Ii

No man breathes out more vital air Than he before sucked in: Those joys and praises must repair To us, which 'tis a sin To bury in a senseless tomb. An earthly wight must be the heir Of all those joys the holy Angels prize, He must a king before a priest become, And gifts receive or ever sacrifice. 'Tis blindness makes us dumb: Had we but those celestial eyes, Whereby we could behold the sum Of all His bounties, we should overflow With praises did we but their causes know.