Even-song

                          Blest be the God of love,

Who gave us eyes, and light, and power this day,

             Both to be busy, and to play.

             But much more blest be God above,

                          Who gave me sight alone,

             Which to himself he did deny:

             For when he sees my ways, I die:

But I have got his son, and he has none.

                          What have I brought you home

For this your love? have I discharged the debt,

             Which this day's favor did beget?

             I ran; but all I brought, was foam.

                          Your diet, care, and cost

             Do end in bubbles, balls of wind;

             Of wind to you whom I have crossed,

But balls of wild-fire to my troubled mind.

                          Yet still you have gone on,

And now with darkness closest weary eyes,

             Saying to man, "It does suffice:

             Henceforth repose; your work is done."

                          Thus in your ebony box

             You do enclose us, till the day

             Put our amendment in our way,

And give new wheels to our disordered clocks.

                          I muse, which shows more love,

The day or night: that is the gale, this th' harbor;

             That is the walk, and this the arbor;

             Or that the garden, this the grove.

                          My God, you are all love.

             Not one poor minute 'scapes your breast,

             But brings a favor from above;

And in this love, more than in bed, I rest.