Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss : This book of stars lights to eternal bliss. GRACE. My stock lies dead, and no increase Drop from above. If still the sun should hide his face, The dew doth ev'ry morning fall: Death is still working like a mole, Sin is still hammering my heart, Let suppling grace to cross his art, O come! for thou dost know the way: Remove me where I need not say, 'Drop from above.' CHURCH MUSIC. SWEETEST of sweets, I thank you; when displeasure Did through my body wound my mind, You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure A dainty lodging me assign'd. Now I in you without a body move, 6 Yet say sometimes, God help poor kings!' Comfort, I'll die; for if you post from me, But if I travel in your company, You know the way to Heaven's door. THE WINDOWS. LORD, how can man preach thy eternal Word? Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford, But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story, Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one CONSTANCY. WHO is the honest man ?— Whose honesty is not So loose or easy, that a ruffling wind While the world now rides by, now lags behind : Who, when great trials come, Nor seeks, nor shuns them; but doth calmly stay, All being brought into a sum, Whom none can work, or woo, To use in any thing a trick or slight; His words and works, and fashion too, Who never melts or thaws At close temptations: when the day is done, And is their virtue-Virtue is his sun: Who, when he is to treat With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, Allows for that, and keeps his constant way: Whom others' faults do not defeat; But though men fail him, yet his part doth play: Whom nothing can procure, When the wide world runs bias, from his will Who still is right, and prays to be so still. AFFLICTION. My heart did heave, and there came forth, 'O God!' Making a sceptre of the rod : Hadst thou not had thy part, Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart. But since thy breath gave me both life and shape, The sigh then only is A gale to bring me sooner to my bliss. Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still A point of honour, now to grieve in me, They who lament one cross, SUNDAY. O DAY most calm, most bright, The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Man had straight forward gone The which he doth not fill. |