Select hymns, taken out of Mr. Herbert's Temple, and turn'd into the common metre To be sung in the tunes ordinarily us'd in churches.
         Temple. Selections
         Herbert, George, 1593-1633.
      
       
         
           1697
        
      
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             Select hymns, taken out of Mr. Herbert's Temple, and turn'd into the common metre To be sung in the tunes ordinarily us'd in churches.
             Temple. Selections
             Herbert, George, 1593-1633.
             Woodford, Samuel, 1636-1700.
          
           45, [3] p.
           
             printed by S. Bridge, for Thomas Parkhurst, at the Bible and Three Crowns, at the lower end of Cheapside, near Mercers Chappel,
             London :
             1697.
          
           
             Advertisement on A3v; three final advertisement pages.
             Reproduction of the original in Dr. Williams' Library, London.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Hymns, English -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           〈◊〉
           Hymns
           ,
           〈◊〉
           of
           Mr.
           
           Herbert's
           Temple
           ,
           And
           Turn'd
           into
           the
           into
           the
           Common
           Metre
           .
        
         
           TO
           BE
           SUNG
           IN
           THE
           TUNES
           Ordinarily
           us'd
           in
           Churches
           .
        
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           by
           
             S.
             Bridge
          
           ,
           for
           
             Thomas
             Parkhurst
          
           ,
           at
           the
           Bible
           and
           Three-Crowns
           ,
           at
           the
           Lower
           End
           of
           Churchside
           ,
           near
           Mercers
           Chappel
           ,
           1697.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           THE
           PREFACE
           .
        
         
           MR.
           Herbert
           
             's
             Poems
          
           have
           met
           with
           so
           general
           and
           deserv'd
           Acceptance
           ,
           that
           they
           have
           undergone
           Eleven
           Impressions
           near
           Twenty
           Years
           ago
           :
           He
           hath
           obtain'd
           by
           way
           of
           Eminency
           ,
           the
           Name
           of
           
             Our
             Divine
             Poet
          
           ,
           and
           his
           Verses
           have
           been
           frequently
           quoted
           in
           Sermons
           and
           other
           Discourses
           ;
           yet
           ,
           I
           fear
           ,
           few
           of
           them
           have
           been
           Sung
           since
           his
           Death
           ,
           the
           Times
           not
           being
           at
           the
           Command
           of
           ordinary
           Readers
           .
        
         
           This
           attempt
           therefore
           ,
           (
           such
           as
           it
           is
           )
           is
           to
           bring
           so
           many
           of
           them
           as
           I
           well
           could
           ,
           which
           I
           judg'd
           suited
           to
           the
           Capacity
           and
           Devotion
           of
           Private
           Christians
           ,
           into
           the
           
             Common
             Metre
          
           to
           be
           Sung
           in
           their
           Closets
           or
           Families
           :
           The
           like
           I
           have
           done
           as
           to
           some
           of
           the
           New
           Testament
           Hymns
           in
           Dr.
           
           Woodford's
           Paraphrase
           :
           To
           all
           which
           I
           have
           added
           one
           Ode
           in
           the
           same
           Measures
           in
           which
           I
           had
           it
           ,
           because
           I
           think
           it
           was
           never
           Printed
           ,
           and
           I
           thought
           it
           Pity
           ,
           it
           should
           be
           lost
           in
           a
           Private
           Hand
           .
           I
           hope
           I
           shall
           not
           be
           counted
           a
           Plagiary
           ,
           seeing
           I
           claim
           nothing
           here
           as
           my
           own
           ,
           but
           what
           they
           allow
           me
           ,
           viz.
           a
           Liberty
           to
           Sing
           and
           use
           their
           Hymns
           ,
           which
           I
           was
           no
           more
           able
           to
           do
           in
           their
           Metre
           and
           Tunes
           ,
           than
           I
           was
           able
           to
           compose
           them
           as
           they
           did
           .
        
         
           Nor
           will
           this
           hinder
           their
           use
           of
           the
           Lyrick
           Measures
           in
           Herbert
           and
           others
           ,
           who
           are
           enabled
           to
           do
           it
           by
           their
           
           skill
           in
           Musick
           ,
           which
           they
           ought
           to
           look
           upon
           as
           a
           Talent
           to
           be
           accounted
           for
           .
           How
           much
           more
           fit
           is
           
             Herbert's
             Temple
          
           to
           be
           set
           to
           the
           Lute
           ,
           than
           
             Cowley's
             Mistress
          
           !
           It
           is
           hard
           that
           no
           one
           can
           be
           taught
           Musick
           ,
           but
           in
           such
           wanton
           Songs
           as
           fill
           the
           Hearts
           of
           many
           Learners
           with
           Lust
           and
           Vanity
           all
           their
           Days
           .
           Why
           should
           it
           be
           thought
           a
           greater
           Prophaning
           of
           Spiritual
           Songs
           to
           use
           them
           in
           a
           Musick-Scool
           ,
           than
           it
           is
           of
           the
           New
           Testament
           ,
           to
           teach
           Children
           to
           spell
           ;
           yet
           what
           Christian
           would
           not
           rather
           have
           his
           Child
           taught
           to
           read
           in
           a
           Bible
           than
           in
           a
           Play-Book
           ?
           Especially
           ,
           when
           they
           who
           learn
           Musick
           are
           generally
           more
           apt
           to
           receive
           Impressions
           from
           the
           Matter
           of
           the
           Song
           ,
           than
           Children
           are
           from
           the
           Books
           in
           which
           they
           first
           learn
           to
           Spell
           .
           My
           attempt
           hath
           been
           easie
           ,
           only
           to
           alter
           the
           measures
           of
           some
           Hymns
           ,
           keeping
           strictly
           to
           the
           Sence
           of
           the
           Author
           ;
           But
           how
           noble
           an
           undertaking
           were
           it
           ,
           if
           any
           one
           could
           and
           would
           rescue
           the
           high
           flights
           ,
           and
           lofty
           strains
           found
           in
           the
           most
           Celebrated
           Poets
           ,
           from
           their
           sacrilegious
           Applications
           to
           
             Carnal
             Love
          
           ,
           and
           restore
           them
           to
           the
           
             Divine
             Love
          
           !
           When
           the
           Devil
           drew
           off
           the
           Nations
           from
           the
           True
           God
           ,
           He
           caus'd
           the
           same
           Institutions
           with
           which
           God
           was
           honoured
           ,
           to
           be
           used
           in
           the
           Idol
           Service
           ,
           
             Temple
             ,
             Priests
             ,
             Sacrifices
          
           ,
           &c.
           and
           amongst
           the
           rest
           Psalmody
           :
           And
           it
           is
           strange
           ,
           that
           when
           we
           have
           so
           long
           been
           emerg'd
           out
           of
           Heathenism
           ,
           that
           such
           a
           Remnant
           of
           it
           should
           be
           amongst
           us
           ,
           wherein
           the
           most
           devotional
           Part
           of
           Religion
           doth
           consist
           .
        
         
           Almost
           all
           Phrases
           and
           Expressions
           of
           Worship
           due
           only
           to
           God
           ,
           are
           continu'd
           in
           these
           artificial
           Composures
           in
           the
           Heathenish
           use
           of
           them
           ,
           even
           from
           the
           Inspirations
           that
           they
           invoke
           in
           their
           beginning
           ,
           to
           the
           
             Raptures
             ,
             Flames
             ,
             Adorations
          
           ,
           &c.
           
           That
           they
           pretend
           to
           in
           the
           Progress
           :
           Nor
           are
           these
           meer
           empty
           Names
           with
           them
           ,
           but
           their
           Hearts
           are
           more
           fervently
           carried
           out
           in
           the
           
           musical
           use
           of
           them
           ,
           than
           they
           would
           be
           if
           their
           Knees
           were
           bow'd
           to
           Baal
           and
           Astaroth
           :
           Few
           Holy
           Souls
           are
           more
           affected
           with
           the
           Praises
           of
           a
           Redeemer
           ,
           than
           they
           are
           of
           the
           wanton
           Object
           that
           they
           profess
           to
           adore
           .
           Oh
           for
           some
           to
           write
           Parodies
           ,
           by
           which
           Name
           I
           find
           one
           Poem
           in
           Herbert
           call'd
           ,
           which
           begins
           ,
           
             Souls
             Joy
             ,
             where
             art
             thou
             ●one
             ,
          
           and
           was
           ,
           I
           doubt
           not
           ,
           a
           light
           Love-song
           turn'd
           into
           a
           Spiritual
           Hymn
           .
           
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
             〈◊〉
          
           ,
           
             Est
             quum
             alterius
             Poetae
             Versus
             in
             aliud
             Argumentum
             transferuntur
             .
          
           I
           do
           not
           find
           it
           hath
           been
           made
           a
           Matter
           of
           scruple
           to
           turn
           the
           Temples
           built
           for
           Idols
           into
           Churches
           :
           And
           as
           to
           this
           Case
           ,
           it
           is
           to
           be
           consider'd
           ,
           that
           the
           Musick
           and
           Poetry
           was
           an
           excellent
           Gift
           of
           God
           ,
           which
           ought
           to
           have
           been
           us'd
           for
           Him
           ;
           and
           that
           their
           high
           strains
           of
           Love
           ,
           Ioy
           ,
           &c.
           
           Suit
           none
           but
           the
           adorable
           Saviour
           ;
           and
           all
           their
           most
           warm
           and
           affecting
           Expressions
           are
           stollen
           from
           the
           Churches
           Adoration
           of
           Christ
           ;
           and
           who
           can
           doubt
           but
           the
           Church
           may
           take
           her
           own
           ,
           whereever
           she
           finds
           it
           ,
           whether
           in
           an
           Idolatrous
           Mass-Book
           or
           Prophane
           Love-song
           ?
           It
           was
           a
           noble
           Resolution
           of
           him
           that
           said
           ,
           
             I
             'll
             Consecrate
             my
             Magdalene
             to
             Thee
             —
          
        
         
           The
           
             Eyes
             ,
             Mouth
             ,
             Hair
          
           ,
           which
           had
           been
           abus'd
           to
           Lust
           and
           Vanity
           were
           us'd
           to
           
             Wash
             ,
             Kiss
             ,
             Wipe
          
           the
           Feet
           of
           a
           Saviour
           :
           May
           Men
           and
           Angels
           Praise
           him
           for
           ever
           and
           ever
           !
           Amen
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           Books
           Printed
           for
           
             Tho.
             Parkhurst
          
           .
        
         
           SPiritual
           Songs
           ,
           or
           ,
           Songs
           of
           Praise
           to
           Almighty
           God
           upon
           several
           Occasions
           .
           Together
           with
           the
           Song
           of
           Songs
           which
           is
           
           Solomon's
           ,
           first
           turn'd
           ,
           then
           paraphras'd
           in
           English
           Verse
           :
           To
           which
           may
           be
           added
           ,
           Penitential
           Cries
           ,
           the
           Fourth
           Edition
           ,
           Corrected
           with
           an
           Addition
           of
           a
           Sacred
           Poem
           on
           Dives
           and
           Lazarus
           .
        
         
           Sacramental
           Hymns
           ,
           Collected
           (
           chiefly
           )
           out
           of
           such
           Passages
           of
           the
           New
           Testament
           ,
           as
           contain
           the
           most
           suitable
           Matter
           of
           Divine
           Praises
           in
           the
           Celebration
           of
           the
           Lord's
           Supper
           ,
           to
           which
           is
           added
           ,
           one
           Hymn
           relating
           to
           Baptism
           ,
           and
           another
           to
           the
           Ministry
           :
           By
           
             Ios.
             Boyse
          
           .
        
         
           A
           Collection
           of
           Divine
           Hymns
           upon
           several
           Occasions
           ;
           suited
           to
           our
           common
           Tunes
           ,
           for
           the
           Use
           of
           Devout
           Christians
           ,
           in
           singing
           forth
           the
           Praises
           of
           God.
           
        
         
           Six
           Centuries
           of
           Select
           Hymns
           and
           Spiritual
           Songs
           ,
           Collected
           out
           of
           the
           Bible
           ,
           together
           with
           a
           Catechism
           ,
           the
           Canticles
           ,
           and
           a
           Catalogue
           of
           Vertuous
           Women
           .
           By
           
             William
             Barton
          
           ,
           M.
           A.
           Fourth
           Edition
           .
           Corrected
           and
           Enlarg'd
           .
        
         
           Family
           Hymns
           ,
           gathered
           (
           mostly
           )
           out
           of
           the
           best
           Translation
           of
           
           David's
           Psalms
           .
        
         
           The
           Psalms
           of
           David
           Translated
           into
           English
           Metre
           .
           By
           
             David
             King
          
           Bishop
           of
           —
        
         
           The
           Psalms
           of
           David
           (
           commonly
           called
           the
           
             Scots
             Psalms
          
           )
           in
           Metre
           .
           Newly
           translated
           and
           diligently
           compared
           with
           the
           Original
           Text
           ,
           and
           former
           Translations
           :
           More
           plain
           ,
           smooth
           and
           agreeable
           to
           the
           Text
           ,
           than
           any
           heretofore
           .
           Recommended
           by
           six
           and
           twenty
           Divines
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           Select
           Hymns
           ,
           Out
           of
           Mr.
           
           Herbert's
           Temple
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             The
             Thanksgiving
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               O
               King
               of
               Griefs
               !
               (
               a
               Title
               true
            
             
               Though
               strange
               ,
               and
               to
               Thee
               only
               due
               )
            
             
               How
               can
               I
               grieve
               enough
               for
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               Who
               in
               all
               grief
               preventest
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Shall
               I
               weep
               Blood
               ?
               Thou
               'st
               wept
               such
               store
               ,
            
             
               That
               all
               thy
               Body
               was
               one
               Gore
               .
            
             
               Shall
               I
               be
               scourged
               ,
               flouted
               ,
               sold
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               but
               to
               tell
               the
               Tale
               is
               told
               .
            
          
           
             
               Shall
               I
               then
               skip
               the
               doleful
               Story
               ,
            
             
               And
               side
               with
               thy
               Triumphant
               Glory
               ?
            
             
               Shall
               wounds
               be
               Health
               ?
               Thy
               Thorns
               my
               Flower
               ?
            
             
               Thy
               Rod
               my
               Posie
               ?
               Cross
               my
               Bower
               ?
            
          
           
             
               How
               shall
               I
               imitate
               Thee
               ,
               and
            
             
               Copy
               thy
               Fair
               ,
               though
               Bloody
               Hand
               ?
            
             
               Can
               I
               pretend
               to
               reach
               thy
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Or
               try
               who
               should
               Victorious
               prove
               ?
            
          
           
             
               If
               thou
               giv'st
               Wealth
               ,
               I
               will
               restore
               ,
            
             
               All
               back
               unto
               Thee
               by
               the
               Poor
               .
            
             
               If
               Thou
               giv'st
               Honour
               ,
               Men
               shall
               see
            
             
               The
               Honour
               doth
               belong
               to
               Thee
            
          
           
             
             
               If
               Bosom-Friends
               should
               rend
               thy
               Name
               ,
            
             
               I
               will
               rend
               thence
               their
               Love
               and
               Fame
               .
            
             
               The
               World
               and
               I
               'll
               fall
               out
               ,
               the
               Year
            
             
               Shall
               not
               perceive
               that
               I
               am
               here
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               Musick
               shall
               find
               Thee
               ,
               each
               string
            
             
               Shall
               have
               its
               Attribute
               to
               sing
               ,
            
             
               That
               all
               may
               well
               accord
               in
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               prove
               one
               God
               ,
               one
               Harmony
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Agony
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               119.
            
             
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               PHilosophers
               have
               measur'd
               Hills
               ,
            
             
               Fathom'd
               Seas
               ,
               traced
               Springs
               ,
            
             
               Walk't
               with
               their
               
               Iacob's-staff
               to
               Heaven
               ,
            
             
               But
               there
               are
               two
               vast
               things
               ,
            
             
               The
               which
               to
               measure
               ,
               sound
               or
               trace
               ,
            
             
               It
               doth
               them
               most
               behove
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               few
               or
               none
               can
               find
               their
               depth
               ,
            
             
               These
               two
               are
               Sin
               and
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Who
               would
               know
               Sin
               ,
               let
               him
               repair
               ,
            
             
               To
               Olivet
               ,
               and
               see
            
             
               One
               wrung
               with
               Pains
               ,
               that
               Skin
               and
               Hair
            
             
               And
               Garments
               bloody
               be
               .
            
             
               For
               Sin
               and
               Wrath
               the
               Wine-press
               was
               ,
            
             
               Which
               squeez'd
               Him
               ,
               forcing
               Pain
               :
            
             
               Through
               Soul
               and
               Body
               ,
               Head
               and
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Hands
               ,
               Feet
               ,
               and
               every
               Vein
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Who
               knows
               not
               Love
               ,
               let
               him
               but
               taste
            
             
               The
               Juice
               a
               Souldiers
               Pike
            
             
               Did
               set
               abroach
               ,
               then
               let
               him
               tell
            
             
               Who
               e're
               did
               taste
               the
               like
               .
            
             
             
               Love
               is
               that
               Liquor
               passing-sweet
               ,
            
             
               A
               Drink
               that
               is
               Divine
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               what
               my
               God
               did
               feel
               as
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               But
               what
               I
               taste
               as
               Wine
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Passion
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               SInce
               Blood
               is
               fittest
               ,
               Lord
               ,
               to
               write
            
             
               Thy
               Sorrows
               in
               ,
               and
               bloody
               flight
               ,
            
             
               My
               Heart
               hath
               store
               ;
               write
               there
               ,
               wherein
            
             
               One
               Box
               doth
               lye
               both
               Ink
               and
               Sin
               :
            
          
           
             
               That
               when
               Sin
               spies
               so
               many
               Foes
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Whips
               ,
               thy
               Nails
               ,
               thy
               Wounds
               ,
               thy
               Woes
               ,
            
             
               All
               come
               to
               lo●g●
               there
               ,
               Sin
               may
               say
               ,
            
             
               
                 No
                 room
                 for
                 me
              
               ,
               and
               fly
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sin
               being
               g
               〈…〉
               oh
               
                 fill
              
               the
               place
               ,
            
             
               And
               keep
               Possession
               with
               thy
               Grace
               ;
            
             
               Lest
               Sin
               take
               Courage
               and
               return
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               Writings
               blot
               or
               burn
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Easter
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               THe
               Lord
               is
               risen
               ,
               sing
               his
               Praise
               ,
            
             
               Rise
               thou
               ,
               my
               Heart
               ,
               without
               delaies
               :
            
             
               Awake
               my
               Lute
               ,
               and
               do
               thy
               Part
               ,
            
             
               Or
               struggle
               for
               't
               with
               all
               thy
               Art.
               
            
          
           
             
               The
               Cross
               hath
               taught
               this
               Wood
               His
               Name
            
             
               To
               sound
               ,
               who
               once
               did
               bear
               the
               same
               :
            
             
               Strecht
               Sinews
               teach
               these
               Strings
               ,
               what
               Key
            
             
               Is
               best
               to
               celebrate
               this
               Day
               .
            
          
           
             
               Both
               Heart
               and
               Lute
               shall
               twist
               a
               Song
               ,
            
             
               In
               Holy
               Consort
               good
               and
               long
               :
            
             
               And
               let
               thy
               Spirit
               bear
               a
               Part
               ,
            
             
               To
               mend
               our
               faults
               by
               his
               sweet
               Art.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               I
               got
               me
               Flowers
               to
               strow
               the
               way
               ,
            
             
               I
               got
               me
               Boughs
               of
               many
               a
               Tree
               ;
            
             
               But
               thou
               wast
               up
               by
               break
               of
               Day
               ,
            
             
               And
               brought'st
               thy
               Sweets
               along
               with
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Sun
               arising
               in
               the
               East
               ,
            
             
               Though
               He
               give
               Light
               ,
               and
               th'
               East
               perfume
               ;
            
             
               If
               they
               should
               offer
               to
               contest
            
             
               With
               thy
               arising
               ,
               they
               presume
               .
            
          
           
             
               Can
               there
               be
               any
               Day
               but
               this
               ,
            
             
               Though
               many
               Suns
               to
               shine
               endeavour
               ?
            
             
               We
               count
               three
               Hundred
               ,
               but
               we
               miss
               :
            
             
               There
               is
               but
               One
               and
               that
               One
               ever
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Prayer
             .
          
           
             
               PRayer
               the
               Churches
               Banquet
               is
               ,
            
             
               Prayer
               the
               Angels
               Age
               ,
            
             
               Prayer
               the
               Soul
               in
               Paraphrase
               ,
            
             
               The
               Heart
               in
               Pilgrimage
               .
            
          
           
             
               God's
               breath
               in
               Man
               returning
               thither
            
             
               From
               whence
               it
               had
               its
               Birth
               ;
            
             
               Prayer
               the
               Christian
               Plummet
               is
            
             
               That
               soundeth
               Heav'n
               and
               Earth
               .
            
          
           
             
               Prayer
               reversed
               Thunder
               is
               ,
            
             
               And
               Christ's
               side-peircing
               Spear
               ,
            
             
               Prayer's
               a
               kind
               of
               heav'nly
               Tune
            
             
               Which
               all
               things
               hear
               and
               fear
               .
            
          
           
             
               Engine
               against
               the
               Almighty
               One
               ,
            
             
               It
               is
               the
               Sinners
               Tower
               ,
            
             
               The
               World
               that
               was
               a
               Six-days
               Work
            
             
               Transposing
               in
               an
               Hour
               .
            
          
           
             
               Softness
               and
               Peace
               ,
               and
               Spiritual
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               Prayer
               is
               Love
               and
               Bliss
               ,
            
             
             
               It
               is
               as
               't
               were
               the
               Milky-way
               ,
            
             
               The
               Bird
               of
               Paradice
               .
            
          
           
             
               Prayer
               exalted
               Manna
               is
               ,
            
             
               And
               gladness
               of
               the
               best
               ,
            
             
               Heaven
               in
               Ordinary
               't
               is
               ,
            
             
               Prayer
               is
               Man
               well
               drest
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Church-Bell's
               heard
               beyond
               the
               Stars
               ,
            
             
               It
               is
               the
               Souls
               Heart-blood
               ,
            
             
               A
               kind
               of
               Land
               of
               Spices
               't
               is
               ,
            
             
               And
               something
               understood
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Holy
             Communion
             .
          
           
             
               NOt
               in
               a
               rich
               or
               fine
               Aray
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               in
               a
               wedge
               of
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               Dost
               thou
               thy self
               to
               me
               convey
            
             
               Who
               once
               for
               me
               wast
               Sold.
               
            
          
           
             
               But
               in
               a
               way
               of
               Nourishment
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               creep'st
               into
               my
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Setting
               my
               Soul
               upon
               the
               wing
            
             
               To
               fly
               unto
               her
               rest
               .
            
          
           
             
               Give
               me
               my
               Captive
               Soul
               ,
               or
               take
            
             
               My
               Body
               also
               thither
               ,
            
             
               Another
               lift
               like
               this
               ,
               will
               make
            
             
               Them
               both
               to
               be
               together
               .
            
          
           
             
               Before
               that
               Sin
               turn'd
               Flesh
               to
               Stone
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               our
               Lump
               to
               Leaven
               ;
            
             
               A
               fervent
               Sigh
               might
               well
               have
               blown
            
             
               Our
               inn'cent
               Earth
               to
               Heaven
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               sure
               when
               Adam
               did
               not
               know
            
             
               To
               Sin
               ,
               or
               Sin
               to
               smother
               ;
            
             
               He
               might
               to
               Heaven
               from
               Paradise
               go
               ,
            
             
               As
               from
               one
               room
               t'another
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Thou
               hast
               restor'd
               us
               to
               this
               ease
            
             
               By
               this
               thy
               Heavenly
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               Which
               I
               can
               go
               to
               when
               I
               please
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               th'
               Earth
               to
               their
               Food
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Antiphon
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               148.
            
             
          
           
             
               Vers.
               THe
               Heav'ns
               are
               not
               too
               high
               ,
            
             
               His
               Praise
               may
               thither
               fly
               :
            
             
               The
               Earth
               is
               not
               too
               low
               ,
            
             
               His
               Praises
               there
               may
               grow
               .
            
             
               Chor.
               Let
               all
               the
               World
            
             
               Rejoyce
               and
               Sing
            
             
               And
               still
               repeat
               ,
            
             
               My
               God
               and
               King.
               
            
          
           
             
               Vers.
               The
               Church
               with
               Psalms
               must
               shout
               ,
            
             
               No
               Door
               can
               keep
               them
               out
               :
            
             
               But
               above
               all
               ,
               the
               Heart
            
             
               Must
               bear
               the
               longest
               part
               ▪
            
             
               Chor.
               Let
               all
               the
               World
            
             
               Rejoyce
               and
               Sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               still
               repeat
               ,
            
             
               My
               God
               and
               King.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Temper
             .
          
           
             
               HOw
               should
               I
               Praise
               thee
               ,
               and
               my
               Rhymes
               ,
            
             
               Engrave
               thy
               Love
               in
               Steel
               ,
            
             
               If
               what
               my
               Soul
               doth
               feel
               sometimes
               ,
            
             
               My
               Soul
               might
               ever
               feel
               .
            
          
           
             
               Though
               there
               were
               forty
               Heav'ns
               or
               more
            
             
               I
               peer
               above
               them
               all
               ;
            
             
               Sometimes
               I
               hardly
               reach
               a
               score
               ,
            
             
               Sometimes
               to
               Hell
               I
               fall
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               O
               rack
               me
               not
               to
               such
               extent
               ,
            
             
               Such
               distance
               is
               for
               Thee
               :
            
             
               The
               World
               's
               too
               little
               for
               thy
               Tent
               ,
            
             
               A
               Grave
               too
               big
               for
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Wilt
               thou
               mete
               Arms
               with
               Man
               ,
               or
               stretch
            
             
               Thy
               Dust
               from
               Heav'n
               to
               Hell
               ?
            
             
               Will
               great
               God
               measure
               with
               a
               Wretch
               ?
            
             
               Shall
               He
               thy
               Stature
               Spell
               ?
            
          
           
             
               O
               when
               thy
               Roof
               my
               Soul
               hath
               hid
               ,
            
             
               Let
               me
               but
               Nestle
               there
               :
            
             
               Then
               of
               a
               Sinner
               thou
               art
               rid
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               of
               Hope
               and
               Fear
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               take
               thy
               way
               ,
               for
               that
               is
               best
               ,
            
             
               Stretch
               or
               Contract
               thy
               Debtor
               :
            
             
               This
               is
               but
               tuning
               of
               my
               Breast
            
             
               To
               make
               the
               Musick
               better
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Pentecost
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               LIsten
               sweet
               Dove
               unto
               my
               Song
               ,
            
             
               And
               spread
               thy
               golden
               Wings
               on
               me
               ,
            
             
               Hatching
               my
               tender
               Heart
               so
               long
               ,
            
             
               Till
               it
               get
               Wing
               ,
               and
               fly
               with
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Where
               is
               that
               Fire
               which
               once
               descended
            
             
               On
               thy
               Apostles
               ?
               Thou
               didst
               then
            
             
               Keep
               open
               House
               ,
               richly
               attended
               ,
            
             
               Feasting
               all
               Comers
               ,
               by
               Twelve
               Men.
               
            
          
           
             
               Such
               glorious
               Gifts
               thou
               didst
               bestow
               ,
            
             
               That
               th'
               Earth
               did
               like
               a
               Heav'n
               appear
               :
            
             
               The
               Stars
               were
               coming
               down
               to
               know
            
             
               How
               to
               mend
               Wages
               ,
               and
               serve
               here
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Sun
               which
               once
               did
               shine
               alone
               ,
            
             
               Hung
               down
               his
               Head
               and
               wisht
               for
               Night
               ,
            
             
             
               When
               He
               beheld
               twelve
               Suns
               for
               one
               ,
            
             
               Tracing
               the
               World
               ,
               and
               giving
               Light.
               
            
          
           
             
               But
               since
               those
               Pipes
               of
               Gold
               ,
               which
               brought
            
             
               The
               Cordial
               Water
               to
               our
               ground
               ,
            
             
               Were
               out
               and
               martyr'd
               ,
               by
               their
               fault
            
             
               Who
               did
               themselves
               through
               their
               Sides
               wound
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Thou
               shut'st
               the
               Door
               ,
               and
               keep'st
               within
               ,
            
             
               Scarce
               a
               good
               Joy
               creeps
               through
               the
               Chink
               :
            
             
               And
               if
               the
               braves
               of
               Conquering
               Sin
            
             
               Did
               not
               excite
               Thee
               ,
               we
               should
               sink
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lord
               ,
               though
               we
               change
               ,
               thou
               art
               the
               same
               ,
            
             
               The
               same
               sweet
               God
               of
               Love
               and
               Light
               ;
            
             
               Restore
               this
               Day
               ,
               for
               thy
               great
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Unto
               its
               ancient
               glorious
               Right
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dominica
             Trinitatis
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               67.
            
             
          
           
             
               THou
               'st
               fram'd
               me
               out
               of
               Mud
               ,
            
             
               Redeem'd
               me
               with
               thy
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               And
               sanctifi'd
               me
               with
               thy
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               to
               do
               me
               good
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               Sins
               done
               heretofore
               ,
            
             
               Purge
               ,
               for
               that
               heavy
               score
            
             
               I
               do
               confess
               ,
               and
               hate
               ,
               and
               I
            
             
               Will
               strive
               to
               Sin
               no
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               Heart
               ,
               Mouth
               ,
               Hands
               in
               me
            
             
               With
               Faith
               ,
               Hope
               ,
               Charity
            
             
               Enrich
               ,
               O
               Lord
               ,
               that
               so
               I
               may
            
             
               Rise
               ,
               run
               ,
               and
               rest
               with
               Thee
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Avarice
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               67.
            
             
          
           
             
               MOney
               ,
               thou
               source
               of
               Wo
               ,
            
             
               Although
               thou
               art
               so
               fine
               ,
            
             
             
               Thy
               Parantage
               is
               base
               and
               low
               ,
            
             
               Found
               in
               a
               dirty
               Mine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thou
               could'st
               so
               little
               do
            
             
               For
               th'
               Kingdom
               thou
               hast
               got
               ,
            
             
               That
               ,
               Man
               was
               fain
               to
               Dig
               thee
               out
            
             
               Of
               thy
               dark
               Cave
               and
               Grot.
               
            
          
           
             
               Brightned
               by
               Fire
               ,
               thou
               'st
               got
            
             
               The
               Face
               of
               Man
               ,
               for
               we
            
             
               Transfer
               our
               Right
               ;
               thou
               art
               the
               Man
            
             
               And
               we
               but
               dross
               to
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Man
               calleth
               Thee
               his
               Wealth
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               He
               made
               Thee
               Rich
               ,
            
             
               And
               while
               with
               pains
               He
               digs
               out
               Thee
            
             
               Himself
               falls
               in
               the
               Ditch
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Submission
             .
          
           
             
               BUt
               that
               thou
               art
               my
               Wisdom
               ,
               Lord
               ,
            
             
               And
               both
               mine
               Eyes
               are
               thine
               ,
            
             
               My
               Mind
               would
               be
               extreamly
               stirr'd
            
             
               For
               missing
               my
               design
               .
            
          
           
             
               Were
               it
               not
               better
               to
               bestow
            
             
               Some
               Place
               or
               Power
               on
               me
               ?
            
             
               Then
               should
               thy
               Praises
               with
               me
               grow
            
             
               And
               share
               in
               my
               degree
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               when
               I
               thus
               dispute
               and
               grieve
               ,
            
             
               I
               do
               resume
               my
               sight
               ;
            
             
               And
               pilfring
               what
               I
               once
               did
               give
               ,
            
             
               Disseise
               thee
               of
               thy
               Right
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               know
               I
               ,
               if
               thou
               should'st
               me
               raise
            
             
               That
               I
               should
               then
               raise
               thee
               ?
            
             
               Perhaps
               great
               Places
               and
               thy
               Praise
               ,
            
             
               Do
               not
               so
               well
               agree
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Wherefore
               unto
               my
               Gift
               I
               stand
               ;
            
             
               I
               will
               no
               more
               advise
               :
            
             
               Only
               do
               thou
               lend
               me
               an
               Hand
               ,
            
             
               Since
               thou
               hast
               both
               mine
               Eyes
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Mortification
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               HOw
               soon
               doth
               Man
               decay
               ?
               When
               clothes
            
             
               Took
               from
               a
               Chest
               of
               sweets
            
             
               To
               swaddle
               Infants
               ,
               seem
               to
               be
            
             
               Their
               little
               winding
               Sheets
               .
            
             
               Boys
               step
               as
               't
               were
               into
               their
               Graves
            
             
               When
               they
               go
               
                 first
              
               to
               Bed
               :
            
             
               Sleep
               binds
               them
               fast
               ,
               only
               their
               Breath
            
             
               Shews
               that
               they
               are
               not
               Dead
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               When
               Youth
               is
               frank
               and
               free
               ,
               and
               while
            
             
               His
               Veins
               with
               Blood
               do
               swell
               ,
            
             
               Calling
               for
               Mirth
               ,
               his
               Musick
               then
            
             
               Doth
               summon
               to
               his
               Knell
               .
            
             
               When
               Man
               grows
               staid
               ,
               and
               coveteth
            
             
               An
               House
               and
               Home
               to
               have
               ;
            
             
               That
               Dumb
               inclosure
               maketh
               Love
               ,
            
             
               T'
               a
               Coffin
               or
               a
               Grave
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               When
               Age
               grows
               low
               or
               weak
               ,
               it
               marks
            
             
               The
               Grave
               which
               He
               draws
               near
               ,
            
             
               His
               Chair
               or
               Litter
               where
               He
               sits
            
             
               Or
               lies
               ,
               is
               like
               his
               Bier
               .
            
             
               And
               thus
               Man's
               last
               Solemnity
            
             
               Is
               fixt
               ,
               ere
               He
               's
               aware
               ;
            
             
               He
               dresseth
               up
               his
               Herse
               ,
               while
               He
            
             
               Hath
               Breath
               as
               yet
               to
               spare
               ▪
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Misery
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               LOrd
               ,
               let
               the
               Angels
               Praise
               thy
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Man
               is
               an
               empty
               foolish
               Thing
            
             
               Folly
               and
               Sin
               play
               all
               his
               Game
               ,
            
             
               His
               House
               doth
               burn
               ,
               yet
               He
               doth
               Sing
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               strange
               Pollutions
               doth
               He
               wed
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               none
               knew
               his
               Works
               but
               He
               ?
            
             
               No
               Man
               shall
               beat
               into
               his
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               canst
               within
               His
               Curtains
               see
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               best
               of
               Men
               ,
               turn
               but
               thine
               Hand
            
             
               One
               Moment
               ,
               stumble
               at
               a
               Pin
               :
            
             
               They
               would
               not
               have
               their
               Actions
               scan'd
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Sorrow
               tell
               them
               ,
               that
               they
               Sin.
               
            
          
           
             
               My
               God
               ,
               Man
               cannot
               Praise
               thy
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               art
               all
               perfect
               Purity
               :
            
             
               The
               Sun
               holds
               down
               his
               Head
               for
               shame
            
             
               Eclipsed
               ,
               when
               we
               speak
               of
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               As
               dirty
               Hands
               foul
               all
               they
               touch
               ,
            
             
               And
               those
               things
               most
               ,
               which
               are
               most
               fine
               :
            
             
               So
               our
               Clay-Hearts
               ,
               ev'n
               when
               we
               Sing
            
             
               Thy
               Praises
               ,
               make
               them
               less
               Divine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Man
               cannot
               serve
               Thee
               ,
               let
               Him
               go
               ,
            
             
               And
               serve
               the
               Swine
               ,
               where
               's
               his
               Delight
               ▪
            
             
               He
               likes
               not
               Vertue
               ;
               let
               him
               have
            
             
               His
               Dirt
               to
               wallow
               in
               all
               Night
               .
            
          
           
             
               Indeed
               at
               first
               ,
               Man
               was
               a
               Treasure
               ,
            
             
               A
               Box
               of
               precious
               Rarities
               ,
            
             
               A
               Ring
               whose
               Posie
               was
               ,
               
                 my
                 Pleasure
              
            
             
               A
               Garden
               in
               a
               Paradice
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               Sin
               hath
               fool'd
               him
               ,
               now
               He
               is
            
             
               A
               Lump
               of
               Flesh
               ,
               without
               a
               Wing
               ,
            
             
             
               To
               raise
               Him
               to
               the
               Glimpse
               of
               Bliss
               ;
            
             
               A
               Vessel
               dash'd
               on
               every
               Thing
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Obedience
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               67.
            
             
          
           
             
               MY
               God
               ,
               if
               Writings
               may
            
             
               Convey
               Estates
               away
               ,
            
             
               Why
               may
               not
               this
               poor
               Paper
               do
            
             
               For
               me
               as
               much
               as
               they
               .
            
          
           
             
               On
               it
               my
               Heart
               doth
               bleed
            
             
               As
               many
               Lines
               ,
               as
               need
            
             
               To
               pass
               it self
               away
               ,
               and
               I
            
             
               Own
               it
               my
               Act
               and
               Deed.
               
            
          
           
             
               If
               that
               hereafter
               Pleasure
            
             
               Cavil
               ,
               and
               claim
               her
               Measure
               ,
            
             
               I
               here
               exclude
               the
               wrangler
               from
            
             
               Any
               part
               of
               thy
               Treasure
               .
            
          
           
             
               Oh
               ,
               let
               thy
               Sacred
               Will
            
             
               All
               thy
               delight
               fulfil
               ;
            
             
               Let
               me
               not
               Think
               or
               Act
               ,
               but
               as
            
             
               Resign'd
               up
               to
               thy
               skill
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lord
               ,
               what
               is
               Man
               to
               Thee
            
             
               But
               as
               a
               rotten
               Tree
               ?
            
             
               Yet
               since
               thou
               seest
               all
               ,
               thou
               canst
            
             
               As
               will
               me
               Guide
               ,
               as
               see
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               that
               will
               pass
               his
               Land
            
             
               With
               me
               ,
               may
               set
               his
               hand
            
             
               Unto
               this
               Deed
               ,
               to
               both
               our
               Goods
               ,
            
             
               If
               He
               to
               it
               will
               stand
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               happy
               were
               my
               Part
               ,
            
             
               If
               some
               one
               will
               his
               heart
            
             
               Enter
               with
               me
               in
               Heav'ns
               Court-Rolls
               ,
            
             
               Far
               above
               our
               Desert
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Home
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               COme
               Lord
               ,
               my
               Head
               and
               Heart
               is
               sick
            
             
               Whilst
               thou
               dost
               ever
               ,
               ever
               stay
               :
            
             
               Thy
               long
               delaies
               wound
               to
               the
               quick
               ,
            
             
               My
               Spirit
               gaspeth
               Night
               and
               Day
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               can'st
               thou
               stay
               ,
               seeing
               the
               pace
            
             
               The
               Blood
               did
               make
               which
               thou
               didst
               waste
               ?
            
             
               Viewing
               it
               trickle
               down
               thy
               Face
               ,
            
             
               I
               never
               saw
               thing
               make
               such
               haste
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               Man
               was
               lost
               ,
               thou
               look'st
               about
            
             
               To
               see
               what
               help
               in
               th'
               Earth
               or
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               But
               there
               was
               none
               ,
               no
               help
               without
               ,
            
             
               The
               help
               did
               in
               thy
               Bosom
               lye
               .
            
          
           
             
               There
               lay
               thy
               Son
               ;
               and
               must
               He
               leave
            
             
               That
               Hive
               of
               sweetness
               ,
               to
               remove
            
             
               Thraldom
               from
               those
               ,
               who
               at
               a
               Feast
            
             
               Left
               not
               one
               Apple
               for
               thy
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
               He
               did
               ,
               He
               came
               :
               O
               Saviour
               Dear
               ,
            
             
               After
               all
               this
               canst
               thou
               be
               strange
               ?
            
             
               So
               long
               baptiz'd
               ,
               and
               not
               appear
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               thy
               Love
               could
               fail
               or
               change
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               if
               thou
               stay'st
               ,
               why
               must
               I
               stay
               ?
            
             
               My
               God
               ,
               what
               is
               this
               World
               to
               me
               ?
            
             
               This
               World
               of
               Wo
               ?
               Ye
               Clouds
               ,
               away
               ,
            
             
               Away
               ;
               I
               must
               get
               up
               and
               see
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               one
               small
               Sigh
               ,
               the
               other
               Day
            
             
               I
               blasted
               all
               the
               Joys
               about
               me
               ;
            
             
               And
               scouling
               ,
               as
               they
               past
               away
               ,
            
             
               Now
               come
               again
               ,
               said
               I
               ,
               and
               flout
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Both
               Drought
               and
               Dearth
               ,
               both
               Bush
               and
               Brake
               ,
            
             
               Which
               way
               so
               e're
               I
               look
               ,
               I
               see
               ;
            
             
             
               We
               may
               Dream
               here
               ,
               but
               when
               we
               wake
               ,
            
             
               We
               dress
               our selves
               and
               come
               to
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               We
               talk
               of
               Harvests
               ;
               there
               are
               none
               ,
            
             
               But
               when
               we
               leave
               our
               Corn
               and
               Hay
               ;
            
             
               The
               fruitful
               Year
               is
               that
               which
               brings
            
             
               The
               last
               and
               lov'd
               ,
               though
               dreadful
               Day
               .
            
          
           
             
               This
               Frame
               ,
               this
               Knot
               of
               Man
               untye
               ,
            
             
               That
               my
               free
               Soul
               may
               use
               her
               wing
               ,
            
             
               Now
               pinion'd
               with
               Mortality
               ,
            
             
               As
               an
               entangled
               hamper'd
               thing
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               's
               left
               ,
               that
               I
               should
               stay
               and
               groan
               ?
            
             
               The
               most
               of
               me
               to
               Heav'n
               is
               fled
               :
            
             
               My
               Thoughts
               and
               Joys
               packt
               up
               and
               gone
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               their
               old
               Acquaintance
               plead
               .
            
          
           
             
               Oh
               shew
               me
               ,
               in
               thy
               Temple
               here
            
             
               Thy
               wondrous
               Grace
               ,
               thy
               special
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Or
               take
               me
               up
               to
               dwell
               with
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               Within
               thy
               glorious
               House
               above
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dulness
             .
          
           
             
               WHy
               langish
               I
               ,
               as
               if
               all
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               drooping
               ,
               dead
               and
               dull
               ?
            
             
               O
               give
               me
               quickness
               ,
               that
               with
               Mirth
            
             
               I
               may
               Thee
               Praise
               brim-full
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               wanton
               in
               a
               curious
               strain
            
             
               Can
               Praise
               His
               fairest
               Fair
               ;
            
             
               And
               with
               quaint
               Metaphors
               ,
               again
            
             
               Curl
               o're
               her
               curled
               Hair
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Thou
               alone
               ,
               Beauty
               are
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               Loveliness
               ,
               Life
               and
               Light
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               bloody
               Death
               and
               undeserv'd
               ,
            
             
               Makes
               thee
               pure
               Red
               and
               White
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Where
               are
               my
               Lines
               ?
               Approaches
               ?
               Views
               ▪
            
             
               Where
               are
               my
               Window-Songs
               ?
            
             
               Lovers
               pretending
               are
               ,
               their
               Muse
            
             
               Is
               sharp'ned
               by
               their
               wrongs
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               I
               am
               lost
               in
               Flesh
               ,
               and
               mock't
            
             
               By
               sugar'd
               Fallacies
               ;
            
             
               Sure
               thou
               didst
               put
               a
               Mind
               in
               me
               ,
            
             
               Could
               I
               find
               where
               it
               lies
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lord
               ,
               clear
               thy
               Gift
               that
               I
               may
               look
            
             
               T'wards
               Thee
               with
               constant
               Wit
               ;
            
             
               Look
               ,
               for
               to
               Love
               Thee
               ,
               who
               can
               be
               ,
            
             
               Yea
               Lord
               ,
               what
               Angel
               fit
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Man's
             Medley
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               113.
            
             
          
           
             
               HEark
               how
               the
               chirping
               Birds
               do
               sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               how
               the
               ccch'ing
               Woods
               do
               ring
               ;
            
             
               Birds
               have
               their
               Joys
               ,
               and
               Man
               hath
               his
               :
            
             
               Yet
               if
               we
               judge
               and
               rightly
               measure
               ,
            
             
               Mans
               real
               Joy
               and
               solid
               Pleasure
            
             
               Hereafter
               more
               than
               present
               is
               .
            
          
           
             
               Not
               that
               He
               may
               not
               sometimes
               here
               ,
            
             
               Tast
               of
               that
               Joy
               ,
               and
               pleasant
               cheer
               ;
            
             
               But
               as
               Birds
               drinking
               lift
               their
               Heads
               ,
            
             
               So
               must
               He
               sip
               ,
               and
               tasting
               think
            
             
               Of
               that
               new
               Wine
               ,
               that
               better
               drink
               ,
            
             
               Which
               He
               shall
               have
               ,
               when
               He
               is
               Dead
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               But
               as
               his
               Pleasures
               then
               are
               double
               ,
            
             
               So
               are
               his
               Cares
               ,
               and
               Grief
               ,
               and
               Trouble
               ,
            
             
               He
               hath
               two
               Winters
               to
               their
               one
               ;
            
             
               Both
               Frosts
               and
               Thoughts
               do
               sometimes
               Nip
            
             
               As
               well
               his
               Conscience
               as
               his
               Lip
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               Man
               that
               fears
               two
               Deaths
               alone
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Yet
               after
               all
               ,
               the
               greatest
               Griefs
            
             
               May
               be
               turn'd
               into
               his
               Reliefs
               ,
            
             
               Could
               He
               but
               take
               them
               in
               their
               Ways
               :
            
             
               Happy
               is
               He
               ,
               whose
               well-tun'd
               Heart
            
             
               Can
               by
               a
               new
               and
               heav'nly
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Turn
               double
               Pains
               to
               double
               Praise
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Gratefulness
             .
          
           
             
               THou
               that
               hast
               giv'n
               so
               much
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               Give
               more
               ,
               a
               thankful
               Heart
               :
            
             
               See
               how
               thy
               Beggar
               works
               on
               thee
            
             
               By
               an
               allowed
               Art.
               
            
          
           
             
               He
               makes
               thy
               Gifts
               occasion
               more
               ;
            
             
               If
               He
               in
               this
               be
               crost
               ,
            
             
               All
               thou
               hast
               giv'n
               him
               heretofore
            
             
               Is
               giv'n
               in
               vain
               and
               lost
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               thou
               didst
               reckon
               ,
               when
               at
               first
            
             
               Thy
               Word
               our
               Hearts
               did
               crave
               ,
            
             
               What
               it
               would
               come
               to
               at
               the
               worst
            
             
               Such
               wretched
               Souls
               to
               save
               .
            
          
           
             
               Perpetual
               knocking
               's
               at
               thy
               Door
               ,
            
             
               Tears
               sullying
               thy
               Rooms
               ,
            
             
               Gift
               upon
               Gift
               ,
               much
               would
               have
               more
               ;
            
             
               And
               in
               this
               way
               it
               comes
               .
            
          
           
             
               This
               notwithstanding
               thou
               went'st
               on
               ,
            
             
               And
               didst
               allow
               our
               Noise
               :
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               thou
               hast
               made
               a
               Sigh
               and
               Groan
            
             
               Thy
               Pleasure
               and
               thy
               Joys
               .
            
          
           
             
               Not
               that
               thou
               hast
               not
               Tunes
               above
            
             
               Better
               than
               groans
               can
               make
               ;
            
             
               But
               that
               these
               Country-Airs
               thy
               Love
            
             
               Is
               pleas'd
               to
               like
               and
               take
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Wherefore
               I
               cry
               ,
               and
               cry
               again
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               at
               no
               rest
               canst
               be
               ,
            
             
               Till
               I
               a
               thankful
               Heart
               obtain
               ,
            
             
               Which
               I
               may
               use
               for
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               Not
               thankful
               for
               a
               fit
               ,
               as
               if
            
             
               Thy
               Blessings
               had
               spare
               Days
               :
            
             
               But
               such
               a
               Heart
               ,
               whose
               Pulse
               may
               beat
            
             
               Continually
               thy
               Praise
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Praise
             .
          
           
             
               O
               King
               of
               Glory
               ,
               King
               of
               Peace
            
             
               I
               will
               Thee
               chiefly
               Love
               :
            
             
               And
               that
               my
               Love
               may
               never
               cease
            
             
               I
               will
               Thee
               daily
               move
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               thou
               hast
               granted
               my
               request
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               hast
               me
               freely
               heard
               :
            
             
               And
               thou
               dost
               Note
               my
               working
               Breast
            
             
               Thou
               hast
               me
               gently
               spar'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               therefore
               with
               my
               utmost
               Art
               ,
            
             
               I
               will
               thy
               Glory
               sing
               :
            
             
               The
               very
               Cream
               of
               all
               my
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               I
               will
               a
               Present
               bring
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               though
               my
               Sins
               against
               me
               cry'd
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               didst
               me
               fully
               clear
               :
            
             
               And
               when
               in
               Terrours
               they
               reply'd
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               didst
               my
               Prayers
               hear
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 Then
              
               sev'n
               whole
               Days
               ,
               not
               one
               in
               sev'n
            
             
               I
               will
               thy
               Honour
               Praise
               :
            
             
               And
               in
               my
               Heart
               ,
               though
               not
               in
               Heav'n
               ,
            
             
               I
               will
               thy
               Glory
               raise
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               I
               grew
               Soft
               and
               Moist
               with
               Tears
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               also
               didst
               relent
               :
            
             
             
               And
               when
               thy
               Justice
               call'd
               for
               Fears
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               didst
               in
               Grace
               dissent
               .
            
          
           
             
               Now
               small
               it
               is
               ,
               in
               this
               Poor
               sort
            
             
               Thy
               Name
               for
               to
               enrol
               :
            
             
               Eternity
               itself
               's
               too
               short
               .
            
             
               Thy
               Praise
               for
               to
               extol
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Longing
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               67.
            
             
          
           
             
               WIth
               sick
               and
               famisht
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Doubling
               Knees
               ,
               weary
               Bones
               ,
            
             
               To
               Thee
               my
               Sighs
               and
               Tears
               ascend
               ,
            
             
               To
               Thee
               my
               Cries
               and
               Groans
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               T●roat
               ,
               my
               Soul
               is
               hoarse
               ,
            
             
               Heart
               wither'd
               like
               a
               Ground
            
             
               Which
               ●hou
               didst
               Curse
               :
               My
               Thoughts
               make
               me
            
             
               Giddy
               by
               turning
               round
               .
            
          
           
             
               Bowels
               of
               Pity
               ,
               Hear
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               true
               Love
               of
               my
               Mind
               ,
            
             
               Let
               not
               my
               Words
               and
               thy
               Name
               there
               ,
            
             
               Be
               scatter'd
               by
               the
               Wind.
               
            
          
           
             
               Look
               on
               my
               Sorrows
               !
               Mark
            
             
               My
               Furnace
               !
               O
               what
               Flame
               !
            
             
               What
               heat
               doth
               in
               my
               Heart
               abide
               ;
            
             
               What
               Grief
               there
               is
               !
               What
               Shame
               !
            
          
           
             
               Lord
               Iesus
               ,
               thou
               didst
               bow
            
             
               The
               Head
               upon
               the
               Tree
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               He
               that
               made
               the
               Ear
               ,
               not
               hear
               ?
            
             
               O
               be
               not
               Deaf
               to
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Behold
               thy
               Dust
               doth
               stir
               ,
            
             
               It
               creeps
               ,
               it
               aims
               at
               Thee
               :
            
             
               And
               every
               Crumb
               therein
               saith
               ,
               Come
               ,
            
             
               Wilt
               thou
               not
               succour
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               Thou
               tarriest
               ,
               while
               I
               fall
            
             
               To
               nothing
               :
               Thou
               dost
               Reign
            
             
               And
               rule
               on
               high
               ,
               while
               I
               thy
               Child
            
             
               In
               bitter
               Grief
               remain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lord
               Jesus
               ,
               Hear
               my
               Heart
            
             
               That
               hath
               been
               broke
               so
               long
               :
            
             
               Thy
               Beggars
               grow
               ,
               and
               every
               Part
            
             
               Of
               it
               hath
               got
               a
               Tongue
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               Love
               ,
               my
               sweetness
               Hear
               ,
            
             
               As
               thy
               Feet
               lies
               my
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Oh
               heal
               my
               troubled
               Breast
               ,
               which
               cries
            
             
               And
               dies
               :
               Pluck
               out
               thy
               Dart.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Call.
             
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               O
               Come
               ,
               my
               VVay
               ,
               my
               Truth
               ,
               my
               Life
               ,
            
             
               Thou'
               rt
               such
               a
               Way
               as
               gives
               us
               breath
               :
            
             
               And
               such
               a
               Truth
               ,
               as
               Ends
               all
               strife
               ;
            
             
               And
               such
               a
               Life
               ,
               as
               killeth
               Death
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               come
               ,
               my
               Light
               ,
               my
               Feast
               ,
               my
               Strength
               ,
            
             
               Ev'n
               such
               a
               Light
               ,
               as
               shews
               a
               Feast
               :
            
             
               And
               such
               a
               Feast
               ,
               as
               mends
               in
               length
               ;
            
             
               And
               such
               a
               Strength
               ,
               as
               makes
               his
               Guest
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               come
               ,
               my
               Joy
               ,
               my
               Love
               ,
               my
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Ev'n
               such
               a
               Ioy
               ,
               as
               none
               can
               move
               ;
            
             
               And
               such
               a
               Love
               ,
               as
               none
               can
               Part
               ;
            
             
               And
               such
               a
               Heart
               ,
               as
               Joys
               in
               Love.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Search
             .
          
           
             
               WHether
               ,
               O
               whether
               art
               thou
               fled
               ,
            
             
               My
               gracious
               Lord
               ,
               my
               Love
               ?
            
             
               My
               Searches
               are
               my
               daily
               Bread
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               don't
               successful
               prove
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               My
               Knees
               pierce
               th'
               Earth
               ,
               mine
               Eyes
               the
               sky
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               the
               higher
               Sphere
            
             
               And
               lower
               Centre
               ,
               both
               deny
            
             
               To
               me
               ,
               that
               thou
               art
               there
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               can
               I
               mark
               ,
               how
               Herbs
               below
            
             
               Are
               Fresh
               ,
               grow
               Green
               and
               Gay
               :
            
             
               As
               if
               to
               meet
               Thee
               ,
               they
               did
               know
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               Dye
               and
               Decay
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               can
               I
               mark
               ,
               how
               Stars
               above
            
             
               Simper
               ,
               as
               't
               were
               ,
               and
               shine
               ,
            
             
               As
               having
               Keys
               unto
               thy
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               grow
               Pale
               and
               Pine.
               
            
          
           
             
               I
               sent
               a
               Sigh
               to
               seek
               Thee
               out
            
             
               Drawn
               from
               my
               Breast
               in
               Pain
               ,
            
             
               Wing'd
               like
               an
               Arrow
               ,
               but
               my
               Scout
            
             
               Alas
               !
               return'd
               in
               Vain
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               turn'd
               another
               (
               having
               store
               )
            
             
               Into
               a
               deeper
               groan
               ,
            
             
               Because
               the
               search
               was
               Dumb
               before
               ;
            
             
               But
               ,
               ah
               me
               !
               all
               was
               one
               .
            
          
           
             
               Where
               is
               my
               God
               ?
               What
               hidden
               Place
            
             
               Conceals
               Thee
               from
               me
               still
               ?
            
             
               What
               Covert
               dares
               Eclipse
               thy
               Face
               ?
            
             
               My
               God
               ,
               is
               it
               thy
               Will
               ?
            
          
           
             
               O
               let
               not
               that
               of
               any
               thing
            
             
               Be
               it
               ;
               let
               rather
               Brass
            
             
               Or
               Steel
               ,
               or
               Mountains
               be
               thy
               Ring
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               through
               them
               will
               pass
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thy
               Will
               such
               an
               intrenching
               is
               ,
            
             
               As
               passeth
               humane
               Thought
               ;
            
             
               To
               it
               all
               Strength
               ,
               all
               subtilties
            
             
               Are
               but
               as
               things
               of
               Nought
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               O
               take
               these
               Bars
               ,
               these
               lengths
               away
               ,
            
             
               Turn
               again
               and
               restore
               me
               ;
            
             
               Be
               not
               Almighty
               (
               shall
               I
               say
               )
            
             
               Against
               me
               ,
               Lord
               ,
               but
               for
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               thou
               dost
               turn
               and
               wilt
               be
               near
               ,
            
             
               What
               Edge
               is
               there
               so
               keen
               ;
            
             
               What
               Point
               so
               piercing
               can
               appear
               ,
            
             
               As
               once
               to
               come
               between
               ?
            
          
           
             
               For
               as
               thy
               absence
               doth
               excel
            
             
               All
               other
               distance
               known
               ;
            
             
               So
               doth
               thy
               nearness
               bear
               the
               Bell
               ,
            
             
               Making
               of
               two
               but
               one
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Grief
             .
          
           
             
               OH
               ,
               who
               will
               give
               me
               Tears
               ?
               come
               dwell
            
             
               VVithin
               my
               Eyes
               ,
               ye
               Springs
               ;
            
             
               Come
               Clouds
               and
               Rain
               ,
               my
               Grief
               hath
               need
            
             
               Of
               all
               the
               VVatry
               things
               .
            
          
           
             
               Each
               Vein
               suck
               up
               a
               River
               ,
               to
            
             
               Supply
               these
               weary
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
               My
               Eyes
               too
               dry
               ,
               unless
               they
               get
            
             
               New
               Conduits
               ,
               new
               Supplies
               .
            
          
           
             
               VVhat
               can
               Man
               do
               ,
               that
               little
               VVorld
               ,
            
             
               VVith
               his
               two
               little
               Spouts
               ?
            
             
               The
               greater
               VVorld
               cannot
               provide
            
             
               For
               all
               my
               Griefs
               and
               Doubts
               .
            
          
           
             
               Verses
               too
               fine
               for
               my
               rough
               Griefs
            
             
               Must
               here
               be
               Dumb
               and
               Mute
               ;
            
             
               Their
               running
               suits
               my
               Eyes
               ,
               but
               measure
            
             
               Suits
               best
               some
               Lovers
               Lute
               .
            
          
           
             
               His
               narrow
               Grief
               will
               him
               allow
            
             
               The
               softer-strain
               and
               Rhyme
               ;
            
             
               My
               harsher
               Sorrows
               do
               exclude
            
             
               Both
               Measure
               ,
               Tune
               and
               Time.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Self-Condemnation
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psal.
               113.
            
             
          
           
             
               THou
               who
               condemnest
               Jewish
               Hate
               ,
            
             
               For
               chusing
               of
               a
               Murderer
            
             
               Before
               a
               Saviour
               ,
               Lord
               of
               Glory
               ;
            
             
               Look
               back
               upon
               thy
               own
               Estate
               ,
            
             
               Call
               home
               thine
               Eye
               (
               that
               wanderer
               )
            
             
               That
               thine
               own
               Choice
               may
               be
               thy
               Story
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               that
               doth
               Love
               ,
               and
               Love
               amiss
               ,
            
             
               This
               VVorld
               before
               true
               Christian
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               How
               doth
               He
               make
               a
               Jewish
               Choice
               ?
            
             
               The
               VVorld
               an
               ancient
               Murderer
               is
               ,
            
             
               Thousands
               it
               hath
               and
               doth
               destroy
               ,
            
             
               VVith
               her
               enchanting
               Looks
               and
               Voice
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               He
               that
               hath
               made
               a
               sorry
               VVedding
            
             
               Between
               his
               Soul
               and
               Gold
               ;
               preferr'd
            
             
               False
               Gain
               and
               Riches
               before
               true
               ,
            
             
               Hath
               done
               what
               He
               condemns
               in
               Reading
               ,
            
             
               Hath
               Sold
               for
               Money
               His
               Dear
               Lord
               ,
            
             
               And
               is
               Himself
               a
               Iudas-Iew
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               we
               prevent
               the
               last
               great
               Day
            
             
               And
               judge
               our selves
               ,
               that
               Light
               which
               Passion
            
             
               And
               Sin
               before
               did
               Dim
               and
               Choak
               ,
            
             
               VVhen
               once
               these
               Snuffs
               are
               ta'ne
               away
               ,
            
             
               Shines
               bright
               ev'n
               unto
               Condemnation
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               without
               Excuse
               or
               Cloak
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Bitter-Sweet
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               67.
            
             
          
           
             
               AH
               my
               Dear
               angry
               Lord
               !
            
             
               Since
               thou
               dost
               Love
               yet
               strike
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               dost
               cast
               down
               ,
               yet
               help
               afford
               ,
            
             
               Sure
               I
               will
               do
               the
               like
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               I
               will
               complain
               ,
               yet
               Praise
            
             
               Bewail
               and
               yet
               approve
               :
            
             
               And
               all
               my
               other
               sowre-sweet
               Days
            
             
               I
               will
               lament
               yet
               Love.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Glance
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               WHen
               first
               thy
               sweet
               and
               gracious
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Vouchsaf'd
               in
               midst
               of
               Youth
               and
               Night
            
             
               To
               look
               on
               me
               ,
               who
               lay
               before
            
             
               In
               Sin
               ,
               I
               felt
               a
               strange
               delight
               .
            
          
           
             
               Since
               that
               Time
               many
               a
               bitter
               Storm
            
             
               I
               've
               felt
               ,
               which
               would
               have
               quite
               destroy'd
            
             
               My
               Soul
               ,
               had
               the
               malicious
               Harm
            
             
               His
               sway
               and
               swing
               fully
               enjoy'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               the
               first
               Joy
               ,
               sprung
               from
               thine
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Did
               still
               so
               work
               within
               my
               Soul
               ,
            
             
               That
               after
               all
               it
               got
               the
               Day
               ,
            
             
               And
               did
               the
               surging
               Griefs
               controul
               .
            
          
           
             
               If
               the
               first
               Glance
               so
               powerful
               be
               ,
            
             
               Mirth
               open'd
               and
               seal'd
               up
               again
               ,
            
             
               VVhat
               wonders
               shall
               we
               feel
               at
               last
               ,
            
             
               VVhen
               thou
               shalt
               look
               us
               out
               of
               Pain
               ▪
            
          
           
             
               VVhen
               we
               shall
               see
               thy
               full
               ey'd
               Love
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               one
               Heav'nly
               glorious
               Light
               ,
            
             
               More
               than
               a
               thousand
               Suns
               above
            
             
               Shall
               be
               disbursing
               joyful
               Light.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             Aaron
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               HOliness
               written
               on
               the
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Light
               and
               Perfections
               on
               the
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Harmonious
               Bells
               raising
               the
               Dead
            
             
               To
               Life
               :
               Thus
               are
               true
               Aarons
               drest
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               But
               ,
               oh
               ,
               prophaneness
               in
               my
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Defects
               and
               darkness
               in
               my
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               A
               noise
               of
               Passions
               like
               a
               Knell
               ;
            
             
               Ala
               ,
               poor
               Priest
               ,
               thus
               am
               I
               drest
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               yet
               I
               have
               another
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Christ
               is
               my
               only
               Heart
               and
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               He
               is
               my
               Musick
               causing
               Life
               ;
            
             
               In
               him
               alone
               I
               am
               well
               drest
               .
            
          
           
             
               Now
               again
               ,
               Holy
               in
               my
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Perfect
               and
               Light
               in
               Heart
               and
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               My
               Doctrine
               tun'd
               by
               Christ
               ,
               who
               lives
            
             
               In
               me
               ;
               Come
               People
               ,
               Aaron's
               drest
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Discipline
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               67.
            
             
          
           
             
               O
               Throw
               away
               thy
               Rod
               ,
            
             
               And
               throw
               away
               thy
               Wrath
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               art
               my
               Saviour
               and
               my
               God
               ,
            
             
               O
               take
               the
               gentle
               Path.
               
            
          
           
             
               Thou
               seest
               my
               Hearts
               desire
            
             
               Unto
               thy
               Will
               is
               bent
               :
            
             
               To
               nothing
               I
               do
               more
               aspire
            
             
               Than
               to
               a
               full
               Consent
               .
            
          
           
             
               There
               's
               not
               a
               Word
               or
               Look
            
             
               That
               I
               affect
               to
               own
               ,
            
             
               But
               what
               I
               have
               or
               learn
               by
               Book
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               thy
               Book
               alone
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               though
               I
               fail
               ,
               I
               weep
               ;
            
             
               And
               though
               I
               halt
               in
               Pace
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               still
               I
               go
               or
               rather
               creep
            
             
               Unto
               the
               Throne
               of
               Grace
               .
            
          
           
             
               Then
               let
               thy
               Wrath
               remove
               ,
            
             
               And
               Love
               will
               do
               the
               Deed
               :
            
             
             
               For
               with
               thy
               Blood
               ,
               and
               with
               thy
               Love
               ,
            
             
               These
               stony
               Hearts
               will
               bleed
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thy
               Love
               is
               swift
               of
               Foot
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Love
               's
               a
               Man
               of
               War
               ,
            
             
               That
               is
               victorious
               and
               can
               shoot
               ,
            
             
               And
               hit
               our
               Hearts
               from
               far
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               who
               can
               scape
               this
               Bow
               ?
            
             
               For
               that
               which
               wrought
               on
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               That
               brought
               thee
               down
               ,
               and
               made
               thee
               low
               ,
            
             
               Needs
               must
               it
               work
               on
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               throw
               away
               thy
               Rod
               :
            
             
               And
               though
               Man
               frailties
               hath
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               we
               are
               Creatures
               ,
               thou
               art
               God
               ,
            
             
               O
               throw
               away
               thy
               Wrath.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Invitation
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               COme
               hither
               ,
               all
               whose
               Heart
               and
               Taste
            
             
               Savours
               this
               Earth
               :
               Here
               mend
               your
               fare
               ;
            
             
               God
               hath
               prepar'd
               and
               is
               a
               Feast
               ,
            
             
               In
               whom
               alone
               all
               dainties
               are
               .
            
          
           
             
               Come
               hither
               ,
               you
               ,
               whom
               Love
               of
               Wine
            
             
               Hath
               made
               you
               Drink
               for
               hurt
               ,
               not
               good
               :
            
             
               Now
               weep
               what
               you
               have
               drunk
               amiss
               ,
            
             
               And
               cat
               his
               Flesh
               and
               drink
               his
               Blood.
               
            
          
           
             
               Come
               hither
               ,
               all
               whom
               Fear
               and
               Pain
            
             
               Arraigns
               ,
               and
               brings
               your
               Sins
               to
               sight
               ,
            
             
               Taste
               and
               fear
               not
               ,
               for
               God
               is
               here
               ,
            
             
               Who
               will
               on
               Sin
               return
               the
               fright
               .
            
          
           
             
               Come
               hither
               ,
               all
               whom
               Joy
               destroys
               ,
            
             
               And
               makes
               you
               graze
               without
               your
               bounds
               :
            
             
               Here
               is
               a
               Joy
               that
               drowns
               all
               Joys
               ,
            
             
               As
               doth
               a
               Flond
               the
               lower
               grounds
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Come
               hither
               ,
               all
               whom
               Love
               exalts
               ,
            
             
               And
               lifts
               you
               up
               unto
               the
               sky
               :
            
             
               Here
               is
               Love
               breathing
               ev'n
               in
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Which
               after
               Death
               can
               never
               Dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               Lord
               ,
               I
               have
               invited
               all
               ,
            
             
               And
               still
               I
               will
               invite
               to
               Thee
               ;
            
             
               For
               it
               doth
               seem
               but
               Just
               and
               Right
               ,
            
             
               That
               where
               all
               is
               ,
               there
               all
               should
               be
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Desertion
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               67.
            
             
          
           
             
               SOul's
               Joy
               ,
               when
               thou
               art
               gone
            
             
               (
               Which
               yet
               sure
               cannot
               be
               ,
            
             
               Because
               thou
               dost
               abide
               in
               me
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               depend
               on
               Thee
               .
               )
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               when
               thou
               dost
               suppress
            
             
               The
               Joy
               of
               thy
               abode
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               my
               Power
               not
               stir
               abroad
               ,
            
             
               But
               leave
               me
               to
               my
               Load
               .
            
          
           
             
               Oh
               ,
               what
               a
               Damp
               doth
               seize
            
             
               My
               Soul
               !
               no
               stormy
               Night
            
             
               Can
               so
               afflict
               or
               so
               affright
               ,
            
             
               As
               thy
               eclipsed
               Light.
               
            
          
           
             
               Ah
               Lord
               !
               do
               not
               withdraw
            
             
               Thy
               Love
               ,
               lest
               Sin
               appear
               ;
            
             
               And
               ,
               when
               thou
               dost
               but
               shine
               less
               clear
               ,
            
             
               Say
               that
               thou
               art
               not
               here
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               then
               what
               Life
               I
               have
               ,
            
             
               When
               Sin
               doth
               rave
               and
               boast
               ,
            
             
               That
               I
               may
               seek
               ,
               but
               thou
               art
               lost
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               ,
               and
               alone
               thou
               know'st
               .
            
          
           
             
               Oh
               ,
               what
               a
               deadly
               Cold
            
             
               Doth
               make
               me
               half
               believe
            
             
               That
               Sin
               saith
               true
               !
               but
               while
               I
               grieve
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               com'st
               and
               dost
               relieve
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Death
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               DEath
               thou
               wast
               once
               an
               uncouth
               thing
               ,
            
             
               Hid'ous
               ,
               and
               nothing
               else
               but
               Bones
               ;
            
             
               Mouth
               open
               ,
               but
               thou
               couldst
               not
               sing
               ,
            
             
               The
               sad
               Effects
               of
               sadder
               Groans
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               we
               were
               wont
               to
               look
               on
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               As
               at
               some
               nine
               or
               ten
               Years
               hence
               ,
            
             
               Flesh
               turn'd
               to
               Dust
               ,
               and
               Bones
               to
               sticks
               ,
            
             
               After
               the
               loss
               of
               Life
               and
               Sence
               .
            
          
           
             
               On
               this
               side
               of
               Thee
               we
               did
               look
               ,
            
             
               We
               shot
               too
               short
               ,
               whence
               we
               did
               
                 find
              
            
             
               Dust
               drawing
               Tears
               but
               shedding
               none
               ,
            
             
               The
               Shells
               of
               Fledge
               Souls
               left
               behind
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               since
               our
               Sav'ours
               Death
               hath
               put
            
             
               Some
               Blood
               and
               Vigour
               in
               thy
               Face
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               art
               much
               sought
               for
               as
               a
               good
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               art
               grown
               Fair
               and
               full
               of
               Grace
               .
            
          
           
             
               We
               now
               behold
               Thee
               gay
               and
               glad
               ,
            
             
               As
               thou
               wilt
               be
               at
               Judgment-Day
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Bones
               with
               Beauty
               shall
               be
               clad
               ,
            
             
               When
               Souls
               shall
               wear
               their
               new
               aray
            
          
           
             
               Therefore
               we
               can
               go
               Dye
               as
               Sleep
               ,
            
             
               And
               safely
               trust
               half
               that
               we
               have
               ▪
            
             
               (
               Making
               our
               Pillows
               Doan
               or
               Dust
               )
            
             
               Unto
               an
               honest
               ,
               faithful
               Grave
               ▪
            
          
        
      
       
         
         
           New
           Testament-Hymns
           ,
           Taken
           out
           of
           Dr.
           
           Woodford's
           PARAPHRASE
           ,
           And
           Turn'd
           into
           the
           Common
           Metre
           .
        
         
           
             The
             Song
             of
             the
             
               Blessed
               Uirgin
            
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               MY
               Soul
               doth
               magnifie
               the
               Lord
            
             
               My
               Spirit
               in
               Him
               rejoyce
               ;
            
             
               My
               Saviours
               Praises
               to
               Record
               ,
            
             
               My
               Spirit
               provokes
               my
               Voice
               .
            
             
               Nor
               Soul
               nor
               Spirit
               ,
               my
               Will
               or
               Mind
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               in
               his
               Praise
               lye
               still
               ;
            
             
               With
               Voice
               and
               Lyre
               ,
               I
               'll
               all
               my
               Powers
            
             
               Summon
               to
               shew
               their
               skill
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               The
               Church
               ,
               his
               Handmaids
               low
               Estate
            
             
               He
               kindly
               did
               regard
               ;
            
             
               He
               from
               on
               high
               view'd
               the
               sad
               State
               ,
            
             
               Which
               
               David's
               House
               prest
               hard
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               all
               Nations
               shall
               the
               Church
            
             
               Call
               above
               others
               Blest
               ,
            
             
             
               
               David's
               Seed
               b'ing
               of
               
               David's
               Throne
            
             
               Eternally
               possest
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Great
               are
               the
               Works
               that
               He
               hath
               done
               ,
            
             
               Who
               himself
               is
               great
               of
               Might
               ;
            
             
               But
               of
               all
               Names
               ,
               'T
               is
               Holiness
            
             
               That
               does
               him
               most
               Delight
               :
            
             
               All
               Names
               but
               that
               of
               Mercy
               ,
               which
            
             
               In
               him
               is
               still
               the
               same
               ,
            
             
               He
               does
               to
               Generations
               keep
               ,
            
             
               With
               them
               ,
               who
               fear
               his
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               To
               all
               besides
               by
               's
               Arm
               He
               's
               known
               ,
            
             
               His
               Strength
               none
               can
               repel
               ;
            
             
               His
               Arm
               alone
               the
               proud
               pulls
               down
               ,
            
             
               Spoils
               Plots
               laid
               deep
               as
               Hell.
            
             
               He
               Kingdoms
               sways
               and
               gives
               the
               Crowns
            
             
               To
               those
               i'
               th'
               Dust
               who
               lay
               ;
            
             
               With
               good
               things
               He
               the
               hungry
               fills
               ,
            
             
               Sends
               Rich
               empty
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               Isr'el
               thus
               hath
               He
               fill'd
               ,
               thus
               rais'd
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               rais'd
               ,
               He
               doth
               uphold
               ;
            
             
               B'ing
               mindful
               of
               (
               his
               Name
               be
               prais'd
               )
            
             
               His
               Cov'nant
               past
               of
               old
               :
            
             
               According
               to
               his
               Promise
               made
            
             
               To
               Abr'ham
               and
               his
               Seed
               ,
            
             
               Ev'n
               all
               whom
               Abr'hams
               Faith
               doth
               make
            
             
               Parties
               unto
               the
               Deed.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Song
             of
             Zacharias
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               
               ISrael's
               great
               God
               be
               ever
               prais'd
               ,
            
             
               Who
               Isr'el
               from
               the
               Dust
               hath
               rais'd
               ;
            
             
             
               He
               's
               mindful
               of
               his
               ancient
               Care
               ,
            
             
               Forgotten
               when
               we
               thought
               we
               were
               .
            
          
           
             
               Isr'el
               to
               visit
               He
               came
               down
               ,
            
             
               The
               Prison
               Doors
               wide
               open
               thrown
               :
            
             
               Redemption
               for
               us
               He
               hath
               wrought
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Throne
               the
               Captive
               brought
               .
            
          
           
             
               To
               
               David's
               Throne
               ,
               and
               't
               is
               his
               Son
            
             
               Sprung
               from
               his
               Loyns
               ,
               holds
               
               David's
               Throne
               ;
            
             
               With
               Empire
               ,
               which
               no
               time
               can
               bound
               ,
            
             
               With
               Subjects
               in
               all
               Countreys
               found
               .
            
          
           
             
               By
               Prophets
               which
               have
               been
               of
               old
            
             
               In
               ev'ry
               Age
               He
               this
               foretold
               ;
            
             
               For
               ev'ry
               Age
               have
               Prophets
               been
               ,
            
             
               E're
               since
               the
               World
               did
               first
               begin
               .
            
          
           
             
               This
               to
               foretel
               ,
               that
               God
               our
               State
            
             
               Would
               save
               ,
               and
               our
               wrongs
               vindicate
               ,
            
             
               Not
               for
               our
               sakes
               ,
               but
               to
               perform
            
             
               The
               Mercy
               promised
               and
               Sworn
               .
            
          
           
             
               Promis'd
               the
               Fathers
               ,
               who
               first
               were
               ,
            
             
               But
               which
               He
               did
               to
               Abr'ham
               swear
            
             
               By
               sacred
               Oath
               ,
               to
               be
               no
               more
            
             
               Doubted
               ,
               though
               stablish't
               't
               was
               before
               .
            
          
           
             
               God
               the
               most
               High
               by
               Himself
               swore
               ,
            
             
               That
               we
               from
               Heav'n
               should
               have
               the
               Power
            
             
               His
               noble
               Service
               to
               attend
               ,
            
             
               Fearless
               of
               all
               that
               may
               offend
               .
            
          
           
             
               (
               Deliver'd
               from
               our
               En'mies
               Hands
               ,
            
             
               Their
               captive
               Chains
               ,
               and
               servile
               Bands
               )
            
             
               In
               Righteousness
               and
               Holy
               Praise
               ,
            
             
               Which
               constant
               last
               ,
               through
               all
               our
               Days
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               now
               He
               comes
               who
               this
               hath
               wrought
               ,
            
             
               Who
               hath
               this
               great
               Salvation
               brought
               :
            
             
             
               And
               now
               His
               Prophet
               shall
               prepare
            
             
               His
               Ways
               ,
               which
               deep
               and
               wondrous
               are
               ;
            
          
           
             
               To
               teach
               and
               make
               his
               Isr'el
               know
               ,
            
             
               Whence
               their
               Salvation's
               source
               doth
               flow
               :
            
             
               That
               from
               Remission
               of
               their
               Sin
            
             
               The
               mighty
               source
               doth
               first
               begin
               :
            
          
           
             
               Through
               tender
               Mercy
               ,
               He
               the
               way
            
             
               To
               Pardon
               does
               by
               Grace
               display
               ,
            
             
               That
               Grace
               whereby
               Day-spring
               on
               high
            
             
               Visits
               with
               Streams
               ,
               which
               ne're
               shall
               dye
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Streams
               of
               a
               pure
               Aether'al
               Light
               ,
            
             
               T'shine
               on
               those
               who
               in
               Darkness
               sit
               ;
            
             
               Death's
               shadow
               shall
               with
               Rays
               increase
               ,
            
             
               To
               guide
               our
               Feet
               i'
               th'
               ways
               of
               Peace
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Song
             of
             Simeon
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               ENough
               ,
               my
               God
               ,
               I
               beg
               no
               more
            
             
               Thou
               canst
               no
               more
               bestow
               !
            
             
               My
               Pray'rs
               are
               answer'd
               ,
               I
               adore
            
             
               The
               Word
               ,
               which
               forth
               did
               go
               ;
            
             
               The
               Word
               ,
               which
               like
               Thee
               knows
               no
               change
               ,
            
             
               I
               am
               content
               to
               Dye
               ,
            
             
               The
               Time
               is
               sittest
               now
               ,
               Lord
               ,
               since
            
             
               Thy
               Word
               and
               
               Life
               's
               so
               nigh
               :
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Nigh
               is
               the
               Word
               ,
               nor
               hath
               Death
               come
            
             
               Me
               and
               thy
               Christ
               between
               ;
            
             
               As
               nigh
               is
               Life
               ,
               thy
               other
               Word
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               happy
               have
               I
               been
               .
            
             
               Two
               Words
               ,
               fulfill'd
               one
               ,
               t'other
               seen
               ,
            
             
               Makes
               me
               desire
               to
               dye
               :
            
             
             
               Who
               would
               not
               mortal
               Life
               exchange
            
             
               For
               Immortality
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               In
               Peace
               ,
               my
               God
               ,
               I
               dye
               ;
               and
               Thou
            
             
               In
               Peace
               dismissest
               me
               ,
            
             
               Since
               with
               these
               Eyes
               ,
               before
               their
               Change
               ,
            
             
               I
               thy
               Salvation
               see
               .
            
             
               I
               need
               not
               rise
               to
               see
               ,
               as
               they
            
             
               Who
               by
               Faith
               only
               saw
            
             
               What
               I
               within
               my
               Arms
               do
               hold
               ,
            
             
               The
               end
               of
               all
               their
               Law.
               
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Hail
               blest
               Salvation
               !
               Hail
               thou
            
             
               Who
               bring'st
               it
               ,
               Blessed
               Child
               !
            
             
               In
               whom
               ,
               as
               Holy
               Men
               foretold
               ,
            
             
               All
               Truths
               shall
               be
               fulfill'd
               :
            
             
               Hail
               Saviour
               and
               Salvation
               !
            
             
               Prepar'd
               of
               God
               to
               be
            
             
               This
               lower
               World's
               Redemption
               ,
            
             
               And
               th'
               Angels
               scrutiny
               .
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               Such
               is
               thy
               Cov'nant
               ,
               who
               before
            
             
               All
               Nations
               dost
               prepare
            
             
               What
               shall
               with
               Praise
               all
               Nations
               
                 fill
              
               ,
            
             
               As
               in
               Him
               all
               have
               share
               .
            
             
               He
               ,
               as
               a
               Sun
               ,
               to
               a
               dark
               World
            
             
               Shall
               rise
               with
               scatter'd
               Light
               ;
            
             
               But
               Isr'els
               Glory
               shall
               with
               Rays
            
             
               Be
               like
               his
               own
               Flames
               Bright
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Adoration
             of
             the
             
               Twenty
               Four
               Elders
               .
               Rev.
               11.17
               .
            
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               THou'
               rt
               worthy
               Honour
               to
               receive
               ,
            
             
               Honour'd
               are
               we
               ,
               who
               Honour
               give
               :
            
             
               Thou
               in
               one
               now
               ,
               collected
               hast
            
             
               All
               Time
               ,
               the
               Future
               ,
               Present
               ,
               Past.
               
            
          
           
             
               We
               Praise
               Thee
               ,
               Lord
               ,
               for
               that
               thou
               'st
               ta'ne
            
             
               To
               Thee
               thy
               Power
               ,
               and
               dost
               Reign
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               Wrath
               is
               come
               ,
               and
               so
               the
               Time
            
             
               When
               thou
               wilt
               Sentence
               ev'ry
               Crime
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               hence
               the
               Nations
               troubled
               are
               ,
            
             
               The
               Dead
               must
               for
               their
               Judge
               prepare
               ;
            
             
               They
               rise
               ,
               and
               as
               their
               Works
               have
               been
               ,
            
             
               Glory
               or
               Shame
               's
               on
               all
               brows
               seen
               .
            
          
           
             
               Saints
               ,
               Prophets
               ,
               all
               that
               fear
               thy
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Both
               small
               and
               great
               ,
               shall
               Praise
               the
               same
               ;
            
             
               But
               Vengeance
               stops
               the
               Sinners
               Mirth
               ,
            
             
               And
               Spoils
               the
               Spoilers
               of
               the
               Earth
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Song
             of
             Moses
             and
             the
             
               Lamb.
               Rev.
               15.13
            
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               148.
            
             
          
           
             
               HOw
               mighty
               are
               thy
               Works
               ,
            
             
               And
               marvellous
               thy
               Praise
               !
            
             
               Lord
               God
               Almighty
               ,
               Just
            
             
               And
               True
               are
               all
               thy
               Ways
               ,
            
             
               Blest
               King
               of
               Saints
               ,
            
             
               Who
               would
               nor
               fear
            
             
               Thy
               Presence
               dread
               ,
            
             
               Which
               Thrones
               revere
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Who
               would
               not
               fear
               Thee
               ,
               Lord
               ?
            
             
               Who
               would
               not
               glorifie
            
             
             
               That
               wondrous
               Name
               of
               thine
               ,
            
             
               Which
               thou
               hast
               rais'd
               so
               high
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               Holy
               Name
            
             
               By
               which
               thou'
               rt
               known
               ,
            
             
               For
               Holiness
            
             
               Is
               thine
               alone
               .
            
          
           
             
               Take
               then
               ,
               thou
               blessed
               King
               ,
            
             
               What
               is
               thy
               proper
               due
               ,
            
             
               And
               through
               all
               Coasts
               and
               Lands
            
             
               Thy
               proper
               right
               pursue
               .
            
             
               That
               ev'ry
               Coast
            
             
               And
               every
               Land
               ,
            
             
               May
               worship
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               wondring
               stand
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Ioy
             at
             the
             overthrow
             of
             
               Babylon
               .
               Rev.
               9.1
            
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             Tune
             of
             
               Psalm
               100.
            
             
          
           
             
               SIng
               Hallelujah
               to
               our
               King
               ,
            
             
               Honour
               and
               Pow'r
               and
               Glory
               sing
               :
            
             
               For
               true
               and
               righteous
               are
               his
               Ways
               ;
            
             
               He
               both
               deserves
               and
               hath
               our
               Praise
               .
            
          
           
             
               Most
               true
               and
               righteous
               is
               his
               Doom
               ,
            
             
               Who
               hath
               in
               Judgment
               overcome
               ;
            
             
               The
               Whore
               stands
               chain'd
               and
               dumb
               withal
               ,
            
             
               Without
               a
               Friend
               or
               Voice
               to
               call
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               judg'd
               she
               is
               ,
               who
               th'
               Earth
               did
               stain
            
             
               With
               a
               vile
               prostituted
               Train
               :
            
             
               He
               hath
               aveng'd
               the
               Blood
               she
               shed
               ,
            
             
               She
               dying
               ever
               ,
               is
               never
               Dead
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sing
               〈◊〉
               to
               our
               King
               ,
            
             
               Worship
               and
               Laud
               and
               Praises
               bring
               :
            
             
             
               Behold
               how
               up
               her
               smoak
               does
               rise
               !
            
             
               Who
               dying
               ever
               ,
               never
               dyes
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ev'n
               so
               ,
               Amen
               ;
               Lord
               ,
               be
               it
               so
               !
            
             
               That
               all
               the
               Earth
               thy
               Power
               may
               know
               :
            
             
               That
               all
               one
               Song
               with
               us
               may
               Sing
               ,
            
             
               Ev'n
               Hallelujah
               to
               our
               King.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             Baptismal
             Covenant
             .
             (
             Mostly
             )
             out
             of
             the
             Book
             of
             Psalms
             .
          
           
             
               Exod.
               15.2
               .
            
             
               THou
               art
               my
               God
               :
               I
               will
               prepare
            
             
               For
               Thee
               a
               dwelling
               Place
               :
            
             
               Thou
               art
               
                 my
                 Fathers
                 God
              
               ;
               and
               I
            
             
               Will
               Praise
               thy
               wondrous
               Grace
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psal.
               22.4
               .
            
             
               Thou
               art
               
                 my
                 Fathers
                 God
              
               ;
               and
               they
            
             
               Trusting
               in
               Thee
               were
               glad
            
             
               For
               all
               thy
               saving
               Health
               ,
               whilst
               I
            
             
               As
               yet
               no
               being
               had
               .
            
          
           
             
               Gen.
               17.7
               .
               Deut.
               17.9
               .
            
             
               
                 God
                 of
                 my
                 Fathers
              
               ,
               and
               their
               Seed
               ,
            
             
               For
               so
               thy
               Cov'nant
               is
               :
            
             
               And
               thou
               dost
               keep
               thy
               Cov'nant
               fare
            
             
               To
               thousands
               of
               Degrees
               .
            
          
           
             
               Exod.
               21.6
               .
            
             
               When
               at
               the
               Door
               the
               Ear
               was
               bor'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               Servant
               leaves
               it
               never
               ;
            
             
               He
               is
               a
               Servant
               in
               that
               House
            
             
               He
               and
               his
               Seed
               for
               ever
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Psalm
               86.16
               .
               and
               116.16
               .
            
             
               Now
               I
               am
               here
               ,
               thy
               Servant
               ,
               Lord
               ,
            
             
               One
               born
               within
               thy
               House
               :
            
             
               Son
               of
               thy
               Handmaid
               ,
               Son
               of
               Prayer
               ,
            
             
               A
               Son
               of
               Tears
               and
               Vows
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psalm
               22.9
               .
               and
               71.6
               .
            
             
               Thou
               took'st
               me
               from
               my
               Mothers
               Womb
               ,
            
             
               When
               my
               first
               Breath
               I
               drew
               ,
            
             
               Where
               I
               was
               curiously
               wrought
               ,
            
             
               All
               Praise
               to
               Thee
               is
               due
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psalm
               22.9
               ,
               10.
               
            
             
               My
               Parents
               then
               devoting
               me
               ,
            
             
               Upon
               Thee
               I
               was
               cast
               :
            
             
               And
               from
               my
               Mothers
               Belly
               ,
               Thou
            
             
               My
               God
               in
               Cov'nant
               wast
               .
            
             
               And
               while
               a
               feeble
               Infant
               ,
               I
            
             
               Hung
               on
               my
               Mothers
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               mad'st
               me
               hope
               ,
               for
               there
               I
               had
            
             
               This
               ground
               of
               Hope
               and
               Rest
               ;
            
             
               That
               being
               in
               thy
               Family
            
             
               Thy
               Charge
               I
               there
               became
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               wast
               my
               Father
               ,
               and
               my
               God
               :
            
             
               I
               bore
               on
               me
               thy
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psalm
               71.5
               .
            
             
               Then
               in
               pursuance
               of
               thy
               Word
            
             
               Thy
               Covenant
               of
               Truth
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               gav'st
               me
               Grace
               ,
               and
               wast
               the
               Guide
            
             
               And
               Hope
               of
               my
               Raw
               Youth
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psalm
               22.10
               .
            
             
               By
               all
               Engagements
               ,
               and
               by
               Vows
            
             
               Renewed
               ,
               I
               am
               thine
               :
            
             
             
               And
               thou
               art
               from
               that
               Time
               to
               this
            
             
               By
               the
               same
               Title
               mine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psalm
               71.9
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               when
               Age
               and
               Troubles
               come
               ,
            
             
               Lord
               ,
               for
               thy
               former
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Leave
               me
               not
               here
               distrest
               below
               ,
            
             
               Till
               lodged
               safe
               above
               .
            
             
               Lose
               not
               an
               ancient
               Servant
               ,
               Lord
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Work
               is
               almost
               done
               ,
            
             
               Who
               took'st
               me
               first
               into
               thy
               House
            
             
               Before
               my
               Work
               begun
               .
            
          
           
             
               Psalm
               71.18
               .
            
             
               Leave
               me
               not
               ,
               Lord
               ,
               till
               I
               have
               taught
            
             
               These
               Babes
               to
               know
               thy
               Will
               :
            
             
               That
               as
               I
               've
               prais'd
               my
               Fathers
               God
               ,
            
             
               My
               Seed
               may
               own
               Thee
               still
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             An
             Ode
             .
          
           
             
               AH
               Me
               !
            
             
               What
               a
               Wretch
               should
               I
               be
               ,
            
             
               Should
               I
               suffer
               what
               I
               see
               ,
            
             
               That
               my
               Sins
               do
               require
               ?
            
             
               There
               is
               none
               of
               them
               so
               small
               ,
            
             
               That
               for
               Vengeance
               doth
               not
               call
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               bitterness
               and
               gall
               ,
            
             
               Loss
               of
               Body
               ,
               Soul
               and
               all
               ,
            
             
               In
               the
               Pit
               of
               wo
               and
               thrall
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               no
               less
               than
               endless
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               That
               in
               Justice
               is
               their
               hire
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Sin
               ,
               Sin
               ,
            
             
               With
               my
               Life
               did
               begin
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               have
               liv'd
               therein
               ,
            
             
             
               All
               my
               Days
               heretofore
               ;
            
             
               Sins
               of
               Head
               ,
               Heart
               ,
               Hands
               and
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               Through
               my
               Life
               all
               along
               ,
            
             
               Like
               a
               thred
               have
               they
               run
               ,
            
             
               Binding
               me
               to
               be
               undone
               ,
            
             
               So
               many
               and
               great
               they
               're
               grown
               ,
            
             
               That
               if
               Justice
               Scan
               the
               score
            
             
               I
               must
               perish
               evermore
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Poor
               I
            
             
               Whether
               now
               shall
               I
               fly
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               set
               Liberty
               ,
            
             
               From
               this
               depth
               of
               Misery
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               not
               Sea
               ,
               't
               is
               not
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               not
               all
               the
               Indian
               Ore
            
             
               'T
               is
               not
               Rome
               with
               all
               her
               Store
            
             
               That
               hath
               Salve
               to
               Cure
               my
               Sore
               ;
            
             
               Only
               One
               can
               me
               restore
               ,
            
             
               To
               that
               Altar
               I
               will
               siy
               ,
            
             
               There
               I
               'll
               Live
               ,
               there
               I
               'll
               Dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Save
               ,
               Save
               ,
            
             
               Mercy
               ,
               Lord
               ,
               do
               I
               crave
               ,
            
             
               Other
               refuge
               none
               I
               have
               ,
            
             
               But
               thy
               Mercy
               to
               implore
               :
            
             
               Look
               upon
               me
               through
               the
               Side
            
             
               That
               the
               Spear
               made
               so
               wide
               :
            
             
               Look
               on
               me
               through
               Him
               that
               dy●d
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               Sin
               was
               crucify'd
               ;
            
             
               Grant
               his
               wounds
               my
               Sins
               may
               hide
               ,
            
             
               And
               his
               Blood
               may
               cross
               my
               score
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               ask
               but
               one
               thing
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               5.
               
            
             
               Grace
               ,
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               In
               my
               Heart
               do
               thou
               place
               ,
            
             
               That
               I
               may
               run
               the
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Which
               thy
               Laws
               do
               require
               :
            
             
               Give
               me
               Lord
               I
               humbly
               sue
            
             
               Grace
               to
               know
               ,
               Grace
               to
               do
               ,
            
             
               Grace
               that
               may
               me
               so
               renew
               ,
            
             
               And
               confirm
               and
               perfect
               too
               ,
            
             
               That
               when
               Death
               shall
               claim
               its
               due
               ,
            
             
               Grace
               in
               Glory
               may
               expire
               ,
            
             
               This
               is
               All
               my
               Desire
               .
            
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           A
           Catalogue
           of
           Books
           Printed
           for
           
             Tho.
             Parkhurst
          
           at
           the
           Bible
           and
           
             Three
             Crowns
          
           in
           Cheapside
           .
        
         
           ANnotations
           upon
           the
           Holy
           Bible
           ,
           wherein
           the
           sacred
           Text
           is
           inserted
           ,
           and
           various
           Readings
           annexed
           ,
           together
           with
           Parallel
           Scriptures
           ,
           the
           more
           difficult
           Terms
           in
           each
           Verse
           are
           explain'd
           ,
           seeming
           Contradictions
           reconciled
           ,
           Questions
           and
           Doubts
           Resolved
           ,
           and
           the
           whole
           Text
           open'd
           ;
           in
           two
           
             Vol.
             Fol.
          
           By
           the
           late
           Reverend
           and
           Learned
           Divine
           Mr.
           
             Mat.
             Pool
          
           .
        
         
           The
           Christian
           in
           compleat
           Armour
           ;
           or
           ,
           a
           Treatise
           of
           the
           Saints
           War
           against
           the
           Devil
           ,
           where
           a
           discovery
           is
           made
           of
           that
           Grand
           Enemy
           of
           God
           and
           his
           People
           ,
           in
           his
           Policy
           ,
           Power
           ,
           Seat
           of
           his
           Empire
           ,
           wickedness
           and
           chief
           Design
           against
           the
           Saints
           .
           A
           Magazine
           open'd
           ,
           from
           whence
           the
           Christian
           is
           furnished
           with
           Spiritual
           Arms
           for
           the
           Battle
           ,
           helped
           on
           with
           his
           Armour
           ,
           taught
           the
           use
           of
           his
           Weapon
           ,
           together
           with
           the
           happy
           Issue
           of
           the
           whole
           War.
           By
           
             W.
             Gurnal
          
           M.
           A.
           of
           Emanuel
           Colledge
           ,
           sixth
           Edition
           ,
           Vol.
           
        
         
           One
           Hundred
           Select
           Sermons
           on
           several
           Texts
           of
           Scripture
           .
           By
           
             Tho.
             Horton
          
           ,
           D.
           D.
           Fol.
           
        
         
           Sermons
           and
           Discourses
           on
           several
           Divine
           Subjects
           by
           the
           late
           Reverend
           and
           Learned
           Mr.
           
             David
             Clarkson
          
           ,
           B.
           D.
           and
           Fellow
           of
           
           Clare-Hall
           Cambridge
           ,
           Fol.
           
        
         
           A
           Body
           of
           Practical
           Divinity
           consisting
           of
           above
           
           one
           hundred
           seventy
           six
           Sermons
           on
           the
           lesser
           Catechism
           ,
           composed
           by
           the
           Reverend
           Assembly
           of
           Divines
           at
           Westminster
           ;
           with
           a
           Supplement
           of
           some
           Sermons
           on
           several
           Texts
           of
           Scripture
           .
           By
           
             Tho.
             Watson
          
           formerly
           Minister
           of
           St.
           
             Stephens
             Walbrook
             ,
             London
          
           ,
           Fol.
           
        
         
           A
           Paraphrase
           on
           the
           New
           Testament
           ,
           with
           Notes
           Doctrinal
           and
           Practical
           ,
           by
           plainness
           and
           brevity
           ,
           fitted
           to
           the
           Use
           of
           Religious
           Families
           ,
           in
           their
           daily
           Reading
           of
           the
           Scriptures
           ;
           and
           of
           the
           Younger
           and
           Poorer
           sort
           of
           Ministers
           ,
           who
           want
           fuller
           helps
           :
           With
           an
           Advertisement
           of
           Difficulties
           in
           the
           Revelation
           ,
           second
           Edition
           Corrected
           .
           By
           the
           late
           Reverend
           Mr.
           
             Rich.
             Baxter
          
           .
        
         
           Discourses
           upon
           the
           Rich
           Man
           and
           Lazarus
           .
           By
           
             Timothy
             Cruso
          
           .
           Octavo
           .
        
         
           Redemption
           of
           Time
           ,
           the
           Wisdom
           and
           Duty
           of
           Christians
           in
           Evil
           Days
           .
           By
           
             Iohn
             Wade
          
           Minister
           at
           Hammersmith
           .
        
         
           The
           Confirming
           Work
           of
           Religion
           ,
           and
           its
           great
           Things
           made
           plain
           by
           their
           Primary
           Evidences
           and
           Demonstrations
           ;
           whereby
           the
           meanest
           in
           the
           Church
           may
           soon
           be
           made
           able
           to
           render
           a
           rational
           Account
           of
           their
           Faith.
           By
           
             Rob.
             Fleming
          
           ,
           Author
           of
           the
           Fulfilling
           of
           the
           Scriptures
           .
           Now
           Publish'd
           by
           
             Daniel
             Burgess
          
           ,
           the
           second
           Edition
           .
        
         
           A
           New
           Creature
           ,
           or
           a
           short
           Discourse
           opening
           the
           Nature
           ,
           Properties
           and
           Necessity
           of
           the
           great
           Work
           of
           the
           New
           Creation
           upon
           the
           Souls
           of
           Men
           ,
           on
           Gal.
           6.15
           .
        
         
           A
           Family
           Altar
           erected
           to
           the
           Honour
           of
           the
           Eternal
           God
           ,
           or
           a
           solemn
           Essay
           to
           promote
           the
           Worship
           of
           God
           in
           Private
           Houses
           ,
           on
           Gen.
           32.2
           ,
           3.
           
           Together
           with
           the
           best
           Entail
           or
           Dying
           Parents
           loving
           Hopes
           for
           their
           surviving
           Children
           
           grounded
           upon
           the
           Covenant
           of
           Grace
           ,
           with
           Believers
           and
           their
           Seed
           .
           These
           two
           by
           
             O.
             H●ywood
          
           .
        
         
           The
           Gospel
           Mystery
           of
           Sanctification
           ,
           open'd
           in
           sundry
           practical
           Directions
           ,
           suited
           especially
           to
           the
           Case
           of
           those
           who
           labour
           under
           the
           Guilt
           and
           Power
           of
           Indwelling
           Sin.
           To
           which
           is
           added
           ,
           a
           Sermon
           of
           Justification
           .
           By
           Mr.
           
             Walter
             Marshal
          
           late
           Preacher
           of
           the
           Gospel
           .
        
         
           The
           Golden
           Snuffers
           ,
           or
           Christian
           Reprovers
           and
           Reformers
           ,
           Characterized
           ,
           Caution'd
           and
           Encouraged
           .
           A
           Sermon
           Preach'd
           to
           the
           Societies
           for
           Reformation
           of
           Manners
           in
           London
           ,
           Feb.
           15th
           .
           1696.
           
           By
           
             Daniel
             Burgess
          
           .
        
         
           A
           sure
           Guide
           to
           Heaven
           :
           Or
           an
           Earnest
           Invitation
           to
           Sinners
           to
           turn
           to
           God
           ,
           in
           Order
           to
           their
           Eternal
           Salvation
           .
           Shewing
           the
           thoughtful
           Sinner
           what
           he
           must
           do
           to
           be
           Saved
           .
           By
           
             Ioseph
             Allein
          
           Minister
           of
           the
           Gospel
           .
        
         
           A
           Brief
           Concordance
           to
           the
           Holy
           Bible
           ,
           of
           the
           most
           usual
           and
           useful
           Places
           ,
           which
           one
           may
           have
           occasion
           to
           seek
           for
           .
           By
           
             Sam.
             Clark
          
           ,
           M.
           A.
           
        
         
           Jehovah
           our
           Righteousness
           ,
           or
           the
           Justification
           of
           Believers
           ,
           by
           the
           Righteousness
           of
           Christ
           only
           〈◊〉
           asserted
           and
           applied
           in
           several
           Sermons
           .
           By
           
             Sam●●●
             Tomlyn
          
           A.
           M.
           Minister
           of
           the
           Gospel
           .
        
         
           A
           Discourse
           concerning
           Old
           Age
           ,
           tending
           to
           the
           Instruction
           ,
           Caution
           and
           Comfort
           of
           Age●
           Persons
           .
           By
           
             Richard
             Steel
          
           ,
           M.
           A.
           
        
         
           The
           Rod
           ,
           or
           the
           Sword
           ▪
           the
           Present
           Dilemma
           o●
           the
           Nations
           of
           
             ●ngland
             ,
             Scotland
          
           and
           Ireland
           ,
           Con●●sidered
           ,
           Argued
           ,
           and
           Improved
           ;
           in
           a
           Discour●●
           from
           Ezekiel
           ,
           Chap.
           21.
           
           Ver.
           13.