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Which render God his prayses meete,
And teache vs to reioyce :
And as they more esteeme that merth
Than dread the night's annoy,
So must we deeme our dayes on erth
But hell to heauenly ioye.

Unto which ioyes for to attayne
God graunt vs all hys grace,
And send vs, after worldlie payne,
In heauen to haue a place:
Where wee maye still enioye that light,
Which neuer shall decaye:
Lord, for thy mercy lend vs might
To see that ioyfull daye.

Haud ictus sapio.

WHEN thou hast spent the lingring daye
In pleasure and delight,
Or after toyle and wearie waye
Dost seeke to rest at nighte:
Unto thy paynes or pleasures past
Adde thys one labor yet,
Ere sleepe close vp thyne eie too fast,
Doo not thy God forget.

But searche within thy secret thought,
What deeds did thee befall;
And if thou find amisse in ought,
To God for mercie call.
Yea, though thou find nothing amisse,
Which thou canst call to mind,
Yet euermore remember this,
There is the more behind.

And thinke, how well so euer it be
That thou hast spent the daye,
It came of God, and not of thee,
So to direct thy waye.
Thus if thou trie thy dayly deedes,
And pleasure in thys payne,
Thy life shall clense thy corne from weeds,
And thine shal be the gaine.

But if thy sinfull sluggishe eye
Will venter for to winke,
Before thy wading will maye trye
How far thy soule maye sinke;
Beware and wake, for else thy bed,
Which soft and smoth is made,
May heape more harm vpon thy head,
Than blowes of enmies' blade.

Thus if this paine procure thine ease
In bed as thou doost lye,
Perhaps it shall not God displease
To sing thus soberly-
I see that sleepe is lent me here
To ease my wearie bones,
As death at laste shall eeke appeere,
To ease my greeuous grones.

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The stretching armes, the yauning breath, Which I to bedward vse, Are patternes of the pangs of death, When life will me refuse: And of my bed eche sundrye part In shaddowes doth resemble The sundry shapes of deth, whose dart Shal make my flesh to tremble.

My bed it selfe is like the graue, My sheetes the winding sheete,

My cloths the inould which I must haue
To couer me most meete:
The waking cock, that early crowes
To weare the night awaye,
Puts in my minde the trumpe that blowes
Before the latter daye.
And as I ryse vp lustily,
When sluggish sleep is past,
So hope I to ryse ioyfully
To iudgment at the last.
Thus will I wake, thus will I sleepe,
Thus will I hope to ryse ;
Thus will I neither waile nor weepe,
But sing in godly wyse.

My bones shall in this bed remaine,
My soule in God shall trust;
By whome I hope to ryse againe
From death and earthlie dust.

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SONNET II. SWEETE Saviour! from whose fivefold bleeding

wound That comfortable antidote distilde,

Which that ranck poyson hath expeld and kild, In our old wretched father Adam found In Paradise, when he desertlesse crown'd

Receav'd it as th' envenomde Serpent willde;

Insteede of lustfull eyes with arrowes fillde Of sinful loves, which from their beames abound,

Let those sweete blessed wounds with streams

of grace

Aboundantly sollicite my poor spirite,

Ravishde with love of Thee, that didst debase Thyselfe on earth, that I might heaven inherite.

O blessed sweet wounds ! fountains of electre ! My wounded soul's balm, and salvation's nectre.


BLESSED Creatour ! let thine onely Sonne,

Sweete blossome, stocke, and root of David's line, The cleare, bright morning-starre, give light

and shine On my poore spirit; which hath new begunne With his Love's praise, and with vain loves hath

donne. To my poor Muse let him his eares incline, Thirsting to taste of that celestiall wine

Whose purple streame hath our salvation wonne. O gracious Bridegroome! and thrice-lovely

Bride! Which—"Come and fill who will”—for ever crie;

“ Water of life to no man is denyde; Fill still, who will,—if any man be drye."

O heavenly voice! I thirst, I thirst, and come For life, with other sinners to get some.

SONNET VII. White spotlesse Lambe! whose precious sweete

bloudshed The whole world's sinneful debt hath satis

fied, For sinners scorn'd, whippde, wounded, cruci

fied ;

Beholde my sinfull soule by Sathan led
Even to the gates of hell, where will be read

My Conscience's blacke booke; unlesse supplide
Be to those leaves past number thy wounds

wide, Whose purple issue, which for sinners bled,

Shall wash the register of my foul sin, And thence blot out the vile memoriall :

Then let thy blessed Angell enter in My temple purged, and that bistoriall

Of my sinnes numberlesse in deepe seas cast; So shall I be new borne and sav'd at last.

SONNET VIII. LYON of Judah! which dost judge, and fight

With endlesse justice; whose anointed head

Was once with wounding thornes invironed, But now with sacred crownes, by glorious right; Whose glorious hoast succeedes in armour white;

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