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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.'

They quarrel6161quarrel, used actively 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 wings of Thy mild Dove,

Not suffering those

Who would, to be Thy foes.


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 rug6262rug, apparently, counterpane, 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 bower

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?

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