MY stock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandrie improve:
O let thy graces without cease
                                       Drop from above!

If still the sunne should hide his face,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works nights captives: O let grace
                                       Drop from above!

The dew doth ev’ry morning fall;
And shall the dew out-strip thy Dove?
The dew, for which grasse cannot call,
                                       Drop from above.

Death is still working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove:
Let grace work too, and on my soul
                                       Drop from above.

Sinne is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardnesse, void of love:
Let suppling grace, to crosse his art,
                                       Drop from above.

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.