Chearfulness.

LOrd, with what courage, and delight
I doe each thing
When thy least breath sustaines my wing!
I shine, and move
Like those above,
And (with much gladnesse
Quitting sadnesse,)
Make me faire dayes of every night.

Affliction thus, meere pleasure is,
And hap what will,
If thou be in't, 'tis welcome still;
But since thy rayes
In Sunnie dayes
Thou dost thus lend
And freely spend,
Ah! what shall I return for this?

O that I were all Soul! that thou
Wouldst make each part
Of this poor, sinfull frame pure heart!
Then would I drown
My single one,
And to thy praise
A Consort raise
Of Hallelujahs here below.