Eliza's babes or, the virgins-offering. Being divine poems, and meditations. Written by a lady, who onely desires to advance the glory of God, and not her own.

About this Item

Title: Eliza's babes or, the virgins-offering. Being divine poems, and meditations. Written by a lady, who onely desires to advance the glory of God, and not her own.
Publication: London :: Printed by M.S. for Laurence Blaiklock, and are to be sold at his shop neer the Middle-Temple Gate,; 1652.
Rights/Permissions: This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this text, in whole or in part. Please contact project staff at eebotcp-info@umich.edu for further information or permissions.
Subject terms: Meditations -- Early works to 1800.
Cite this Item: "Eliza's babes or, the virgins-offering. Being divine poems, and meditations. Written by a lady, who onely desires to advance the glory of God, and not her own." In the digital collection Early English Books Online 2. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A84367.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 2, 2024.

Pages

The onely Comforter.

WHat in this world doe I deerer esteem?
Or greater in my minde, here still do deem?
Then that Spirit which floweth still from thee,
Which makes my soule in happy blisse to be?
For nothing in this world, here can me please,
Nor yet my Soule, from paine and grief can ease:
But thy sweet spirit which abides for aye,
For these vaine worldly things, doe fade away.
My soul immortall, did proceed from thee,
And pleas'd with mortall things, she cannot bee.
You earthly pleasures, I can use you all,
But treasures of my soule, Ile not you call.
Goe flee vaine pleasures, for sure all must grant,
Nought can us please, but what is permanent.
In thee my Lord, my soul alone is blest,
In thee alone, I doe attaine sweet rest.