My Home

A Thanksgiving to God for a House in the Green Parish of Devonshire LORD, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell, A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the sparres of which I lie, Both soft and drie; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate; Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my doore Is worn by the poore, Who hither come and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen’s small; A little butterie, and therein A little byn, Which keeps my little loafe of bread Unchipt, unflead. Some sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose loving coals I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confesse too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that bee There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain, and the messe Of water-cresse, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; And my content Makes those and my belovèd beet More sweet. ’T is thou that crown’st my glittering hearth With guiltlesse mirth, And giv’st me wassaile bowles to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, ’t is thy plenty-dropping hand That soiles my land, And gives me for my bushel sowne, Twice ten for one. Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day, Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each yeare; The while the conduits of my kine Run creame for wine. All these and better thou dost send Me to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankfulle heart, Which, fired with incense, I resigne As wholly thine; But the acceptance, that must be, MY CHRIST, by thee.