A stream of blood, which issued from the side
Of a great rock: I well remember all,

And have good cause there it was dipt and dyed,
And wash'd, and wrung: the very wringing yet
Your heart was foul, I fear.

Enforceth tears.

Indeed 'tis true. I did and do commit

Many a fault more than my lease will bear;
Yet still ask'd pardon, and was not denied.
But you
shall hear. After my heart was well,
And clean and fair, as I one even-tide
(I sigh to tell)
Walk'd by myself abroad, I saw a large
And spacious furnace flaming, and thereon
A boiling caldron, round about whose verge
Was in great letters set AFFLICTION.
The greatness show'd the owner. So I went
To fetch a sacrifice out of my fold,
Thinking with that, which I did thus present,
To warm his love, which I did fear grew cold.
But as my heart did tender it, the man

Who was to take it from me, slipt his hand,
And threw my heart into the scalding pan;
My heart that brought it (do you understand?)
The offerer's heart. Your heart was hard, I fear.
Indeed 'tis true. I found a callous matter

Began to spread and to expatiate there :
But with a richer drug, than scalding water,
I bathed it often, e'en with holy blood,
Which at a board, while many drank bare wine,
A friend did steal into my cup for good,
E'en taken inwardly, and most divine
To supple hardnesses. But at the length
Out of the caldron getting, soon I fled
Unto my house, where to repair the strength

Which I had lost, I hasted to my bed:

But when I thought to sleep out all these faults, (I sigh to speak)

I found that some had stuff'd the bed with thoughts,
I would say thorns. Dear, could my heart not break,
When with my pleasures e'en my rest was gone?
Full well I understood, who had been there :
For I had given the key to none, 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.

All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,

Man's joy and pleasure

Rather hereafter, than in present, is.

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.

He hath two winters, other things but one:
Both frosts and thoughts do nip,

And bite his lip;

And he of all things fears two deaths alone.

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,

My sighs and tears as busy were above;

Sure they would move

And much affect thee, as tempestuous times
Amaze poor mortals, and object their crimes.

Stars have their storms, e'en in a high degree,
As well as we.

A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse

Hath a strange force:

It quits the earth, and mounting more and more, Dares to assault thee, and besiege thy door.

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.

CIV. PARADISE.

I BLESS thee, Lord, because I GROW
Among thy trees, which in a ROW
To thee both fruit and order ow.

What open force, or hidden CHARM
Can blast my fruit, or bring me HARM,
While the inclosure is thine ARM?

Inclose me still for fear I START.
Be to me rather sharp and TART,
Than let me want thy hand and art.

When thou dost greater judgments SPARE, And with thy knife but prune and PARE, E'en fruitful trees more fruitful ARE.

Such sharpness shows the sweetest FRIEND: Such cuttings rather heal than

REND:

And such beginnings touch their END.

CV. THE METHOD.

POOR heart, lament.

For since thy God refuseth still,
There is some rub, some discontent,
Which cools his will.

Thy Father could

Quickly effect, what thou dost move;
For he is Power: and sure he would;
For he is Love.

Go search this thing,
Tumble thy breast, and turn thy book:
If thou hadst lost a glove or ring,

Wouldst thou not look?