The Good Bishop

AGainst the pains, and multitude of cares
That bring on age, and Silver all our hairs
By Nature's Chymistry; no means can add
More help, than Hall's rich Balm of Gilead.
Other old men, like common Trees do bear;
He's fruitful (like that rare one) twice a year.
All others blossom in the Spring; but he
In Winter too, like th' Glassenbury tree.
Winter yields Fruit; and in himself he shows
The place where all the year an Harvest grows.
His Judgment's brighter than the Sun'suprise;
Yet scorns to hide it self in Evening-skies.
Unchaste, intemp'rate Youth not seldom meets
An aged Penance nightly in the Sheets.
Lameness crawls after Lust; Disease, and Pain
Are all the Bed-fellows that now remain.
Rottenness waits on Lux'ry; its perfumes
Are putrefied Lungs, its Baths are Rhewms.
He's troubled with no Rhewm but that of's Pen;
Always o'rflowing, and yet full agen.
Whose Springs are rarer than the Spaws; wherein
You may wash off the Leprosie of Sin.
His Ink's a Medicine, if us'd betimes,
To cure the Tetters of our spreading Crimes.
His Pen dropt daily at the Nose indeed;
But then each drop turn'd Balm of Gilead.
What are his Words? To speak Diviner sense,
Angels blest Food distill'd to Eloquence.
Had then that Father known so great a Light
Would shine to make the World's last Evening bright;
Who wish'd h' had liv'd Christ in the Flesh to see,
And Rome's great Empire in its Majesty;
And Paul i'th' Pulpit; thus his wish had run,
Paul in the Morn, Hall in the Afternoon.