POORE Heart, what is this poorer world to Thee? Thou hast a God: Thy Selfe Thou hast: Can He & Thou Not make enough To slight bad times wch cannot last One minute longer then He lets them be. No wheel of Fate but rowles in his Great Hand And from His Touch its motion takes. No Kingdome jars With ruefull wars And into helplesse peeces breakes But when His Justice doth Divide ye Land. If then it Justice & His Justice be, Why doe thy silly feares gainsay? His constant Will Is Holy still, And must be done: what fooles are They Who would not have ye best Necessitie? Fond Passions, peace: O may that Sacred Pleasure Be done, though your Undoing stand Full in its way: A Soule dares say, I am no looser by yt hand; Heavns Will, & not mine owne, is my best Treasure. Heart, keep Thou That, though thine owne Will be lost, Least Thou thy selfe becomest so. Then though Hell rage On poor Earths stage, All things shall at thy pleasure goe. Unlesse Omnipotencie can be crost. |