_Saviour._ What, child, is the balance thine, Thine the poise and measure? If I say, ‘Thou shalt be Mine,’ Finger not My treasure. What the gains in having thee Do amount to, only He Who for man was sold can see That transferr’d th’ accounts to Me. _Man._ But as I can see no merit Leading to this favour, So the way to fit me for it Is beyond my savour. As the reason, then, is Thine, So the way is none of mine; I disclaim the whole design; Sin disclaims and I resign. _Saviour._ That is all: if that I could Get without repining; And My clay, My creature, would Follow My resigning; savour] savoir, knowing. That as I did freely part With My glory and desert, Left all joys to feel all smart---- _Man._ Ah, no more! Thou break’st my heart! _285._ _The Pulley_ When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by-- Let us (said He) pour on him all we can; Let the world’s riches, which dispersèd lie, Contract into a span. So strength first made a way, Then beauty flow’d, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, Rest in the bottom lay. For if I should (said He) Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; So both should losers be. Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast. _286._ _Love_ Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lack’d anything. ‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’ Love said, ‘You shall be he.’ ‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee.’ Love took my hand and smiling did reply, ‘Who made the eyes but I?’ ‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve.’ ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’ ‘My dear, then I will serve.’ ‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ So I did sit and eat. JAMES SHIRLEY 1596-1666 _287._ _A Hymn_ Fly, my Soul! What hangs upon Thy drooping wings, And weighs them down With love of gaudy mortal things?