My God, I read this day,

That planted Paradise was not so firm,

As was and is thy floting Ark; whose stay

And anchor thou art onely, to confirm

And strengthen it in ev'ry age,

When waves do rise, and tempests rage.

At first we liv'd in pleasure;

Thine own delights thou didst to us impart:

When we grew wanton, thou didst use displeasure

To make us thine: yet that we might not part,

As we at first did board with thee,

Now thou wouldst taste our miserie.

There is but joy and grief;

If either will convert us, we are thine:

Some Angels us'd the first; if our relief

Take up the second, then thy double line

And sev'rall baits in either kinde

Furnish thy table to thy minde.

Affliction then is ours;

We are the trees, whom shaking fastens more,

While blustring windes destroy the wanton bowres,

And ruffle all their curious knots and store.

My God, so temper joy and wo,

That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.