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The constant hope of soules opprest 19 Shall not aye dye. Rise from thy rest,

O Lord. Let not men base and rude

Prevaile: judge thou the multitude
20 Of lawlesse Pagans : strike pale feare

Into those brests, that stubborne were:
And let the Gentiles feele and find,
They beene but men of mortall kind.



"O God, consider.
WHY stand'st thou, Lord, aloofe so long,

And bid'st thee in due times of need, 2 While lewd men proudly offer wrong

Unto the poore? In their owne deed

And their device, let them be caught. 3 For, loe, the wicked braves and boasts,

In his vile and outragious thought;

And blesseth him, that ravines most. 4. On God he dares insult : his pride

Scornes to enquire of powers above;

But his stout thoughts have still deni'd 5 There is a God. His wayes yet prove

Aye prosperous: thy judgements hye

Doe farre surmount his dimmer sight. 6 Therefore doth he all foes defie:

His heart saith, I shall stand in spight,

Nor ever move; nor danger 'bide. 7 His mouth is fill'd with curses foule,

And with close fraud: his tongue doth hide 8 Mischiefe and ill : he seekes the soule

Of harmelesse men, in secret wait;
And, in the corners of the street,
Doth shed their blood : with scorne and hate,
His eyes upon


poore are set. 9 As some fell lion in his den,

He closely lurks, the poore to spoyle:
He spoiles the poore and helplesse men,

When once he snares them in his toyle. 10 He crowcheth low in cunning wile,

And bowes his brest; whereon whole throngs
Of poore, whom his faire shewes beguile,
Fall to be subject to his wrongs.

11 God hath forgot, in soule he sayes :

He hides his face to never see. 12 Lord God, arise, thy hand up-raise :

Let not thy poore forgotten be. 13 Shall these insulting

wretches scorne Their God; and say, thou wilt not care ? 14 Thou see'st (for all thou hast forborne)

Thou see'st what all their mischiefes are;
That to thy hand of vengeance just
Thou maist them take: the poore distressed
Relye on thee with constant trust,

The helpe of orphans and oppressed.
15 Oh! breake the wickeds' arme of might,

And search out all their cursed traines,

And let them vanish out of sight. 16 The Lord, as King, for ever reignes.

From forth his coasts, the heathen sect 17 Are rooted quite: thou, Lord, attend'st

To poore men's suits; thou do'st direct

Their hearts: to them thine eare thou bend'st; 18 That thou mayst rescue from despight,

The wofull fatherlesse and poore :
That so, the vaine and earthen wight
On us may tyrannize no more.




LORD, what am I? A worm, dust, vapor, nothing !
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasie clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying:

My time, my flesh, my life, and I;

What are we, Lord, but vanity?"
Where am I, Lord ? Downe in a vale of death :
What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending;
My sport sin too, my stay a puffe of breath :
What end of sin? Hell's horrour, never ending :

My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place

Help to make up my dolefull case. Lord, what art thou ? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss : Where dwell'st thou ? Up above, in perfect light: What is thy time? Eternity it is: What state? Attendance of each glorious sp'rit:

Thyself, thy place, thy dayes, thy state

Pass all the thoughts of powers create.
How shall I reach thee, Lord ? Oh, soar above,
Ambitious soul : But which way should I flie?
Thou, Lord, art way and end: What wings have I?
Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love:

Oh, let these wings, that way alone
Present me to thy blissfull throne.





MMORTALL babe, who this dear day
Didst change thy heaven for our clay,
And didst with fresh thy Godhead vail,
Eternal Son of God, all hail!
Shine, happy Star, ye Angels sing
Glory on high to Heaven's King :
Run, Shepherds, leave your nightly watch,
See heaven come down to Bethleem's cratch.
Worship, ye Sages of the East,
The King of Gods in meanness drest.
O Blessed Maid, smile and adore
The God, thy womb and armes have bore.
Star, Angels, Shepherds, and wise Sages;
Thou Virgin, glory of all ages;
Restored frame of heaven and earth;
Joy in your Dear Redeemer's birth,

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Leave, O my soul, this baser world below,
Oh, leave this dolefull dungeon of woe;
And soare aloft to that supernal rest,
That maketh all the Saints and Angels blest.

Lo there the Godhead's radiant throne,

Like to ten thousand suns in one! Lo there thy Saviour dear in glory dight Ador'd of all the powers of heavens bright: Lo where that head, that bled with thorny wound, Shines ever with celestial honour crownd:

That hand, that held the scornfull reed,

Makes all the fiends infernall dread: That back and side, that ran with bloody streams, Daunt angels' eyes with their majestick beames: Those feet, once fastened to the cursed tree, Trample on death and hell, in glorious glee.

Those lips, once drench't with gall, do make

With their dread doom the world to quake. Behold those joyes thou never canst behold; Those precious gates of pearl, those streets of gold, Those streams of life, those trees of paradise, That never can be seen by mortal eyes :

And, when thou seest this state divine,

Think that it is or shall be thine.
See there the happy troups of purest sprights,
That live above in endless true delights;
And see where once thyself shalt ranged be,
And look and long for immortalitie:

And now, beforehand, help to sing
Hallelujahs to Heaven's King.

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