the flouds lift up, Lord, flouds lift up,
the flouds lift up their noyse.
The Lord on high then waters noyse
more strong, then waves of sea.
Thy words most sure: Lord, holines
becomes thine house for aye.
A song of degrees, of David
How good and sweet, o see,
i'ts for brethren to dwell
together in unitee:
It's like choise oyle that fell
the head upon,
that downe did flow
the beard unto,
beard of Aron;
The skirts of his garment
that unto them went downe;
Like Hermons dews descent
Sions mountaines upon;
for there to bee
the Lords blessing,
life aye lasting
WONDER-WORKING PROVIDENCE OF SIONS
SAVIOUR IN NEW-ENGLAND
From silent night, true Register of moans,
From saddest soul consum'd in deepest sin,
From heart quite rent with sighs and heavy groans,
My wailing muse her woful work begins,
And to the world brings tunes of sad lament,
Sounding nought els but sorrows sad relent.
Lord, stay thy hand; thy Jacobs number 's small;
Powre out thy wrath on Antichrists proud Thrones;
Here thy poor flocks that on thee daily call,
Bottle their tears, and pity their sad groans.
Where shall we go, Lord Christ? we turn to thee;
Heal our back-slidings, forward press shall we.
Not we, but all thy Saints the world throughout
Shall on thee wait, thy wonders to behold;
Thou King of Saints, the Lord in battel stout,
Increase thy armies many thousand fold.
Oh Nations all, his anger seek to stay,
That doth create him armies every day.
To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,
Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,
For my mean pen are too superiour things,
Or how they all or each their dates have run:
Let Poets and Historians set these forth;
My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth.
But when my wondring eyes and envious heart
Great Bartas sugar'd lines do but read o're,
Fool, I do grudg the Muses did not part
'Twixt him and me that overfluent store;
A Bartas can do what a Bartas will,
But simple I according to my skill.
From school-boyes tongue no rhet'rick we expect,
Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings.
Nor perfect beauty where's a main defect:
My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so sings;
And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,
'Cause nature made it so irreparable.
Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongu'd Greek
Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain;
By Art he gladly found what he did seek,
A full requital of his striving pain:
Art can do much; but this maxime's most sure,
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.
I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
Who says my hand a needle better fits;
A Poets pen all scorn I should thus wrong,
For such despite they cast on Female wits:
If what I do prove well it won't advance;
They 'l say it's stoln, or else it was by chance.
But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our Sexe why feigned they those Nine,
And poesy made Calliope's own Child?
So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts Divine.
But this weak knot they will full soon untie:
The Greeks did nought but play the fools & lye.
Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are,
Men have precedency and still excell:
It is but vain unjustly to wage warre;
Men can do best, and women know it well:
Preheminence in all and each is yours;
Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.
And oh ye high flown quills that soar the Skies,
And ever with your prey still catch your praise,
If e're you daigne these lowly lines your eyes,
Give Thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no bayes:
This mean and unrefined ure of mine,
Will make your glistring gold but more to shine.
OF THE FOUR AGES OF MAN
Lo now four other act upon the stage:
Childhood and Youth, the Manly & Old-age.
The first, son unto flegm, Grand-child to water,
Unstable, supple, cold, and moist 's his nature.
Such cold mean flowrs the spring puts forth betime,
Before the sun hath throughly heat the clime.
His Hobby striding did not ride but run,
And in his hand an hour-glass new begun,
In danger every moment of a fall,
And when tis broke then ends his life and all;
But if he hold till it have run its last,
Then may he live out threescore years or past.
Next Youth came up, in gorgeous attire,
As that fond age doth most of all desire:
His Suit of Crimson, and his scarfe of green.
His pride in 's countenance was quickly seen.
Garland of roses, pinks, and gilli-flowers
Seemed on 's head to grow bedew'd with showers;
His face as fresh as is Aurora fair
When blushing she begins to light the air.
No wooden horse, but one of mettal try'd,
He seems to fly or swim, and not to ride.
Then, prancing on the stage, about he wheels;
But as he went death waited at his heels.
The next came up in a much graver sort,
As one that cared for a good report.
His sword by 's side and choler in his eyes,
But neither us'd as yet for he was wise.
Of Autumns fruits a basket on his arm,
His golden God in 's purse, which was his charm.
And last of all to act upon this stage,
Leaning upon his staff came up Old-age.
Under his arm a sheaf of wheat he bore,
An harvest of the best; what needs he more?
In 's other hand a glass ev'n almost run;
Thus writ about: This out, then I am done.
His hoary hairs and grave aspect made way,
And all gave ear to what he had to say.
These being met, each in his equipage,
Intend to speak according to their age;
But wise Old-age did with all gravity
To childish Childhood give precedency,
And to the rest his reason mildly told,
That he was young before he grew so old.
To do as he each one full soon assents;
Their method was that of the Elements,
That each should tell what of himself he knew,
Both good and bad, but yet no more then 's true.
With heed now stood three ages of frail man
To hear the child, who, crying, thus began.
THE FOUR SEASONS OF THE YEAR
Another four I've left yet to bring on,
Of four times four the last Quaternion:
The Winter, Summer, Autumn, & the Spring;
In season all these Seasons I shall bring.
Sweet Spring, like man in his Minority,
At present claim'd and had priority.
With smiling face and garments somewhat green,
She trim'd her locks which late had frosted been;
Nor hot nor cold she spake, but with a breath
Fit to revive the nummed earth from death.
"Three months," quoth she, "are 'lotted to my share
March, April, May, of all the rest most fair.
Tenth of the first, Sol into Aries enters,
And bids defiance to all tedious winters;
Crosseth the Line and equals night and day,
Stil adds to th' last til after pleasant May,
And now makes glad the darkned northern wights
Who for some months have seen but starry lights.
Now goes the Plow-man to his merry toyle;
He might unloose his winter-locked soy!,
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