Deign at my hands this crown of payer and praise,
Weav'd in my low devout melancholy,
Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasury,
All changing unchang'd Ancient of days;
But do not, with a vile crown of frail bays,
Reward my muses white sincerity,
But what thy thorny crown gain'd, that give me,
A crown of Glory, which doth flower always;
The ends crown our works, but thou crown'st our ends,
For, at our end begins our endless rest;
The first last end, now zealously possessed,
With a strong sober thirst, my soul attends.
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high,
Salvation to all that will is nigh.
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