When man was lost, thy pitie lookt about,

To see what help in th' earth or skie:
But there was none; at least no help without :
The help did in thy bosome lie.
O show thy self to me,

Or take me up to thee!

There lay thy sonne: and must he leave that nest, That hive of sweetnesse, to remove

Thraldome from those, who would not at a feast Leave one poor apple for thy love?

O show thy self, &c.

IIe did, he came : O my Redeemer deare,
After all this canst thou be strange?
So many yeares baptiz'd, and not appeare;
As if thy love could fail or change?
O show thy self, &c.

Yet if thou stayest still, why must I stay?
My God, what is this world to me?
This world of wo? hence, all ye clouds, away,
Away; I must get up and see.

O show thy self, &c.

What is this weary world; this meat and drink, That chains us by the teeth so fast? What is this woman-kinde, which I can wink Into a blacknesse and distaste?

O show thy self, &c.

With one small sigh thou gav'st me th' other day I blasted all the joyes about me:

And scouling on them as they pin'd away,
Now come again, said I, and flout me.
O show thy self to me,

Or take me up to thee!

Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,
Which way soe're I look, I see.

Some may dream merrily, but when they wake,
They dresse themselves and come to thee.
O show thy self, &c.

We talk of harvests; there are no such things,
But when we leave our corn and hay:
There is no fruitfull yeare, but that which brings
The last and lov'd, though dreadfull day.
O show thy self, &c.

Oh loose this frame, this knot of man untie !
That my free soul may use her wing,

Which now is pinion'd with mortalitie,
As an intangled, hamper'd thing.
O show thy self, &c.

What have I left, that I should stay and grone?
The most of me to heav'n is fled :

My thoughts and joyes are all packt up and gone,
And for their old acquaintance plead.

O show thy self, &c.

Come, dearest Lord, passe not this holy season,
My flesh and bones and joynts do pray :

And ev'n my verse, when by the ryme and reason
The word is, Stay, says ever, Come.

O show thy self, &c.

H

83. THE BRITISH CHURCH.

I JOY, deare Mother, when I view

Thy perfect lineaments, and hue

Both sweet and bright:

Beautie in thee takes up her place,

And dates her letters from thy face,

When she doth write.

A fine aspect in fit aray,

Neither too mean, nor yet too gay,

Shows who is best :

Outlandish looks may not compare ;

For all they either painted are,

Or else undrest.

She on the hills, which wantonly

Allureth all in hope to be

By her preferr'd,

Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines,

That ev'n her face by kissing shines,

For her reward.

She in the valley is so shie

Of dressing, that her hair doth lie

About her eares:

While she avoids her neighbour's pride,

She wholly goes on th' other side,

And nothing wears.

Herbert,rage