4 I will not fear what man With all his plots and power can. Bags that wax old may plundered be; But none can sequester or let A state that with the sun doth set, And comes next morning fresh as he. 5 Poor birds this doctrine sing, And herbs which on dry hills do spring, Or in the howling wilderness Do know thy dewy morning hours, And watch all night for mists or showers, Then drink and praise thy bounteousness. 6 May he for ever die Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend Thy service nor his soul one day! May his crown, like his hopes, be clay; And what he saves may his foes spend! 7 If all my portion here, The measure given by thee each year, Were by my causeless enemies Usurped; it never should me grieve, Who know how well thou canst relieve, Whose hands are open as thine eyes. 8 Great King of love and truth! Who wouldst not hate my froward youth, And wilt not leave me when grown old, Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep, Unto my wormwood diet keep, Since thou hast made thy arm my fold. ST MARY MAGDALENE. Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, When in his naked, pure array; Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, As thou in tears dost, best in dew. How art thou changed, how lively, fair, Pleasing, and innocent an air, Not tutored by thy glass, but free, Native, and pure, shines now in thee! But since thy beauty doth still keep Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? This dusky state of sighs and tears Durst not look on those smiling years, When Magdal-castle was thy seat, Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat. Why lies this hair despised now Which once thy care and art did show? Who then did dress the much-loved toy In spires, globes, angry curls and coy, Which with skilled negligence seemed shed About thy curious, wild, young head? Why is this rich, this pistic nard Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? What pretty sullenness did haste Thy easy hands to do this waste? Why art thou humbled thus, and low As earth thy lovely head dost bow? Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth At their Lord's footstool have their birth; Therefore thy withered self in haste Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, That at the root of this green tree Thy great decays restored might be. Thy curious vanities, and rare Odorous ointments kept with care, And dearly bought, when thou didst see They could not cure nor comfort thee; Like a wise, early penitent, Thou sadly didst to him present, Whose interceding, meek, and calm Blood, is the world's all-healing balm. This, this divine restorative Called forth thy tears, which ran in live And hasty drops, as if they had (Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure; Learn Mary's art of tears, and then Say you have got the day from men. Cheap, mighty art! her art of love,