Book III, 43: On these Showers

Good God! what Weather's here! These soules of our
Have still the luck to travell in a Shower:
Lord, we are cold and pitifully drencht;
Not a dry thrid; And all our Fyer's quencht:
Our very Blood is cold; Our trembling knees
Are mutuall Andvils; Lord, we stand and freeze:
Alas we find small comfort from the Eye
Of Heav'n; These showring clouds, our sins, doe flye
Betwixt the Sun and us: Wee dry no more,
Then if the Sun had giv'n his office o'r:
Nay Lord; if now and then those Beames do chance
To breake upon's, and lend a feeble glaunce
Vpon our reeking soules, ere we begin
To feele the warmth, w'are dous'd and drencht agin:
In what a case are we! Our nightly damps
And daily storms, have fild our Soules with Cramps,
With wav'ring Palseyes, and our hoarser tongues
Can doe thee service, nor in Prayers, nor Songs:
Our Zeales are Aguish; hot and cold: They be
Extreamely hot toth' World, as cold to Thee;
Our Blood has got a Fever: Lord, it must
Be set on fire with every wanton Lust:
What worlds of mischiefes are there, that prevaile not
Vpon our fainting Soules? What is't we ayle not,
That Wet and Cold can bring? Yet have no power
To keepe us in, but dable in the Shower:
Shine forth, bright Sun of glory; Be as feirce,
As these eclipsing Clouds are blacke; Disperse
And cleare them with thy stronger beams, that thus
Dare interpose betwixt thy Glory' and us:
Reflect on my distempered Soule; Refine
This vap'rous Earth, this sinfull Flesh of mine,
That, tho some Drops m fall, I may have power,
Shelter'd by thee, t'avoyd the down right Shower;
O let my dabled Spirit still retyre
To thee, and warme her by thy Sacred Fyre;
That having ravill'd out some weary howers,
She may arrive where's neither Clouds nor Showers.