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Who, when he is to treat

With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway,
Allows for that, and keeps his constant way:
Whom others' faults do not defeat;

But though men fail him, yet his part doth play:

Whom nothing can procure,

When the wide world runs bias, from his will
To writhe his limbs, and share, not mend the ill.—
This is the mark-man, safe and sure,

Who still is right, and prays to be so still.


Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.

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:
Surely, thought I,

This is the lace of Peace's coat:

I will search out the matter

But while I look'd, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,

The Crown Imperial: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell;

But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What shew'd so well.

At length I met a reverend good old man:
Whom, when for Peace

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
Through all the earth:

For they that taste it do rehearse
That virtues lie therein;

A secret virtue, bringing Peace and Mirth
By flight of sin.

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 fruit of this, the next world's bud,
Th' indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with His blood;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay;
The week were dark, but for thy light:
Thy torch doth shew the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The working-days are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone

To endless death; but thou dost pull,

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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,
And did unhinge that day.

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
That was requir'd to make us gay,
And fit for Paradise.

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:
My soul would stir

And trade in courtesies and wit,
Quitting the fur,

To cold complexions needing it.

Man is no star, but a quick coal
Of mortal fire:

Who blows it not, nor doth control
A faint desire,

Lets his own ashes choke his soul.

When th' elements did for place contest
With Him whose will
Ordain'd the highest to be best,
The earth sat still,

And by the others is opprest.

Life is a business, not good cheer;
Ever in wars.

The sun still shineth there or here,
Whereas the stars

Watch an advantage to appear.

Oh, that I were an orange tree,
That busy plant!

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