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Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still
Constant unto it, making it to be

A point of honour, now to grieve in me,
And in thy members suffer ill.

They who lament one cross,
Thou dying daily, praise thee to thy loss.

SUNDAY.

O DAY most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
The indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time, care's balm and bay:-
The week were dark, but for thy light;
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heav'n with thy brow :
The workydays are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight 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 choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,

The which he doth not fill.

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Sundays the pillars are,

On which heaven's 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,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife-
More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his;
That, as each beast his manger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those
Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at his passion
Did the earth and all things with it move.
As Sampson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, tho'nail'd, wroughtour salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day

We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,

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Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
That was requir'd to make us gay,
And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:

O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heav'n!

TO ALL ANGELS AND SAINTS.

OH glorious spirits, who after all your bands, See the smooth face of God, without a frown, Or strict commands;

Where ev'ry one is king, and hath his crown,If not upon his head, yet in his hands:

Not out of envy or maliciousness
Do I forbear to crave your special aid.
I would address

My vows to thee most gladly, blessed maid,
And mother of my God, in my distress.

Thou art the holy mine, whence came the gold, The great restorative for all decay

In young and old;

Thou art the cabinet where the jewel lay :-
Chiefly to thee would I my soul unfold.

But now, alas! I dare not; for our King,
Whom we do all jointly adore and praise,
Bids no such thing:

And where his pleasure no injunction lays,
(Tis your own case) ye never move a wing.

All worship is prerogative, and a flower,
Of his rich crown, from whom lies no appeal
At the last hour:

Therefore we dare not from his garland steal,
To make a posy for inferior power.

Although then others court you, if ye know
What's done on earth, we shall not fare the worse,
Who do not so;

Since we are ever ready to disburse,
If any one our Master's hand can show.

EMPLOYMENT.

He that is weary, let him sit:
My soul would stir

And trade in courtesies and wit,
Quitting the fur,

To cold complexions needing it.

Man is no star, but a quick coal
Of mortal fire:

Who blows it not, nor doth control
A faint desire,

Lets his own ashes choke his soul.

When the elements did for place contest
With him whose will

Ordain'd the highest to be best,
The earth sat still,

And by the others is opprest.

Life is a business, not good cheer;
Ever in wars.

The sun still shineth there or here,
Whereas the stars

Watch an advantage to appear.

Oh that I were an orange-tree,
That busy plant!

Then should I ever laden be,
And never want

Some fruit for him that dresseth me.

But we are still too young or old;
The man is gone,

Before we do our wares unfold:

So we freeze on,

Until the

grave

increase our cold.

CHRISTMAS.

THE shepherds sing, and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for thee?

My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds

Of thoughts, and words, and deeds. The pasture is thy word; the streams thy grace Enriching all the place.

Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my

powers

Out-sing the day-light hours.

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