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Who, when he is to treat
With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway,
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.
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And ask'd if Peace were there. A hollow wind did seem to answer, No; Go, scek elsewhere.
I did; and going, did a rainbow note:
This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter
But while I look'd, the clouds immediately
Then went I to a garden, and did spy
The Crown Imperial: Sure, said I,
But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
At length I met a reverend good old man:
I did demand, he thus began:
There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.
He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes,
But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;
Which many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set.
It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse
For they that taste it do rehearse
A secret virtue, bringing Peace and Mirth
Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you:
Make bread of it, and then repose; And Peace, which everywhere With so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there.
O day most calm, most bright,
The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Man had straight forward gone
To endless death; but thou dost pull,
The rest of our Creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake, which at His passion
Did th' earth and all things with it move.
As Samson bore the doors away,
Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence;
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at His expense,
Whose drops of blood paid the full price
Thou art a day of mirth:
And where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:
Oh! let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Fly hand in hand to heaven!
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 th' elements did for place contest
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,