Out of Mr. More's Cop. Conf.

THrice happy he whose Name is writ above,
Who doeth good though gaining infamy,
Requiteth evil turns with hearty love,
And cares not what befalls him outwardly;
Whose worth is in himself, and onely bliss
In his pure Conscience, which doth nought amiss:

Who placeth pleasure in his purged Soul,
And Vertuous Life his treasure does esteem;
Who can his Passions master and controul,
And that true Lordly Manliness doth deem:
Who from this World himself hath dearly quit,
Counts nought his own but what lives in his sp'rit.

So when his Spirit from this vain World shall flit,
It bears all with it whatsoe're was dear
Unto it self, passing an easie Fit;
As kindly Corn ripened comes out of th' Ear.
Careless of what all idle men will say,
He takes his own and calmly goes his way.

Eternal Reason, Glorious Majesty,
Compar'd to whom what can be said to be?
Whose Attributes are Thee, who art alone
Cause of all various things, and yet but One;
Whose Essence can no more be search'd by Man,
Then Heav'n thy Throne be grasped with a Span.
Yet if this great Creation was design'd
To several ends fitted for every kind;
Sure Man (the World's Epitome) must be
Form'd to the best, that is, to study thee.
And as our Dignity, 'tis Duty too,
Which is summ'd up in this, to know and doo.
These comely rowes of Creatures spell thy Name,
Whereby we grope to find from whence they came,
By thy own Change of Causes brought to think
There must be one, then find that highest Link.
Thus all created Excellence we see
Is a resemblance saint and dark of thee.
Such shadows are produc'd by the Moon-beams
Of Trees or Houses in the running streams.
Yet by Impressions born with us we find
How good, great, just thou art, how unconfin'd.
Here we are swallow'd up, and daily dwell
Safely adoring what we cannot tell.
All we know is, thou art supremely good,
And dost delight to be so understood.
A spicy Mountain on the Universe,
On which thy richest Odours do disperse.
But as the Sea to fill a Vessel heaves
More greedily then any Cask receives,
Besieging round to find some gap in it,
Which will a new Infusion admit:
So dost thou covet that thou mayst dispence
Upon the empty World thy Influence;
Lov'st to disburse thy self in kindness: Thus
The King of Kings waits to be gracious.
On this account, O God, enlarge my heart
To entertain what thou wouldst fain impart.
Nor let that Soul, by several titles thine,
And most capacious form'd for things Divine,
(So nobly meant, that when it most doth miss,
'Tis in mistaken pantings after Bliss)
Degrade it self in sordid things delight,
Or by prophaner mixtures lose its right.
Oh! that with fixt unbroken thoughts it may
Admire the light which does obscure the day.
And since 'tis Angels work it hath to doe,
May its composure be like Angels too.
When shall these clogs of Sense and Fancy break,
That I may hear the God within me speak?
When with a silent and retired art
Shall I with all this empty hurry part?
To the Still Voice above, my Soul, advance;
My light and joy's plac'd in his Countenance.
By whose dispence my Soul to such frame brought,
Maytame each trech'rous, fix each scat'ringthought;
With such distinctions all things here behold,
And so to separate each dross from gold,
That nothing my free Soul may satisfie,
But t' imitate, enjoy, and study thee.