God is good, is wise, is strong,
  Witness all the creature throng,
  Is confessed by every tongue;
  All things back from whence they sprung, go back—­a verb. 
  As the thankful rivers pay
  What they borrowed of the sea.

  Now myself I do resign: 
  Take me whole:  I all am thine. 
  Save me, God, from self-desire—­
  Death’s pit, dark hell’s raging fire—­[138]
  Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire;
  Let not lust my soul bemire.

  Quit from these, thy praise I’ll sing,
  Loudly sweep the trembling string. 
  Bear a part, O Wisdom’s sons,
  Freed from vain religions! 
  Lo! from far I you salute,
  Sweetly warbling on my lute—­
  India, Egypt, Araby,
  Asia, Greece, and Tartary,
  Carmel-tracts, and Lebanon,
  With the Mountains of the Moon,
  From whence muddy Nile doth run,
  Or wherever else you won:  dwell.
  Breathing in one vital air,
  One we are though distant far.

  Rise at once;—­let’s sacrifice: 
  Odours sweet perfume the skies;
  See how heavenly lightning fires
  Hearts inflamed with high aspires! 
  All the substance of our souls
  Up in clouds of incense rolls. 
  Leave we nothing to ourselves
  Save a voice—­what need we else! 
  Or an hand to wear and tire
  On the thankful lute or lyre!

  Sing aloud!—­His praise rehearse
  Who hath made the universe.

In this Philosopher’s Devotion he has clearly imitated one of those psalms of George Sandys which I have given.

  CHARITY AND HUMILITY.

  Far have I clambered in my mind,
  But nought so great as love I find: 
  Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might,
  Are nought compared to that good sprite. 
  Life of delight and soul of bliss! 
  Sure source of lasting happiness! 
  Higher than heaven! lower than hell! 
  What is thy tent?  Where may’st thou dwell?

  “My mansion hight Humility, is named.
  Heaven’s vastest capability. 
  The further it doth downward tend,
  The higher up it doth ascend;
  If it go down to utmost nought,
  It shall return with that it sought.”

  Lord, stretch thy tent in my strait breast;
  Enlarge it downward, that sure rest
  May there be pight for that pure fire pitched.
  Wherewith thou wontest to inspire
  All self-dead souls:  my life is gone;
  Sad solitude’s my irksome won; dwelling.
  Cut off from men and all this world,
  In Lethe’s lonesome ditch I’m hurled;
  Nor might nor sight doth ought me move,
  Nor do I care to be above. 
  O feeble rays of mental light,
  That best be seen in this dark night,
  What are you?  What is any strength
  If it be not laid in one length
  With pride or love?  I nought desire