My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow

Of this fair volume which we World do name If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare.

Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move? Is this the justice which on Earth we find? Is this that firm decree which all doth bind? Are these your influences, Powers above?

This Life, which seems so fair, Is like a bubble blown up in the air By sporting children's breath, Who chase it every where

My thoughts hold mortal strife; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise: — But he, grim-grinning King,

The last and greatest herald of Heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he than man more harmless found and mild.

God never had a church but there, men say, The Devil a chapel hath raised by some wyles. I doubted of this saw, till on a day I westward spied great Edinburgh’s Saint Gyles.