LOrd, how I am all ague, when I seek
             What I have treasur’d in my memorie!
             Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I finde there quarries of pil’d vanities,
             But shreds of holinesse, that dare not venture
             To shew their face, since crosse to thy decrees:
There the circumference earth is, heav’n the center.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:
             The spirit and good extract of my heart
             Comes to about the many hundred part.
Yet Lord restore thine image, heare my call:
             And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone,
             Remember that thou once didst write on stone.