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A verse may find him, who a sermon flies, And turn delight into a sacrifice.
When thou dost tell another’s jest, therein Omit the oaths, which true wit cannot need: Pick out of tales the mirth, but not the sin. He pares his apple, that will cleanly feed.
God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers Into a bed, to sleep out all ill weathers.
For he, that needs five thousand pound to live, Is full as poor as he, that needs but five.
The way to make thy son rich, is to fill 110 His mind with rest, before his trunk with riches: For wealth without contentment, climbs a hill To feel those tempests, which fly over ditches. But if thy son can make ten pound his measure, Then all thou addest may be called his treasure.
By all means use sometimes to be alone. Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear. Dare to look in thy chest; for ’tis thine own: And tumble up and down what thou find’st there. Who cannot rest till he good fellows find, 150 He breaks up house, turns out of doors his mind.
Gold thou mayst safely touch; but if it stick Unto thy hands, it woundeth to the quick.
Laugh not too much: the witty man laughs least: 230 For wit is news only to ignorance. Less at thine own things laugh; lest in the jest Thy person share, and the conceit advance. Make not thy sport, abuses: for the fly That feeds on dung, is coloured thereby.
Pick out of mirth, like stones out of thy ground, Profaneness, filthiness, abusiveness. These are the scum, with which coarse wits abound: The fine may spare these well, yet not go less. All things are big with jest: nothing that’s plain, 240 But may be witty, if thou hast the vein.
Be calm in arguing: for fierceness makes Error a fault, and truth discourtesy. Why should I feel another man’s mistakes 310 More than his sicknesses or poverty?
Pitch thy behaviour low, thy projects high; So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be: Sink not in spirit: who aimeth at the sky, Shoots higher much than he that means a tree. 335 A grain of glory mixed with humbleness Cures both a fever and lethargicness.
Though private prayer be a brave design, Yet public hath more promises, more love: And love’s a weight to hearts, to eyes a sign. 400 We all are but cold suitors; let us move Where it is warmest. Leave thy six and seven; Pray with the most: for where most pray, is heaven.
Praying’s the end of preaching.
Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part: Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasures thither. Christ purged his temple; so must thou thy heart. All worldly thoughts are but thieves met together 425 To cozen thee. Look to thy actions well: For churches are either our heav’n or hell.
Judge not the preacher; for he is thy Judge: If thou mislike him, thou conceiv’st him not. God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge 430 To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. The worst speak something good: if all want sense, God takes a text, and preacheth patience.
Sum up at night, what thou hast done by day; And in the morning, what thou hast to do.
If thou do ill; the joy fades, not the pains: If well; the pain doth fade, the joy remains.
Judas, dost thou betray me with a kiss? Canst thou find hell about my lips? and miss Of life, just at the gates of life and bliss? Was ever grief like mine?
Some said, that I the Temple to the floor In three days razed, and raised as before. Why, he that built the world can do much more: Was ever grief like mine?
My silence rather doth augment their cry; My dove doth back into my bosom fly, 95 Because the raging waters still are high: Was ever grief like mine?
Behold, they spit on me in scornful wise, Who by my spittle gave the blind man eyes, 135 Leaving his blindness to mine enemies: Was ever grief like mine?
My face they cover, though it be divine. As Moses’ face was veiled, so is mine, Lest on their double-dark souls either shine: 140 Was ever grief like mine?
Then on my head a crown of thorns I wear: For these are all the grapes Sion doth bear, Though I my vine planted and wat’red there: Was ever grief like mine?
The soldiers also spit upon that face, Which Angels did desire to have the grace And Prophets once to see, but found no place: Was ever grief like mine?
O all ye who pass by, behold and see; Man stole the fruit, but I must climb the tree; The tree of life to all, but only me: Was ever grief like mine?
But now I die; now all is finished. 250 My woe, man’s weal: and now I bow my head. Only let others say, when I am dead, Never was grief like mine.
