DOTAGE.

FALSE glosing pleasures,-casks of happiness,Foolish night-fires,-women's and children's

wishes,

Chases in arras,-gilded emptiness,-
Shadows well mounted,-dreams in a career,-
Embroider'd lies,-nothing between two dishes:-
These are the pleasures here.

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,
Who griefs in earnest, joys in jest pursue;
Preferring, like brute beasts, a loathsome den
Before a court,-ev'n that above, so clear,-
Where are no sorrows, but delights more true
Than miseries are here!

BITTER-SWEET.

Ан, my dear angry Lord!

Since thou dost love,-yet strike;
Cast down,-yet help afford;

Sure, I will do the like.

I will complain,—yet praise ;—

I will bewail,-approve ;

And all my sour-sweet days

I will lament, and love.

AARON.

HOLINESS On the head;

Light and perfections on the breast, Harmonious bells below, raising the dead, To lead them unto life and rest;— Thus are true Aarons dress'd.

Profaneness in my head;

Defects and darkness in my breast;
A noise of passions ringing me, for dead,
Unto a place where is no rest;—
Poor priest thus am I dress'd.

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;
My only music, striking me e'en dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in bim new dress'd

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

Brought thee low,

Needs must work on me:

Throw away thy rod!
Though man frailties hath,
Thou art God!

Throw away thy wrath!

THE BANQUET.

WELCOME, Sweet and sacred cheer!
Welcome dear!

With me, in me, live and dwell :
For thy neatness passeth sight;
Thy delight

Passeth tongue, to taste, or tell.

O what sweetness from the bowl
Fills my soul,

Such as is, and makes, divine!
Is some star, fled from the sphere,
Melted there,

As we sugar melt in wine?

Or hath sweetness in the bread

Made a head

To subdue the smell of sin;

Flow'rs, and gums, and powders giving
All their living,
Lest the enemy should win?

Only God who gives perfumes,
Flesh assumes,

And with it perfumes my heart.

But as pomanders and wood
Still are good;

Yet, being bruis'd, are better scented;
God, to show how far his love

Could improve,

Here, as broken, is presented.

When I had forgot my birth,'
And on earth,

In delights of each was drown'd;
God took blood, and needs would be

Spilt with me,

And so found me on the ground.

Having rais'd me to look up,

In a cup

Sweetly he doth meet my taste.
But, I still being low and short,
Far from court,

Wine becomes a wing at last.

For, with it alone I fly

To the sky:

Where I wipe mine eyes and see
What I seek for, what I sue:

Him I view,

Who hath done so much for me.

Let the wonder of this pity

Be my ditty,

And take up my lines and life: