Misery

Lord, let the Angels praise thy name.
Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing,
Folly and Sin play all his game.
His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing,
Man is but grass ,
He knows it , fill the glass .

How canst thou brook his foolishness?
Why he'll not lose a cup of drink for thee:
Bid him but temper his excess;
Not he: he knows, where he can better be,
As he will swear,
Than to serve thee in fear.

What strange pollutions doth he wed,
And make his own? as if none knew, but he.
No man shall beat into his head,
That thou within his curtains drawn canst see:
They are of cloth,
Whеre never yеt came moth.

The best of men, turn but thy hand
For one poor minute, stumble at a pin:
They would not have their actions scanned,
Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin,
Though it be small,
And measure not their fall.

They quarrel thee, and would give over
The bargain made to serve thee: but thy love
Holds them unto it, and doth cover
Their follies with the wing of thy mild Dove,
Not suff'ring those
Who would, to be thy foes.

My God, Man cannot praise thy name:
Thou art all brightness, perfect purity;
The sun holds down his head for shame,
Dead with eclipses, when we speak of thee:
How shall infection
Presume on thy perfection?

As dirty hands foul all they touch,
And those things most, which are most pure and fine:
So our clay hearts, ev'n when we crouch
To sing thy praises, make them less divine.
Yet either this,
Or none, thy portion is.

Man cannot serve thee; let him go,
And serve the swine: there, there is his delight:
He doth not like this virtue, no;
Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:
These Preachers make
His head to shoot and ache.

O foolish man! where are thine eyes?
How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares?
Thou pull'st the rug, and wilt not rise,
No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars:
There let them shine,
Thou must go sleep, or dine.

The bird that sees a dainty bow'r
Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,
Wonders and sings, but not his power
Who made the arbour: this exceeds her wit.
But Man doth know
The spring, whence all things flow:

And yet as though he knew it not,
His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign;
They make his life a constant blot,
And all the blood of God to run in vain.
Ah wretch! what verse
Can thy strange ways rehearse?

Indeed at first Man was a treasure,
A box of jewels, shop of rarities,
A ring, whose posy was, My pleasure :
He was a garden in a Paradise;
Glory and grace
Did crown his heart and face.

But sin hath fooled him. Now he is
A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing
To raise him to the glimpse of bliss:
A sick tossed vessel, dashing on each thing;
Nay, his own shelf:
My God, I mean myself.