is a brittle crazie glasse:
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window, through thy grace.
But when thou dost anneal in glasse thy storie,
Making thy life to shine within
The holy preacher’s, then the light and glorie
More rev’rend grows, and more doth win;
Which else shows watrish, bleak, and thin.
Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one
When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and aw: but speech alone
Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
And in the eare, not conscience ring.
42. TRINITIE SUNDAY.
LORD, who hast formed me out of mud,
And hast redeemed me through thy bloud,
And sanctified me to do good;
Purge all my sinnes done heretofore;
For I confesse my heavie score,
And I will strive to sinne no more.
Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me,
With faith, with hope, with charitie;
That I may runne, rise, rest with thee.
43. CONTENT.
PEACE mutt’ring thoughts, and do not grudge to keep
Within the walls of your own breast.
Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep,
Can on another’s hardly rest.
Gad not abroad at ev’ry quest and call
Of an untrained hope or passion.
To court each place or fortune that doth fall,
Is wantonnesse in contemplation.
Mark how the fire in flints doth quiet lie,
Content and warm t’ it self alone:
But when it would appeare to other’s eye,
Without a knock it never shone.
Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure
Complies and suits with all estates;
Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure
Take up within a cloister’s gates.
This soul doth span the world, and hang content
From either pole unto the centre:
Where in each room of the well-furnisht tent
He lies warm, and without adventure.
The brags of life are but a nine days1 wonder:
And after death the fumes that spring
From private bodies, make as big a thunder
As those which rise from a huge king.
Onely thy chronicle is lost: and yet
Better by worms be all once spent,
Than to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret
Thy name in books, which may not rent.
When all thy deeds, whose brunt thou feel’st alone,
Are chaw’d by others’ pens and tongue,
And as their wit is, their digestion,
Thy nourisht fame is weak or strong.
Then cease discoursing soul, till thine own ground;
Do not thyself or friends importune.
He that by seeking hath himself once found,
Hath ever found a happie fortune.
44. THE QULDDITIE.
MY God, a verse is not a crown;
No point of honour, or gay suit,
No hawk, or banquet, or renown,
Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute:
It cannot vault, or dance, or play;
It never was in France or Spain;
Nor can it entertain the day
With a great stable or demain.
It is no office, art, or news;
Nor the Exchange, or busie Hall:
But it is that which while I use,
I am with thee, and Most take all.
45. HUMILITIE.
I SAW the Vertues sitting hand in hand
In sev’rall ranks upon an azure throne,
Where all the beasts and fowls, by their command,
Presented tokens of submission.
Humilitie, who sat the lowest there
To execute their call,
When by the beasts the presents tendred were,
Gave them about to all.
The angrie Lion did present his paw,
Which by consent was giv’n to Mansuetude.
The fearfull Hare her eares, which by their law
Humilitie did reach to Fortitude.
The jealous Turkie brought his corall-chain,
