As waters here, headlong and loose, The lower grounds still chase and choose, Where spreading ail the way they seek And search out every hole and creek; So my spilt thoughts, winding from thee, Take the down-road to vanity, Where they all stray, and strive which shall Find out the first and steepest fall. I cheer their flow, giving supply To what's already grown too high, And having thus performed that part, Feed on those vomits of my heart. I break the fence my own hands made Then lay that trespass in the shade; Some fig-leaves still I do devise, As if thou hadst not ears nor eyes. Excess of friends, of words, and wine Take up my day, while thou dost shine All unregarded, and thy book Hath not so much as one poor look. If thou steal in amidst the mirth And kindly tell me, I am earth, I shut thee out, and let that slip; Such music spoils good fellowship. Thus wretched I and most unkind, Exclude my dear God from my mind, Exclude him thence, who of that cell Would make a court, should he there dwell. He goes, he yields; and troubled sore His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; The mighty God, the eternal King Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. But I go on, haste to divest Myself of reason, till oppressed And buried in my surfeits, I Prove my own shame and misery. Next day I call and cry for thee Who shouldst not then come near to me; But now it is thy servant's pleasure, Thou must and dost give him his measure. Thou dost, thou com'st, and in a shower Of healing sweets thyself dost pour Into my wounds; and now thy grace (I know it well) fills all the place; I sit with thee by this new light, And for that hour thou'rt my delight; No man can more the world despise, Or thy great mercies better prize. I school my eyes, and strictly dwell Within the circle of my cell; That calm and silence are my joys, Which to thy peace are but mere noise. At length I feel my head to ache, My fingers itch, and burn to take Some new employment, I begin To swell and foam and fret within: 'The age, the present times are not To snudge in and embrace a cot; Action and blood now get the game, Disdain treads on the peaceful name; Who sits at home too bears a load Greater than those that gad abroad.' Thus do I make thy gifts given me The only quarrellers with thee; I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, Then would go travel, fight, or die. Thousands of wild and waste infusions Like waves beat on my resolutions; As flames about their fuel run, And work and wind till all be done, So my fierce soul bustles about, And never rests till all be out. Thus wilded by a peevish heart, Which in thy music bears no part, I storm at thee, calling my peace A lethargy, and mere disease; Nay those bright beams shot from thy eyes To calm me in these mutinies, I style mere tempers, which take place At some set times, but are thy grace.