing thou art blest:
For where thou only wert before
An executioner at best,

Thou art a gardener now,

and more.

An usher to convey our souls
Beyond the utmost stars and poles.

And this is that makes life so long,
While it detains us from our God.

E'en pleasures here increase the wrong:

And length of days lengthen the rod.

Who wants the place, where God doth dwell, Partakes already half of hell.

Of what strange length must that needs be,
Which e'en eternity excludes !

Thus far Time heard me patiently:
Then chafing said, This man deludes:
What do I here before his door?
He doth not crave less time, but more.

XCVI. GRATEFULNESS.

THOU that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, a grateful heart.
See how thy beggar works on thee

By art.

He makes thy gifts occasion more,
And says, If he in this be crost,
All thou hast given him heretofore
Is lost.

But thou didst reckon, when at first

Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,

What it would come to at the worst

To save.

Perpetual knockings at thy door,
Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift; much would have more,

And comes.

This notwithstanding, thou went'st on,
And didst allow us all our noise :

Nay thou hast made a sigh and groan
Thy joys.

Not that thou hast not still above

Much better tunes, than groans can make;
But that these country-airs thy love

Did take.

Wherefore I cry, and cry again;
And in no quiet canst thou be,
Till I a thankful heart obtain
Of thee:

Not thankful, when it pleaseth me;
As if thy blessings had spare days:
But such a heart, whose pulse may be

Thy praise.

XCVII. PEACE.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd, if Peace were there.

A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.

I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:

[crave,