CANTVS. VII.
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TO Musicke bent is my re- ty-red mind, And fain would I some song of plea- sure sing:
But in vain ioies no cōfort now I find: From heauenly thoughts al true delight doth spring.
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Thy power O God, thy mercies to record, Will sweeten euery note and euery word.
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1
To Musicke bent is my retyred minde,
And faine would I some song of pleasure sing:
But in vaine ioyes no comfort now I finde:
From heau'nly thoughts all true delight doth spring.
Thy power O God, thy mercies to record
Will sweeten eu'ry note, and eu'ry word.
2
All earthly pompe or beauty to expresse,
Is but to carue in snow, on waues to write.
Celestiall things though men conceiue them less••,
Yet fullest are they in themselues of light:
Such beames they yeeld as know no meanes to dye:
Such heate they cast as lifts the Spirit high.