But as I rav'd, and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,

Methought I heard one calling, ‘Child';
And I reply'd, 'My Lord.'

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 drest.

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 drest.

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 drest.

Christ is my only head,

My alone-only heart and breast,
My only music striking me ev'n dead,
That to the old man I may rest,
And he in Him new-drest.

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 drest.

THE QUIP.

The merry World did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together where I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.

First Beauty crept into a rose,

Which when I pluckt not, 'Sir,' said she,
'Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?'
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and chinking still,
'What tune is this, poor man?' said he:
'I heard in Music you had skill;'
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allow'd me half an eye;
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration:
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Yet when the hour of Thy design
To answer these fine things shall come,
Speak not at large; say, I am Thine,
And then they have their answer home.

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 grass,

He knows it-Fill the glass!

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.

Indeed, at first Man was a treasure,

A box of jewels, shop of rarities,

A ring whose posy was 'My pleasure'; He was a garden in a Paradise ;

Glory and grace

Did crown his heart and face.

But sin hath fool'd him; now he is
A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing
To raise him to a glimpse of bliss;
A sick-toss'd vessel, dashing on each thing,
Nay, his own shelf;

My God, I mean myself.

LOVE.

Thou art too hard for me in Love;

There is no dealing with Thee in that Art,
That is Thy Masterpiece, I see.
When I contrive and plot to prove
Something that may be conquest on my part,
Thou still, O Lord, outstrippest me.

Sometimes, when as I wash, I say,
And shrewdly as I think, Lord, wash my soul,
More spotted than my flesh can be!
But then there comes into my way

Thy ancient baptism, which when I was foul
And knew it not, yet cleansèd me.

I took a time when Thou didst sleep,
Great waves of trouble combating my breast:
I thought it brave to praise Thee then;
Yet then I found that Thou didst creep
Into my heart with joy, giving more rest
Than flesh did lend Thee back again.

Let me but once the conquest have
Upon the matter, 'twill Thy conquest prove:
If Thou subdue mortality,

Thou dost no more than doth the grave;
Whereas if I o'ercome Thee and Thy love,
Hell, Death, and Devil come short of me.

THE PULLEY.

When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessing standing by;
Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:
Let the world's riches which dispersed lie
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;

Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure; When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,

Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said he)

Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature ;
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.

Some fruit for him that dressèd me.

But we are still too young or old;
The man is gone

Before we do our wares unfold;

So we freeze on,

Until the grave increase our cold.

THE WORLD.

Love built a stately house, where Fortune came;

And spinning fancies, she was heard to say
That her fine cobwebs did support the frame,
Whereas they were supported by the same;
But Wisdom quickly swept them all away.

Then Pleasure came, who, liking not the fashion,
Began to make balconies, terraces,

Till she had weaken'd all by alteration;
But rev'rend laws, and many a proclamation,
Reformed all at length with menaces.