XCIX. H. C.

THE THIRSTIE soule, that fainteth in the way,

Or hunger-bit, for heauenly foode doth long;

The wearied hart, that panteth all the way,

Oppressed with feares, and homebread griefs among;

The blinded eye, that hunts the shining ray,

Or minde enthralde through Satan’s wily wrong;

Let hither fare for comfort in their neede:

For smothered flames a greater fire will breede.

Here siluer streames shall quench thy boyling heat,

And hony dewes thy hungrie stomache fill:

Heere sweete repose with comfort shall intreate

Thy wounded breast to cure with busy skill:

Hence fetch thy ransome, howsoeuer great;

A mine of treasures are in this faire hill;

From whose hye top thy scaled eies may see

A glorious light that shall enlighten thee.

The streames are bloud, the dew is bread from heauen;

The rest and comfort are cœlestiall ioyes;

The ransome from the crosse was freely giuen;

The light is faith, which darknes all destroyes.

Thrise happy man, that guides his steps so euen,

As his pure light no gloomy darke annoyes:

His ransom’d soule æternal ioyes shall win,

When timelye death shall blessed life begin.