WHat doth this noise of thoughts within my heart,
                       As if they had a part?
What do these loud complaints and pulling fears,
        As if there were no rules or eares?

But, Lord, the house and familie are thine,
                       Though some of them repine.
Turn out these wranglers, which defile thy seat:
        For where thou dwellest all is neat.

First Peace and Silence all disputes controll,
                       Then Order plaies the soul;
And giving all things their set forms and houres,
        Makes of wilde woods sweet walks and bowres.

Humble Obedience neare the doore doth stand,
                       Expecting a command:
Then whom in waiting nothing seems more slow,
        Nothing more quick when she doth go.

Joyes oft are there, and griefs as oft as joyes;
                       But griefs without a noise:
Yet speak they louder then distemper’d fears.
        What is so shrill as silent tears?

This is thy house, with these it doth abound:
                       And where these are not found,
Perhaps thou com’st sometimes, and for a day;
        But not to make a constant stay.