The Church.
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O come! for thou dost know the way.Or if to me thou wilt not move,Remove me, where I need not say,Drop from above.
¶ Praise.
TO write a verse or two, is all the praise,That I can raise:Mend my estate in any wayes,Thou shalt have more.
I go to Church; help me to wings, and IWill thither flie;Or, if I mount unto the skie,I will do more.
Man is all weaknesse; there is no such thingAs Prince or King:His arm is short; yet with a slingHe may do more.
An herb distill'd, and drunk, may dwell next doore,On the same floore,To a brave soul: Exalt the poore,They can do more.
O raise me then! Poore bees, that work all day,Sting my delay,Who have a work, as well as they,And much, much more.
¶ Affliction.
KIll me not ev'ry day,Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for meIs more then all my deaths can be,Though I in broken payDie over each houre of Methusalems stay.
If
