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GEORGE HERBERT.

PUBLIC WORSHIP.

RESTORE to God his due in tithe and time;
A tithe purloin'd, cankers the whole estate.
Sundays observe: think when the bells do chime,
'Tis angels' music; therefore come not late.

God then deals blessings; if a king did so,
Who would not haste, nay give, to see the show?

Twice on the day his due is understood,
For all the week thy food so oft he gave thee.
Thy cheer is mended; bate not of the food,
Because 'tis better, and perhaps may save thee.

Thwart not th' Almighty God; O be not cross.
Fast when thou wilt, but then 'tis gain, not loss.

Though private prayer be a brave design,
Yet public hath more promises, more love;
And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes a sign.
We all are but cold suitors; let us move

Where it is warmest. Leave thy six and seven; Pray with the most; for where most pray, is heav'n.

When once thy foot enters the church, be bare.
God is more there than thou: for thou art there
Only by his permission. Then beware,
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne'er spoil'd silk stocking: quit thy

state:

All equal are within the church's gate.

Resort to sermons, but to prayers most:
Praying's the end of preaching. O be drest;

Stay not for the other pin.

A joy for it worth worlds.

Why, thou hast lost

Thus hell doth jest

Away thy blessings, and extremely flout thee, Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.

In time of service seal up both thine eyes,
And send them to thy heart; that, spying sin,
They may weep out the stains by them did rise.
Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in.
Who marks in church-time others' symmetry,
Makes all their beauty his deformity.

Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part; Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasure thither.

Christ purg'd his temple; so must thou thy heart.
All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together
To cozen thee. Look to thy action well,
For churches either are our heaven or hell.

Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge:
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not.
God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge
To pick out treasures from an earthen pot.

The worst speak something good if all want

sense,

God takes a text, and preacheth patience.

He that gets patience, and the blessing which
Preachers conclude with, hath not lost his pains.
He that by being at church, escapes the ditch,
Which he might fall in by companions, gains.
He that loves God's abode, and to combine
With saints on earth, shall one day with them
shine.

Jest not at preachers' language or expression:
How know'st thou but thy sins made him miscarry?
Then turn thy faults and his into confession :
God sent him whatsoe'er he be: O tarry,

And love him for his Master: his condition,
Though it be ill, makes him no ill physician.

None shall in hell such bitter pangs endure,
As those who mock at God's way of salvation.
Whom oil and balsams kill, what salve can

cure?

They drink with greediness a full damnation. The Jews refused thunder; and we folly. Though God do hedge us in, yet who is holy?

THE REPRISAL.

I HAVE Consider'd it, and find
There is no dealing with thy mighty passion;
For though I die for thee, I am behind;

My sins deserve the condemnation.

O make me innocent, that I
May give a disentangled state and free;
And yet thy wounds still my attempts defy,
For by thy death I die for thee.

Ah! was it not enough that thou By thy eternal glory didst outgo me? Couldst thou not grief's sad conquest me allow, But in all victories overthrow me ?

Yet by confession will I come Into the conquest. Though I can do nought Against thee, in thee I will overcome The man, who once against thee fought.

GOOD FRIDAY.

O MY chief good,

How shall I measure out thy blood?
How shall I count what thee befel,
And each grief tell?

Shall I thy woes

Number according to thy foes?

Or, since one star show'd thy first breath,
Shall all thy death?

Or shall each leaf,

Which falls in autumn, score a grief?
Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be sign
Of the true vine ?

Then let each hour

Of my whole life one grief devour;

That thy distress through all may run,
And be my sun:

Or rather let

My sev'ral sins their sorrows get;
That as each beast his cure doth know,
Each sin may so.

EASTER.

I GOT me flowers to strew thy way;
I got me boughs off many a tree :
But thou wast up by break of day,
And brought'st thy sweets along with thee.

The sun arising in the east,

Though he give light, and the east perfume;

If they should offer to contest

With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we miss :
There is but one, and that one ever.

HOLY BAPTISM.

SINCE, Lord, to thee
A narrow way and little gate

Is all the passage, on my infancy
Thou didst lay hold, and antedate
My faith in me.

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