A Meditation on a Windmill.

OBserve it alwaies tis the makers skill
To place the windmill on the highest hill;
It stands unusefull till the potent windes
Puffe up the lofty sayles and then it grinds:
Iust thus it is: the hypocrite's the mill,
His actions sayles, ambition is the hill,
The wind that drives him is a blast of fame,
If blowne with this he runnes, if not hee's tame:
He stirres not till a puffe of praise doth fill
His sailes: but then, O how he turnes the mill!
Lord drive me with thy Spirit, then Ile be
Thy windmill, and will grind a grist for thee.