Parents first season us: then schoolmasters

          Deliver us to laws; they send us bound

To rules of reason, holy messengers,

Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,

          Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,

          Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,

Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,

Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,

          The sound of glory ringing in our ears:

          Without, our shame; within, our consciences;

Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.

          Yet all these fences and their whole array

          One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.

A Wreath

A wreathéd garland of deservéd praise,

Of praise deservéd, unto thee I give,

I give to thee, who knowest all my ways,

My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,

Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,

Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,

To thee, who art more far above deceit,

Than deceit seems above simplicity.

Give me simplicity, that I may live,

So live and like, that I may know, thy ways,

Know them and practice them: then shall I give

For this poor wreath, give thee a crown of praise.