The Historie of Samson: Meditation 5

A Thankfull heart hath earnd one favour twice;
But he that is ungratefull, wants no vice:
The beast, that onely lives the life of Sense,
Prone to his severall actions and propense
To what he does, without th'advice of will,
Guided by nature, (that does nothing ill)
In practicke Maximes, proves it a thing hatefull,
T'accept a Favor, and to live ungratefull:
But man, whose more diviner soule hath gain'd
A higher step to reason: nay, attain'd
A higher step then that, the light of grace,
Comes short of them; and in that point, more base
Then they most prompt and perfect in that rude,
Vnnaturall, and high sinne, Ingratitude:
The Stall-fed Oxe, that is growne fat, will know
His carefull feeder, and acknowledge too:
The prouder Stallion, will at length espie,
His Masters bounty, in his Keepers eye:
The ayre-dividing Faulkon, will requite
Her Faulkners paines, with a well pleasing flight:
The generous Spaniell, loves his Masters eye,
And licks his fingers, though no meate be by;
But Man, ungratefull Man, that's borne, and bred
By Heavens immediate pow'r; maitain'd and fed
By his providing hand; observ'd, attended
By his indulgent grace; preserv'd, defended
By his prevailing arme; this Man, I say,
Is more ungratefull, more obdure than they:
By him, we live and move; from him, we have
What blessings he can give, or we can crave:
Food for our hunger; Dainties, for our pleasure;
Trades, for our buisnes; Pastimes, for our leasure;
In griefe, he is our Ioy; in want, our Wealth;
In bondage, Freedome; and in sicknesse, Health;
In peace, our Counsell; and in warre, our Leader;
At Sea, our Pilot; and, in Suites, our Pleader;
In paine, our Helpe; in Triumph, our Renowne;
In life, our Comfort; and in death our Crowne;
Yet Man, O most ungratefull Man, can ever
Enjoy the Gift, but never mind the Giver;
And like the Swine, though pamper'd with enough,
His eyes are never higher than the Trough:
We still receive: our hearts we seldome lift
To heaven; but drowne the giver in the Gift;
We taste the Skollops, and returne the Shels;
Our sweet Pomgranats want their silver Bells:
We take the Gift; the hand that did present it,
We oft reward; forget the Friend that sent it,
A blessing given to those, will not disburse
Some thanks, is little better then a curse.
Great giver of all blessings; thou that art
The Lord of Gifts; give me a gratefull heart:
O give me that, or keepe thy favours from me:
I wish no blessings, with a Vengeance to me.