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Though Thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes,
Which, though they turn away sometimes,

They never will despise.

I sacrifice this island unto Thee,
And all whom I loved there, and who loved me;
When I have put our seas 'twixt them and me,
Put Thou thy seas betwixt my sins and Thee.
As the tree's sap doth seek the root below
In winter, in my winter now I go,
Where none but Thee, th' eternal root
Of true love, I

may

know.

Not Thou nor thy religion, dost control
The amorousness of an harmonious soul ;
But Thou wouldst have that love Thyself : as Thou
Art jealous, Lord, so am I jealous now,
Thou lovest not, till from loving more, Thou free
My soul: who ever gives, takes liberty :
Oh! if Thou carest not whom I love,

Alas! Thou lovest not me.

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Seal, then, this bill of my divorce to all
On whom those fainter beams of love did fall ;
Marry those loves which in youth scattered be
On Fame, Wit, Hope, (false mistresses,) to Thee.
Churches are best for prayer, that have least light:
To see God only, I go out of sight,
And to 'scape stormy days, I choose

An everlasting night.

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Since I am coming to that holy room

Where with the choir of saints for evermore
I shall be made thy music, as I come

I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then think here before.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown

Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown

That this is my southwest discovery,
Per fretum febris, by these straits to die ;

I joy that in these straits I see my west ;

For though those currents yield return to none,
What shall my west hurt me ? as west and east

In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,
So death doth touch the resurrection.

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We think that Paradise and Calvary,

Christ's cross and Adam's tree, stood in one place,
Look, Lord! and find both Adams met in me :

As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,
May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.

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So in his purple wrapped receive me, Lord,

By these his thorns give me his holy crown,
And as to others' souls I preached thy word,

Be this my iext, my sermon to mine own;
Therefore, that He may raise, the Lord throws down.

BEN JONSON.

This eminent poet was born in London in 1574. Though like many other poets of his day, Jonson too briefly and too rarely forsook the service of the profaner muse for that of religion, the religious poetry he has left behind him is of a very high order. He died in 1637.

E UPH EM E's MIND.
PAINTER, you're come, but may

be

gone,
Now I have better thought thereon;
This work I can perform alone,
And give you reasons more than one.
Not that your art I do refuse,
But here I may no colors use ;
Beside, your hand will never hit
To draw a thing that cannot sit.
You could make shift to paint an eye,
An eagle tow'ring in the sky,
The sun, a sea, or soundless pit ;
But these are like a mind, not it.

No; to express a mind to sense
Would ask a heaven's intelligence;
Since nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kin to whence it came.

A mind so pure, so perfect, fine,
As 'tis not radiant, but divine ;
And, so disdaining any tryer,
'Tis got where it can try the fire.
There, high exalted in the sphere,
As it another nature were,
It moveth all, and makes a flight
As circular as infinite.

Whose notions, when it will express
In speech, it is with that excess
Of grace and music to the ear,
As what it spoke it planted there.

The voice so sweet, the words so fair,
As some soft chime had stroked the air ;
And though the sound were parted thence,
Still left an echo in the sense.

But, that a mind so rapt, so high,
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
Itself to us, and come so nigh
Earth's grossness; there's the how, and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,
And stuck in clay here, it would pull
Us forth by some celestial flight,
Up to her own sublimed height?

Or hath she here upon the ground,
Some paradise or palace found,
In all the bounds of beauty fit
For her to inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy house, that hast receipt
For this so lofty form, so straight,
So polished, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid moulded off from heaven.

Not swelling like the ocean proud,
But stooping gently as a cloud:
As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm
As showers, and sweet as drops of balm.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood
Where it may run to any good;
And where it stays, it there becomes
A nest of odorous spice and

gums.

In action, winged as the wind,
In rest, like spirits left behind
Upon a bank, or field of flowers,
Begotten by that wind and showers.

In thee, fair mansion, let it rest,
Yet know with what thou art possessed ;
Thou entertaining in thy breast
But such a mind, makest God thy guest.

THE GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE.

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be ;
Or standing long an oak three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

THOMAS CAREW. Tus poet was born about 1577. He received his education at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where his genius and abilities early attracted notice. He was introduced to court, probably by his brother, and appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and sewer in ordinary to King Charles the First; which posts he retained till his death, in 1639. Carew was the author of miscellaneous poems, not, unfortunately, all of a religious nature; but those that are so, have great benuty and simplicity.

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BEWITCHING syren! golden rottenness!
Thou hast with cunning artifice displayed

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