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L

MISERY

LORD, Let the angels praise Thy name;

Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing;

Folly and sin play all his game;

His house still burns; and yet he still doth sing:

Man is but grass,

He knows it; 'fill the glass.'

They quarrel6161quarrel, used actively Thee, and would give over

The bargain made to serve Thee; but Thy love

Holds them unto it, and doth cover

Their follies with the wings of Thy mild Dove,

Not suffering those

Who would, to be Thy foes.

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Man cannot serve Thee: let him go

And serve the swine--there, there is his delight:

He doth not like this virtue, no;

Give him his dirt to wallow in all night;

'These preachers make

His head to shoot and ache.'

O foolish man! where are thine eyes?

How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares!

Thou pull'st the rug6262rug, apparently, counterpane, and wilt not rise,

No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars:

'There let them shine,

Thou must go sleep, or dine.'

The bird that sees a dainty bower

Made in the tree where she was wont to sit,

Wonders and sings, but not His power

Who made the arbour: this exceeds her wit.

But Man doth know

The spring whence all things flow:

And yet, as though he knew it not,

His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign;

They make his life a constant blot,

And all the blood of GOD to run in vain.

Ah, wretch! what verse

Can thy strange ways rehearse?


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