An upstroke to his soule

Up, Dove-like soule, and make thy Saviours side
Thy restfull Arke, his sprinkled blood thy guide;
Bath in this balme th'enflamed eyes of Lust,
Thy Plumes of pride, thy feete of lame distrust:
Harke how the bubling Current chides thy stay
In thine owne sound, and murmurs at delay;
See how his armes are for thy welcome spread,
And how he beckons with enclining head,
Vrge then thy flight, thy paines will not be lost,
Nor love want comfort, though thy Lord be lost,