But when I view abroad both Regiments,
The World's, and thine,
Thine clad with Simpleness, and sad Events;
The other fine,
Full of Glory and gay Weeds,
Brave Language, braver Deeds:
That which was Duft before, doth quickly rife, And prick mine Eyes.
O brook.not this, left if what even now
My Foot did tread,
Affront thofe Joys wherewith thou didst endow
And long fince wed
My poor Soul, ev'n fick of Love;
It may a Babel prove,
Commodious to conquer Heav'n and thee:
Planted in me.
T Conftancy.
Who is the honeft Man?
He that doth ftill and ftrongly Good purfue,
To God, his Neighbour and himself moft true;
Whom neither Force nor Fawning can
Unpin, or wrench from giving all their due.
Whose Honefty is not Soloofe or eafy, that a ruffling Wind Can blow away, or glitt'ring look it blind : Who rides his fure and even trot, While the World now rides by, now lags behind.
Who, when great trials come,
Nor feeks, nor fhuns them; but doth calmly stay,
Till he the thing, and the example weigh:
All being brought into a fum,
What place or person calls for, hé doth pay.
Whom none can work or woo,
To ufe in any thing a trick or flight;
For above all things he abhors deceit :
His words and works, and fashion too
All of a piece, and all are clear and freight.
Who never melts or thaws
At close temptations: When the day is done,
His goodness fets not, but in dark can run :
The Sun to others writeth laws,
And is their vertue; Virtue is his Sun.
Who, when he is to treat
With fick folks, Women, those whom paffions fway,
Allows for that, and keeps his conftant way:
Whom others faults do not defeat;
But though men fail him, yet his part doth play.
Whom nothing can procure,}
When the wide world runs bias, from his will
To writhe his limbs, and fhare, not mend the ill.
This is the Mark-man, fafe and fure,
Who ftill is right, and prays to be fo ftill.
Y heart did heave,and there came forth, O God!
M By that I knew that thou waft in the grief,
To guide and govern it to my Relief,
Making a feepter of the rod:
Hadit thou not had thy part,
Sure the unruly figh had broke my heart.
But fince thy breath gave me both life and fhape,
Tho know'ft my tallies; and when there's affign'd
So much breath to a figh, what's then behind?
Or if fome years with it escape,
The figh then only is
A gale to bring me fooner to my blifs.
Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art fill
Conftant unto it, making it to be
A point of honour, now to grieve in me,
And in thy members fuffer ill.
They who lament one cross,
Thou dying daily, praife thee to thy lofs:
Where beams furround my Saviour's face,
Canft thou be any where
Yet, if thou wilt from thence depart,
Take a bad lodging in my heart;
For thou can't make a Debter,
And make it better.
First with thy Fire-work burn to Duft
Folly, and worfe than Folly, Luft:
Then with thy Light refine,
And make it fhine.
So difengag'd from Sin and Sickness,
Touch it with thy Celestial Quickness,
That it may hang and move
Then with our Trinity of Light,
Motion, and Heat, let's take our Flight
Unto the Place where thou
Before didft bow.
Get me a Standing there, and Place
Among the Beams, which crown the Fate
Of him who dy'd, to part
Sin and my Heart.
That fo among the reft I may
Glitter, and curl, and wind as they:
That winding is their fashion
Sure thou wilt joy by gaining me
To fly home like a laden Bee
Unto that Hive of Beams
And Garland-ftreams.
Day moft calm, moft bright,
The Fruit of this, the next World's Bud,
Th'indorfment of fupreme Delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with his Blood;
The Couch of time, Cares balm and bay;
The Week were dark, but for thy Light:
Thy Torch doth fhew the way.
The other Days and thou
Make up one Man; whofe Face thou art,
Knocking at Heav'n with thy Brow :
The worky.days are the back-part;
The Burden of the Week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.
Man had ftraight forward gone
To endless Death: But thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choofe but look on ftill;
Since there is no place fo alone,
The which he doth not fill.
Sundays the Fillars are,
On which Heav'ns Palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with Vanities.
They are the fruitful Beds and Borders
In God's rich Garden: That is bare,
Which parts their Ranks and Orders;
The Sundays of Man's Life,
Thredded together on Time's String,
Make Bracelets to adorn the Wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday Heaven's Gate ftands ope;
Bleffings are plentiful and rife
More plentiful than hope.
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