XXII. Sir John Beaumont

YE that to heau’n direct your curious eyes,

And send your minds to walk the spacious skies,

See how the Maker to yourselues he brings,

Who sets his noble markes on meanest things;

And hauing man aboue the angels plac’d,

The lowly earth more than the heau’n hath grac’d.

Poore clay! each creature thy degrees admires.

First God in thee a liuing soule inspires,

Whose glorious beames hath made thee farre more bright

Then is the sunne, the spring of corp’rall light:

He rests not here, but to himselfe thee takes,

And thee diuine by wondrous vnion makes.

What region can afford a worthy place

For his exalted flesh? heau’n is too base:

He scarce would touch it in his swift ascent;

The orbes fled backe, like Iordan, as he went:

And yet he daign’d to dwell awhile on earth,

As paying thankefull tribute for his birth.

But now this body all God’s workes excels,

And hath no place, but God, in whom it dwels.