XCIX. Tristram White

Nonne subiecta erit anima mea Deo.

O MY deare-bought soule, to thy God Creator

No rebell be thou; for, alas, too feeble

Is thy fraile temper set against his wil’s force.

Thunder obeyes him.

Humble vnto his pleasure all thy spirits;

Wings are weak organs to auoid his eye-sight—

Earth, sea, and heauen’s selfe are within that orbe’s space,

Hee’s so beyond place.

Downe, high heart—downe then, whether shall he adiure,

And see thou welcome what hee throwes vpon thee;

Hang on his precepts, liue a life well order’d,

And fly no thunder.

Here’s thy clay-frame,—God, doe with it thy pleasure;

Here’s thine owne semblant by my sinnes abused;

Here’s thy deare Sonne’s price: O, be good, my soule cryes,

And be thou gracious.

Downe, high heart—downe then, whether shall he adiure,

And see thou welcome what hee throwes vpon thee;

Hang on his precepts, liue a life well order’d,

And fly no thunder.

O, my deare-bought soule, to thy God Redeemer

Simply be subiect; for, alas, without him

Dwels nothing hopeful: then, O soule, to him still

Simply be subiect.