ich, or all men poor;
But why He did not, let me tell wherefore:
Had all been rich, where then had patience been?
Had all been poor, who had His bounty seen?

70. SOBRIETY IN SEARCH.

To seek of God more than we well can find,
Argues a strong distemper of the mind.

71. ALMS.

Give, if thou canst, an alms; if not, afford,
Instead of that, a sweet and gentle word:
_God crowns our goodness wheresoe'er He sees,
On our part, wanting all abilities_.

72. TO HIS CONSCIENCE.

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
My private protonotary?
Can I not woo thee to pass by
A short and sweet iniquity?
I'll cast a mist and cloud upon
My delicate transgression
So utter dark as that no eye
Shall see the hugg'd impiety;
Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please
And wind all other witnesses;
And wilt not thou with gold be ti'd
To lay thy pen and ink aside?
That in the mirk and tongueless night
Wanton I may, and thou not write?
It will not be. And, therefore, now,
For times to come I'll make this vow,
From aberrations to live free;
So I'll not fear the Judge or thee.

_Protonotary_, once the title of the chief clerk in the Courts of
Common Pleas and King's Bench.

73. TO HIS SAVIOUR.

Lord, I confess, that Thou alone art able
To purify this my Augean stable:
Be the seas water, and the land all soap,
Yet if Thy blood not wash me, there's no hope.

74. TO GOD.

God is all sufferance here; here He doth show
No arrow nockt, only a stringless bow:
His arrows fly, and all His stones are hurl'd
Against the wicked in another world.

_Nockt_, placed ready for shooting.

75. HIS DREAM.

I dreamt, last night, Thou didst transfuse
Oil from Thy jar into my cruse;
And pouring still Thy wealthy store,
The vessel full did then run o'er;
Methought I did Thy bounty chide
To see the waste; but 'twas replied
By Thee, dear God, God gives man seed
Ofttimes for waste, as for his need.
Then I could say that house is bare
That has not bread and some to spare.

76. GOD'S BOUNTY.

God's bounty, that ebbs less and less
As men do wane in thankfulness.

77. TO HIS SWEET SAVIOUR.

Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep,
And time seems then not for to fly, but creep;
Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she