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ALL after pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I both tir’d, body and mind,
With full cry of affections quite astray, I took up in the next inn I could find. There, when I came, whom found I, but my dear-
My dearest Lord; expecting, till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to him; ready there,
Wrapt in night's inantle, stole into a manger;
of all beasts, be not thou a stranger.
My God, no hymn for thee?
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
Enriching all the place.
Out-sing the day-light hours.
Take up his place and right;
Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a Sun
Shall stay till we have done
As frost-nipt suns look sadly.
And one another pay.
[H E R B E R T.]
My God, I heard this day,
But he that means to dwell therein.
What house more stately hath there been,
All things are in decay.
For Man is ev'ry thing;
A beast; yet is, or should be more;
Reason and speech we only bring. Parrots may
thank us, if they are not mute;
Man is all symmetry,
And to all the world besides.
Each part may call the farthest brother. For bead with foot hath private amity; And both, with moons and tides.
Nothing hath got so far,
His eyes dismount the highest star:
He is, in little, all the sphere.
Find their acquaintance there.
For us the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see, but means our good;
As our delight, or as our treasure.
Or cabinet of pleasure.
The stars have us to bed : Night draws the curtain; which the sun withdraws.
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind,
In their ascent and cause.
Each thing is full of duty : Waters united are our navigation:
Distinguished, our habitation;
Below, our drink; above, our meat:
Then how are all things neat!
More servants wait on Man,
He treads down that, which doth befriend him
When sickness makes him pale and wan.
Another to attend him.
Since then, my God, thou hast
That it may dwell with thee at last!
Till then, afford us so much wit, 'That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee;
And both thy servants be.
PEACE! prattler, do not lour,
Music to thee doth howl.
Prattler, no more, I say,
No room for prattlers there.
And the receipt shall be
And leaves thee not a word,
Yet, if thou talkest still,
For those that trouble me.
Can'st be idle, can'st thou play,
RIVERS run, and springs each one
gone : Hast thou tears, or hast thou none?
If, poor soul, thou hast no tears,
Winds still work; it is their plot,
But, if yet thou idle be,
Foolish soul, who died for thee?