Seeke the Lord, and in his wayes perseuer.
      O faint not, but as Eagles flye ;
      For his steepe hill is high ;
Then striuing gaine the top, and triumph euer.

When with glory there thy browes are crowned,
      New ioys so shall abound in thee,
      Such sights thy soule shall see,
That worldly thoughts shall by their beames be drowned.

Farewell, World, thou masse of meere confusion,
      False light, with many shadowes dimm'd,
      Old Witch, with new foyles trimm'd,
Thou deadly sleepe of soule, and charm'd illusion.

I the King will seeke, of Kings adored ;
      Spring of light, tree of grace and blisse,
      Whose fruit so sou'raigne is
That all who taste it are from death restored.