O let me, when thy roof my soul hath hid,

O let me roost and nestle there:

Then of a sinner thou art rid

And I of hope and fear.

Yet take thy way; for sure thy way is best: Stretch or contract me thy poore debter: This is but tuning of my breast,

To make the musick better.

Whether I flie with angels, fall with dust,
Thy hands made both, and I am there.
Thy power and love, my love and trust,
Make one place ev'ry where.

IT cannot be.

26. THE TEMPER.

Where is that mightie joy, Which just now took up all my heart? Lord! if thou must needs use thy dart, Save that, and me; or sin for both destroy.

The

grosser world stands to thy word and art; But thy diviner world of grace

Thou suddenly doth raise and race,

And ev'ry day a new Creatour art.

O fix thy chair of grace, that all my powers May also fix their reverence:

For when thou dost depart from hence, They grow unruly, and sit in thy bowers.

Scatter, or binde them all to bend to thee:
Though elements change, and heaven move;
Let not thy higher court remove,
But keep a standing majestie in me.

27. JORDAN.

WHO sayes that fictions onely and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no beautie?
Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines passe, except they do their dutie
Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it not verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spunne lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?
Must all be vail'd, while he that reades, divines,
Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime:
I envie no man's nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme,
Who plainly say, My God, My King.

28. EMPLOYMENT.

Ir as a flowre doth spread and die,
Thou wouldst extend me to some good,

Before I were by frost's extremitie

Nipt in the bud;

The sweetnesse and the praise were thine;
But the extension and the room,

Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine
At thy great doom.

For as thou dost impart thy grace,

The greater shall our glorie be.

The measure of our joyes is in this place,

The stuffe with thee.

Let me not languish then, and spend
A life as barren to thy praise

As is the dust, to which that life doth tend,
But with delaies.

All things are busie; only I

Neither bring hony with the bees,

Nor flowres to make that, nor the husbandrie To water these.

I am no link of thy great chain,

But all my companie is a weed.

Lord, place me in thy consort; give one strain To my poore reed.

29. THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.

Oн Book! infinite sweetnesse! let

my

heart

Suck ev'ry letter, and a hony gain,
Precious for any grief in any part;

To cleare the breast, to mollifie all pain.

Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make
A full eternitie: thou art a masse

Of strange delights, where we may wish and take. Ladies, look here; this is the thankfull glasse,

That mends the looker's eyes: this is the well
That washes what it shows. Who can indeare
Thy praise too much? thou art Heav'n's lidger here,
Working against the states of death and hell.

Thou art joyes handsell: heav'n lies flat in thee, Subject to ev'ry mounters bended knee.

2.

Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glorie!
Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the storie.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christian's destinie.

Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing
Thy words do finde me out, and parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.

Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse; This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.

30. WHITSUNDAY.

LISTEN, Sweet Dove, unto my song,
And spread thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and flie away with thee.

Where is that fire which once descended
On thy Apostles? thou didst then
Keep open house, richly attended,
Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.

Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,
That th' earth did like a heav'n appeare:
The starres were coming down to know
If they might mend their wages, and serve here.

The sunne, which once did shine alone, Hung down his head, and wisht for night, When he beheld twelve sunnes for one Going about the world, and giving light.

But since those pipes of gold, which brought
That cordiall water to our ground,

Were cut and martyr'd by the fault

Of those who did themselves through their side wound.

Thou shutt'st the doore, and keep'st within;
Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink:
And if the braves of conqu❜ring sinne

Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink.