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Poem	Blest be the God of love, Who gave me eyes, and light, and power this day, Both to be busy, and to play. But much more blest be God above, Who gave me sight alone, Which to himself he did deny: For when he sees my ways, I die: But I have got his son, and he hath none. What have I brought thee home For this thy love? have I discharg'd the debt, Which this day's favour did beget? I ran; but all I brought, was foam. Thy diet, care and cost Do end in bubbles, balls of wind; Of wind to thee whom I have crost, But balls of wild-fire to my troubled mind. Yet still thou goest on, And now with darkness closest weary eyes, Saying to man, 'It doth suffice: Henceforth repose; your work is done.' Thus in thy Ebony box Thou dost enclose us, till the day Put our amendment in our way, And give new wheels to our disorder'd clocks. I muse, which shows more love, The day or night: that is the gale, this th' harbour; That is the walk, and this the arbour; Or that is the garden, this the grove. My God, thou art all love. Not one poor minute scapes thy breast, But brings a favour from above; And in this love, more than in bed, I rest.
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