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.