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Since then, my God, thou hast

So brave a palace built; O dwell in it,
That it may dwell with thee at last!

'Till then afford us so much wit,

That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee, And both thy servants be.

UNKINDNESS.

LORD, make me tender to offend :
In friendship, first I think, if that agree,
Which I intend,

Unto my friend's intent and end.-
I would not use a friend as I use thee.

If any touch my friend, or his good name,
It is my honour and my love to free

His blasted fame

From the least spot or thought of blame.-I could not use a friend as I use thee.

My friend may spit upon my curious floor :
Would he have gold? I lend it instantly;
But let the poor,

And thou within them, starve at door.-
I cannot use a friend as I use thee.

When that my friend pretendeth to a place,
I quit my interest, and leave it free;

But when thy grace

Sues for my heart, I thee displace;

Nor would I use a friend as I use thee.

S

Yet, can a friend, what thou hast done, fulfil ?
O write in brass, "My God upon a tree
His blood did spill,

Only to purchase my good will ;-
Yet use I not my foes as I use thee."

LIFE.

I MADE a posy, while the day ran by:
"Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.”

But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And wither'd in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition;

Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,

Yet sugaring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye spent,

Fit, while

ye liv'd, for smell or ornament;

And after death for cures.

I follow straight, without complaints or grief;
Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours.

MORTIFICATION.

How soon doth man decay !—

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets To swaddle infants, whose young breath Scarce knows the way:

They are like little winding-sheets, Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,
They step into their voluntary graves;

Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead:

Successive nights, like rolling waves, Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free, And calls for music, while his veins do swell, All day exchanging mirth and breath

In company;

That music summons to the knell,

Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise, Getting a house and home, where he may move Within the circle of his breath, Schooling his eyes;

That dumb inclosure maketh love

Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak,

Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry year,

Till all do melt, and drown his breath

When he would speak;

A chair or litter shows the bier, Which shall convey him to the house of death.

Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And dress'd his hearse, while he hath breath

As yet to spare.

Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,

That all these dyings may be life in death.

MISERY.

LORD, let the angels praise thy name. Man is a foolish thing-a foolish thing; Folly and sin play all his game.

His house still burns; and yet he still doth sing, "Man is but glass,

He knows it, fill the glass."

How canst thou brook his foolishness?
Nay, he'll not lose a cup of drink for thee:
Bid him but temper his excess;

Not he; he knows where he can better be,
As he will swear,

Than to serve thee in fear.

What strange pollutions doth he wed, And make his own, as if none knew but he! No man shall beat into his head,

That thou within his curtains drawn canst see:

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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

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