Many a spring I shot up fair, Offering at heav'n, growing and groaning thither: Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together. But, while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? What pole is not the zone Where all things burn, When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown? And now in age I once more smell the dew and rain, That I am he, On whom thy tempests fell all night! These are thy wonders, Lord of love! Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. DOTAGE. FALSE glosing pleasures,-casks of happiness,Foolish night-fires,-women's and children's wishes, Chases in arras,-gilded emptiness,- True earnest sorrows,-rooted miseries,— Anguish in grain,-vexations ripe and blown,Sure-footed griefs,-solid calamities, Plain demonstrations,—evident and clear,— Touching their proofs ev'n from the very bone :These are the sorrows here. But oh, the folly of distracted men, BITTER-SWEET. Ан, mу dear angry Lord! Since thou dost love,-yet strike; I will complain,—yet praise ;— And all my sour-sweet days I will lament, and love. AARON. HOLINESS on the head; Light and perfections on the breast, Profaneness in my head; Defects and darkness in my breast; Only another head I have, another heart and breast; Another music, making 'live, not dead; Without whom I could have no rest :In him I am well dress'd. Christ is my only head; My alone, only heart and breast; So, holy in my head; Perfect and light in my dear breast; My doctrine tun'd by Christ, who is not dead, But lives in me, while I do rest: Come, people; Aaron's dress'd DISCIPLINE. THROW away thy rod, Take the gentle path! For my heart's desire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, And thy book alone. Though I fail, I weep: To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love is swift of foot; And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can 'scape his bow? That which wrought on thee, Brought thee low, Needs must work on me: Throw away thy rod! Throw away thy wrath! THE BANQUET. WELCOME, Sweet and sacred cheer! With me, in me, live and dwell: Passeth tongue, to taste, or tell. O what sweetness from the bowl Such as is, and makes, divine! As we sugar melt in wine? Or hath sweetness in the bread Made a head To subdue the smell of sin; Lest the enemy should win? |