Some Angels used the first; if our relief
Take up the second, then thy double line
And several baits in either kind

Furnish thy table to thy mind.

Affliction then is ours;

We are the trees, whom shaking fastens more,
While blustering winds destroy the wanton bowers,
And ruffle all their curious knots and store.
My God, so temper joy and woe,

That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.

LXXIV. MORTIFICATION.

How soon doth man decay!

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way;

Those clouts are little winding-sheets, Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,

They step into their voluntary graves;
Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead.

Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free,

And calls for music, while his veins do swell,
All day exchanging mirth and breath

In company;

That music summons to the knell,

Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise,

Getting a house and home, where he may move
Within the circle of his breath,
Schooling his eyes;

That dumb inclosure maketh love
Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak,
Marking his grave, and thawing every year,
Till all do melt, and drown his breath
When he would speak;

A chair or litter shows the bier
Which shall convey him to the house of death.

Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And drest his hearse, while he has breath

As yet to spare.

Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die

That all these dyings may be life in death.

LXXV. DECAY.

SWEET were the days, when thou didst lodge with Lot, Struggle with Jacob, sit with Gideon,

Advise with Abraham, when thy power could not Encounter Moses' strong complaints and moan: Thy words were then, Let me alone.

H

One might have sought and found thee presently
At some fair oak, or bush, or cave, or well:
Is my God this way? No, they would reply;
He is to Sinai gone, as we heard tell :

List, ye may hear great Aaron's bell.

But now thou dost thyself immure and close
In some one corner of a feeble heart:
Where yet both Sin and Satan, thy old foes,
Do pinch and straiten thee, and use much art
To gain thy thirds and little part.

I see the world grows old, when as the heat
Of thy great love once spread, as in an urn
Doth closet up itself, and still retreat,
Cold sin still forcing it, till it return

And calling justice, all things burn.

LXXVI. MISERY.

LORD, let the Angels praise thy name. Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing; Folly and Sin play all his game.

His house still burns; and yet he still doth sing, Man is but grass,

He knows it, fill the glass.

How canst thou brook his foolishness?
Why, he'll not lose a cup of drink for thee:
Bid him but temper his excess;

Not he he knows, where he can better be,
As he will swear,

Than to serve thee in fear.

What strange pollutions doth he wed,

And make his own? as if none knew, but he.
No man shall beat into his head

That thou within his curtains drawn canst see:
They are of cloth,

Where never yet came moth.

The best of men, turn but thy hand For one poor minute, stumble at a pin:

They would not have their actions scann'd, Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin,

Though it be small,

And measure not their fall.

They quarrel thee, and would give over The bargain made to serve thee: but thy love Holds them unto it, and doth cover Their follies with the wing of thy mild Dove, Not suffering those

Who would, to be thy foes.

My God, Man cannot praise thy name: Thou art all brightness, perfect purity:

The sun holds down his head for shame, Dead with eclipses, when we speak of thee. How shall infection

Presume on thy perfection?

As dirty hands foul all they touch, And those things most, which are most pure and fine: So our clay-hearts, e'en when we crouch To sing thy praises, make them less divine.

Yet either this

Or none thy portion is.

Man cannot serve thee; let him go

And serve the swine: there, there is his delight :' He doth not like this virtue, no;

Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:

These Preachers make

His head to shoot and ache.

Oh foolish man! where are thine eyes? How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares? Thou pull'st the rug, and wilt not rise, No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars: There let them shine,

Thou must go sleep, or dine.

The bird that sees a dainty bower
Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,

Wonders and sings, but not his

power

Who made the arbour: this exceeds her wit.

But Man doth know

The spring whence all things flow:

And yet as though he knew it not, His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign: They make his life a constant blot, And all the blood of God to run in vain.

Ah, wretch! what verse

Can thy strange ways rehearse ?

Indeed at first Man was a treasure,

A box of jewels, shop of rarities,

A ring, whose posy was, My pleasure:

He was a garden in a Paradise:

Glory and grace

Did crown his heart and face.