No will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee; But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Then Julia let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me: Thy silvery feet My soul I'll pour into thee. LXXXIV. A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY. A LITTLE saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine, As my small cruse best fits my little wine. A little seed best fits a little soil, A little trade best fits a little toil : As my small jar best fits my little oil. A little bin best fits a little bread, A little garland fits a little head : A little hearth best fits a little fire, A little chapel fits a little choir, As my small bell best fits my little spire. A little stream best fits a little boat; A little lead best fits a little float; A little meat best fits a little belly, LXXXV. AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON. A H Ben! Say how or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun, As made us nobly wild, not mad? My Ben! Or come agen, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus. But teach us yet Lest we that talent spend ; And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit the world should have no more. LXXXVI. A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE. LORD, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; And little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry. Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, And yet the threshold of my door A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess 121 Of water-cress, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent: Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land : And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one : Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Besides my healthful ewes to bear The while the conduits of my kine All these, and better, thou dost send That I should render, for my part A thankful heart, Which, fired with incense, I resign But the acceptance that must be, My Christ, by thee. |