Affliction: I
When
first
thou
didst
entice
to
thee
my
heart,
I
thought
the
service
brave;
So
many
joyes
I
writ
down
for
my
part,
Besides
what
I
might
have
Out
of
my
stock
of
naturall
delights,
Augmented
with
thy
gracious
benefits.
I
looked
on
thy
furniture
so
fine,
And
made
it
fine
to
me;
Thy
glorious
household-stuffe
did
me
entwine,
And
'tice
me
unto
thee.
Such
starres
I
counted
mine:
both
heav'n
and
earth
Payd
me
my
wages
in
a
world
of
mirth.
What
pleasures
could
I
want,
whose
King
I
serv'd,
Where
joyes
my
fellows
were?
Thus
argu'd
into
hopes,
my
thoughts
reserv'd
No
place
for
grief
or
fear;
Therefore
my
sudden
soul
caught
at
the
place,
And
made
her
youth
and
fiercenesse
seek
thy
face:
At
first
thou
gav'st
me
milk
and
sweetnesses;
I
had
my
wish
and
way;
My
dayes
were
straw'd
with
flow'rs
and
happinesse;
There
was
no
moneth
but
May.
But
with
my
yeares
sorrow
did
twist
and
grow,
And
made
a
partie
unawares
for
wo.
My
flesh
began
unto
my
soul
in
pain,
Sicknesses
cleave
my
bones,
Consuming
agues
dwell
in
ev'ry
vein,
And
tune
my
breath
to
groans:
Sorrow
was
all
my
soul;
I
scarce
beleeved,
Till
grief
did
tell
me
roundly,
that
I
liv'd.
When
I
got
health,
thou
took'st
away
my
life,
And
more;
for
my
friends
die:
My
mirth
and
edge
was
lost;
a
blunted
knife
Was
of
more
use
then
I.
Thus
thinne
and
lean
without
a
fence
or
friend,
I
was
blown
through
with
ev'ry
storm
and
winde.
Whereas
my
birth
and
spirit
rather
took
The
way
that
takes
the
town;
Thou
didst
betray
me
to
a
lingring
book,
And
wrap
me
in
a
gown.
I
was
entangled
in
the
world
of
strife,
Before
I
had
the
power
to
change
my
life.
Yet,
for
I
threaten'd
oft
the
siege
to
raise,
Not
simpring
all
mine
age,
Thou
often
didst
with
academick
praise
Melt
and
dissolve
my
rage.
I
took
thy
sweetned
pill,
till
I
came
neare;
I
could
not
go
away,
nor
persevere.
Yet
lest
perchance
I
should
too
happie
be
In
my
unhappinesse,
Turning
my
purge
to
food,
thou
throwest
me
Into
more
sicknesses.
Thus
doth
thy
power
cross-bias
me,
not
making
Thine
own
gift
good,
yet
me
from
my
ways
taking.
Now
I
am
here,
what
thou
wilt
do
with
me
None
of
my
books
will
show:
I
reade,
and
sigh,
and
wish
I
were
a
tree;
For
sure
then
I
should
grow
To
fruit
or
shade:
at
least
some
bird
would
trust
Her
household
to
me,
and
I
should
be
just.
Yet,
though
thou
troublest
me,
I
must
be
meek;
In
weaknesse
must
be
stout;
Well,
I
will
change
the
service,
and
go
seek
Some
other
master
out.
Ah
my
deare
God!
though
I
am
clean
forgot,
Let
me
not
love
thee,
if
I
love
thee
not.
