22
Its weightiness does try my back,
That faith and patience be not slack,
It is a fanning wild whereby
I am unchaff′d of vanity.
A furnace to refine my grace,
A wing to lift my soul apace;
Hence still the more I sob distrest,
The more I sing my endless rest.
Mine enemies that seek my hurt,
Of all their bad designs come short;
They serve me fully to my mind,
With favours which they ne′er design′d.
The fury of my foes makes me
Fast to my peaceful refuge flee:
And ev′ry persecuting elf
Does make me understand myself.
Their slanders cannot work my shame,
Their vile reproaches raise my name;
In peace with Heav′n my soul can dwell,
Ev′n when they damn me down to hell.
Their fury can′t the treaty harm,
Their passion does my pity warm;
Their madness only calms my blood;
By doing hurt they do my good.
