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The Church.
¶ The H. Scriptures. I.
OH Book! infinite sweetnesse! let my heartSuck ev'ry letter, and a hony gain,Precious for any grief in any part;To cleare the breast, to mollifie all pain.
Thou art all health, health thriving, till it makeA full eternitie: thou art a masseOf strange delights, where we may wish & take,Ladies, look here; this is the thankfull glasse
That mends the lookers eyes: this is the wellThat washes what it shows. Who can indeareThy praise too much? thou art heav'ns Lieger here,Working against the states of death and hell.
Thou art joyes handsell: heav'n lies flat in thee,Subject to ev'ry mounters bended knee.
II.
OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,And the configurations of their glorie!Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine,But all the constellations of the storie.
This verse marks that, and both do make a motionUnto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,These three make up some Christians destinie:
Such
