Oh, whither shall my troubled Muse encline?
When not the glorious scaffolde of the skies,
Nor highest heaven's resplendent hierarchies,
Where heav'nly soldiours in pure armor shine;
Nor ayer which thy sweete Spirite doth refine,
Nor earth thy precious bloud unworthy prise,
Nor seas which, when thou list, ebbe and arise;
Nor any creature, profane or divine,
Can blaze the flourish of thy tearmelesse praise;
Surreaching farre, by manifold large space,
All divine fabricke of thy sacred hands;
Even thither shall my Muse her musicke raise,
Where my soule's everlasting pallace stands, --
Sweete refuge of salvation ! court of grace!