Ev'n poyfons praise thee. Should a thing be loft?
Should creatures want, for want of heed, their due ?
Since where are poyfons, antidotes are moft;
The help ftands clofe, and keeps the fear in view.

The fea, which feems to stop the traveller,
Is by a fhip the fpeedier paffage made.
The winds, who think they rule the Mariner,

Are rul'd by him, and taught to ferve his trade.

And as thy houfe is full, fo I adore
Thy curious art in marfhalling thy goods.

10

The hills with health abound; the vales with store;
The South with marble; North with furs and woods.

Hard things are glorious; eafie things good cheap.
The common all men have: that which is rare,
Men therefore seek to have, and care to keep.
The healthy frofts with fummer fruits compare.

Light without wind is glaffe: warm without weight
Is wool and furs: cool, without clofeneffe, fhade:
Speed without pains, a horfe: tall without height,
A fervile hawk: low without Ioffe, a spade.

All countreys have enough to ferve their need:
If they feek fine things, thou doft make them run
For their offence; and then doft turn their speed
To be commerce and trade from fun to fun.

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Nothing wears clothes but Man; nothing doth need 21
But he to wear them. Nothing ufeth fire,

But Man alone, to fhew his heav'nly breed :.
And only he hath fewel in defire.

When th'earth was dry, thou mad'ft a fea of wet: whe chat lay gather'd, thou didst broch the mountains when yet fome places could no moisture get, (tains. The winds grew gardners, and the clouds good foun

Rain, do not hurt my flowers,; but gently spend
Your honey drops:prefs not to smell them here:
When they are ripe, their odour will afcend,
And at your lodging with their thanks appear.

How harsh are thorns to pears! and yet they make
A better hedge, and need lefs reparation.
How smooth are filks compared with a stake,
Or with a stone! yet make no good foundation.
Sometimes thou doft divide thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone

Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and cann,
Boat, cable, fail and needle, all in one.

Moft herbs that grow in brooks, are hot and dry.
Cold fruits warm kernels help against the wind.
The limons juyce and rind cure mutually.
The whey of milk doth loose, the milk doth bind.

Thy creatures leap not, but exprefs a feast,
There all the guefts fit clofe, and nothing wants.
Frogs marry fifh and flefk; bats, bird and beaft;
•Sponges, non-fenfe & fenfe; mines,th'earth & plants

To fhew thou art not bound, as if thy lot

Were worse than ours,fomtimes thou fhifteft hands. Moft things move th'under-jaw; the Crocodile not. Moft things fleep lying, th'Elephant leans or stands.

But who hath praise enough? nay, who hath any?
None can exprefs thy works,but he that knows them
And none can know thy works which are fo many,
And fo compleat, but only he that ows them.

All things that are, though they have fev'ral ways,
oYet in their being joyn with one advice
To honour thee: and so I give thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this twice.

Eac

Each thing that is, although in ufe and name
It go for one, hath many ways in ftore
To honour thee: and fo each hymn thy fame
Extolleth many ways, yet this one more.

¶ Hope.

I

Gave to hope a Watch of mine: but he

An anchor gave to me.

Then an old Prayer-book I did prefent:

And he an optick sent.

With that I gave a vial full of tears:

But he a few green ears.

Ah Loyterer! I'le no more, no more I'le bring:
I did expect a ring.

S

¶ Sins round.

Orry I am, my God, forry I am,

That my offences courfe it in a ring. My thoughts are working like a bufie flame, Until their Cockatrice they hatch and bring: And when they have once perfected their draughts, My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts,
Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.

They vent the wares, and pafs them with their faults
And by their breathings ventilate the ill.
But words fuffice not, where are lewd intentions:
My hands do joyn to finish the inventions.

My hands do joyn to finish the inventions:
And fo my fins afcend three ftories high,
As Babel grew, before there were diffentions.
Yet ill deeds loyter not: for they fupply
New thoughts of finning: wherefore to my fhame,
ry I am, my God, forry I am.

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25

20

¶ Time.

Eeting with Time, Slack thing, faid I,
Thy fithe is dull, whet it for fhame.

marvel, Sir, he did reply,

it at length deserve some blame:

But where one man would have me grind it,
Twenty for one too fharp do find it.

Perhaps fome fuch of old did pafs,
Who above all things lov'd this life;
To whom thy fithe a hatchet was,
Which now is but a pruning knife.

Chrifts coming hath made man thy debter,
Since by thy cutting he grows better.

And in his bleffing thou art bleft:
For where thou only wert before
¡An executioner at beft;

Thou art a gard'ner now and more.
An ufher to convey our fouls
Beyond the utmoft ftars aud poles.

And this is that makes life fo long,
While it detains us from our God.
Ev'n pleafures here increase the wrong:
And length of days lengthen the rod.
Who wants the place where God doth dwell,
Partakes already half of hell.

Of what strange length muft that needs be,
Which ev'n eternity excludes !

Thus far Tíme heard me patiently:
Then chafing faid, this man deludes:
What do I here before his door?
He doth not crave lef's time, but more.

Grate

He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.

But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat :

Which many wondring at, got fome of those
To plant and fet.

It profper'd ftrangely, and did foon disperse

Through all the earth,

For they that tafte it do rehearse,
That vertue lies therein;

A fecret vertue, bringing peace and mirth

By flight of fin.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,

And grows for you;

Make bread of it: and that repose
And peace, which every where

With fo much earneftnefs you do purfué,

Is only there.

Confeffion.

Owhat a cunning guest

Is this fame grief! within my heart I made
Closets, and in them many a cheft;
And, like a mafter in my trade,

In those chefts, boxes; in each box, a till:
Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will.

No ferue, no piercer can Into a piece of timber work and wind, As Gods afflictions into man,

When hea torture hath defign'd.

They are too fubtil for the fubt lleft hearts; fall, like rheums upon the tendreft parts.

W