Thou that hast giv'n so much to me,
Give one thing more, a grateful heart.
See how thy beggar works on thee
By art.
He makes thy gift occasion more,
And sayes, If he in this be crost,
All thou hast giv'n him heretofore
Is lost.
But thou didst reckon, when at first
Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,
What it would come to at the worst
To save.
Perpetuall knockings at thy doore,
Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift; much would have more,
And comes.
This notwithstanding, thou wentst on,
And didst allow us all our noise:
Nay thou hast made a sigh and grone
The joyes.
Not that thou hast not still above
Much better tunes, then grones can make;
But that these countrey-aires thy love
Did take.
Wherefore I crie, and crie again;
And in no quiet canst thou be,
Till I a thankfull heart obtain
Of thee:
Not thankfull, when it pleaseth me;
As if thy blessings had spare dayes:
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.
