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. Sundays the pillars are, On which heaven's palace arched lies: Which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man's life, This day my Saviour rose, The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at his passion Christ's hands, tho'nail'd, wroughtour salvation, The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence: Whose drops of blood paid the full price, Thou art a day of mirth: And where the week-days trail on ground, O let me take thee at the bound, TO ALL ANGELS AND SAINTS. OH glorious spirits, who after all your bands, See the smooth face of God, without a frown, Or strict commands; Where ev'ry one is king, and hath his crown,If not upon his head, yet in his hands: Not out of envy or maliciousness My vows to thee most gladly, blessed maid, Thou art the holy mine, whence came the gold, The great restorative for all decay In young and old; Thou art the cabinet where the jewel lay :- But now, alas! I dare not; for our King, And where his pleasure no injunction lays, All worship is prerogative, and a flower, Therefore we dare not from his garland steal, Although then others court you, if ye know Since we are ever ready to disburse, EMPLOYMENT. He that is weary, let him sit: And trade in courtesies and wit, To cold complexions needing it. Man is no star, but a quick coal Who blows it not, nor doth control Lets his own ashes choke his soul. When the elements did for place contest Ordain'd the highest to be best, And by the others is opprest. Life is a business, not good cheer; The sun still shineth there or here, Watch an advantage to appear. Oh that I were an orange-tree, Then should I ever laden be, Some fruit for him that dresseth me. But we are still too young or old; Before we do our wares unfold: So we freeze on, Until the grave increase our cold. CHRISTMAS. THE shepherds sing, and shall I silent be? My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds Of thoughts, and words, and deeds. The pasture is thy word; the streams thy grace Enriching all the place. Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Out-sing the day-light hours. |