The best of men, turn but thy hand For one poor minute, stumble at a pin:

They would not have their actions scann'd, Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin, Though it be small,

And measure not their fall.

They quarrel thee, and would give over
The bargain made to serve thee: but thy love
Holds them unto it, and doth cover
Their follies with the wing of thy mild dove,
Not suff'ring those

Who would, to be thy foes.

My God, man cannot praise thy name:
Thou art all brightness, perfect purity:
The sun holds down his head for shame,
Dead with eclipses, when we speak of thee.
How shall infection

Presume on thy perfection?

As dirty hands foul all they touch,

And those things most, which are most pure and fine;
So our clay-hearts, e'en when we crouch
To sing thy praises, make them less divine.
Yet either this,

Or none thy portion is.

Man cannot serve thee; let him go And serve the swine; there, there is his delight: He doth not like this virtue, no— Give him his dirt to wallow in all night: These preachers make

His head to shoot and ache

Oh foolish man, where are thine eyes?
How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares?
Thou pull'st the rug, and wilt not rise,
No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars:
There let them shine,

Thou must go sleep-or dine.

The bird that sees a dainty bower
Made in the tree where she was wont to sit,
Wonders and sings-but not his power,
Who made the arbour: this exceeds her wit.
But man doth know

The spring whence all things flow:

And yet, as though he knew it not, His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign: They make his life a constant blot, And all the blood of God to run in vain. Ah wretch! what verse

Can thy strange ways rehearse ?

Indeed at first man was a treasure,

A box of jewels, shop of rarities,

A ring, whose posy was, " My pleasure:" He was a garden in a paradise:

Glory and grace

Did crown his heart and face.

But sin hath fool'd him. Now he is
A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing
To raise him to the glimpse of bliss:
A sick toss'd vessel, dashing on each thing;
Nay, his own shelf:-

My God, I mean myself.

PRAYER.

Or what an easy quick access, My blessed Lord, art thou! how suddenly May our requests thine ear invade ! To show that state dislikes not easiness. If I but lift mine eyes, my suit is made : Thou canst no more not hear, than thou canst die.

Of what supreme almighty power

Is thy great arm, which spans the east and west,
And tacks the centre to the sphere !
By it do all things live their measur'd hour:
We cannot ask the thing which is not there,
Blaming the shallowness of our request.

Of what unmeasurable love

Art thou possess'd, who when thou couldst not die,
Wert fain to take our flesh and curse,
And for our sakes in person sin reprove!
That by destroying that which tied thy purse,
Thou mightst make way for liberality.

Since then these three wait on thy throne,
Ease, Power, and Love; I value prayer so,
That were I to leave all but one,

Wealth, fame, endowments, virtues, all should go:
I, and dear prayer, would together dwell,
And quickly gain, for each inch lost, an ell.

SION.

LORD, with what glory wast thou serv'd of old,
When Solomon's temple stood and flourished!
Where most things were of purest gold;

The wood was all embellished

With flowers and carvings, mystical and rare:
All show'd the builder's, craved the seer's care.

Yet all this glory, all this pomp and state
Did not affect thee much, was not thy aim;
Something there was that sow'd debate:
Wherefore thou quitt'st thy ancient claim :
And now thy architecture meets with sin;
For all thy frame and fabric is within.

There thou art struggling with a peevish heart, Which sometimes crosseth thee, thou sometimes it: The fight is hard, on either part.

Great God doth fight, he doth submit.

All Solomon's sea of brass and world of stone
Is not so dear to thee as one good groan.

And truly brass and stones are heavy things:
Tombs for the dead, not temples fit for thee:
But groans are quick and full of wings,
And all their motions upward be;

And ever as they mount, like larks they sing:
The note is sad, yet music for a king.

THE BRITISH CHURCH.

I JOY, dear mother, when I view
Thy perfect lineaments and hue,
Both sweet and bright.

Beauty in thee takes up her place,
And dates her letters from thy face,
When she doth write.

A fine aspect in fit array,

Neither too mean, nor yet too gay,
Shows who is best.

Outlandish looks may not compare,
For all they either painted are,
Or else undress'd.

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 shy

Of dressing, that her hair doth lie
About her ears:

While she avoids her neighbour's pride, She wholly goes on the other side

And nothing wears.