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That Light, that Sight, that Thought,

Which in my Soul at first He wrought,

Is sure the only Act to which I may

Ascent to Day:

The Mirror of an Endless Life,

The Shadow of a Virgin Wife,

A Spiritual World Standing within,

An Univers enclosd in Skin.

My Power exerted, or my Perfect Being,

If not Enjoying, yet an Act of Seeing.

My Bliss

Consists in this,

My Duty too

In this I view.

It is a Fountain or a Spring,

Refreshing me in evry thing.

From whence those living Streams I do derive,

By which my Thirsty Soul is kept alive.

The Centre and the Sphere

Of my Delights are here.

It is my Davids Tower,

Where all my Armor lies,

The Fountain of my Power,

My Bliss, my Sacrifice:

A little Spark,

That shining in the Dark,

Makes, and encourages my Soul to rise.

The Root of Hope, the Golden Chain,

Whose End is, as the Poets feign,

Fastned to the very Throne

Of Jove.

It is a Stone,

On which I sit,

An Endless Benefit,

That being made my Regal Throne,

Doth prove

An Oracle of his Eternal Love.