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WEEGTQ.
Even EF GTE E
T.: pista

ei
On

Wetan
All the reared in
And rejorcina si Borante
Their teen berka seare Here:
Pleasure sir.z. Ey socio est,
Plentie wears me a: ker brest,
Whose sweet temper teaches the
Sor wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet, the blahh ring mountaine
Weeping, melts into a fountaine ;
Whose soft, silver-sweating streames
Make high-noon forget his beames :
When my wayward breath is flying,
He calls home my soul from dying;

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1

i Appeared originally in the Steps' of 1646 (pp. 25-27): was re. printed in editions of 1618 (pp. 40-42) and 1670 (pp. 26-28). Our text is that of 1648: but see Notes and Illustrations at close of the

poem. G.

VOL. I.

K

61

I) THE NIME BOVE EVERY NIE.

Next to their own low Nothing, they may ly,
And conch letore tl lazeling light of Thy dread

majesty.
They that by Loue's mili ilictate now

Will not allore Ther,
Shall then, with just confusion bow

and break before Thee.

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VOTES AND ILLI STRITIONS.

.

The title in 1618 • Steps' is simply On the name of Jesus In 1670) it is. To the lume above every Name, the Name of Jesnis, it Ily and throughout differs froin our text (1972) only in 1151 modernisation of orthography: The text of 1018 viells these learlines: Line 7, the bright.'

12, * of thi's,
199, Into it habit fit of self timil Harmonie.'
7!), you're
92, aloud.
10.5, “Seraphins.
106, loyall for joyfull.'
1:32, 'heavens,
152 spells sillabell.'
157. • The soules tastos thee takes from thence
202, bare
201, wue'

20:1, · For Thee : Au servil therein thy glorious culs.' See on Essay for critical remarks on the measure and rhythm of this poem is printul in our text (16.52). G.

6

*

PSALME XXIII.1

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Happy me! O happy sheepe !
Whom my God vouchsafes to keepe;
Even my God, even He it is,
That points me to these paths of blisse;
On Whose pastures cheerefull Spring,
All the yeare doth sit and sing,
And rejoycing, smiles to see
Their
green

backs weare His liverie :
Pleasure sings my soul to rest,
Plentie weares me at her brest,
Whose sweet temper teaches me
Nor wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet, the blubb’ring mountaine
Weeping, melts into a fountaine ;
Whose soft, silver-sweating streames
Make high-noon forget his beames :
When my wayward breath is flying,
He calls home my soul from dying ;

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a

15

1

6

Appeared originally in the Steps' of 1646 (pp. 25-27): was re. printed in editions of 1648 (pp. 40-42) and 1670 (pp. 26-28). Our text is that of 1648: but see Notes and Illustrations at close of the poem. G.

VOL. 1.

K

50

55

And Thy staffe, whose influence
Gives direction, gives defence.
At the whisper of Thy word
Crown’d abundance spreads my boord :
While I feast, my foes doe feed
Their ranck malice not their need,
So that with the self-same bread
They are starv'd and I am fed.
How my head in ointment swims !
How my cup o'relooks her brims !
So, even so still

may

I

move,
By the line of Thy deare love;
Still may Thy sweet mercy spread
A shady arme above my head,
About my paths; so shall I find,
The faire center of my mind,
Thy temple, and those lovely walls
Bright ever with a beame, that falls
Fresh from the pure glance of Thine eye,
Lighting to Eternity.
There I'le dwell for ever; there
Will I find a purer aire
To feed my life with, there I'le sup
Balme and nectar in my cup;
And thence my ripe soule will I breath
Warme into the armes of Death.

60

a

65

70

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