Lord, how I am all ague, when I seek

What I have treasur’d in my memory!

Since, if my soul make even with the week,

Each seventh note by right is due to thee.

I find there quarries of pil’d vanities,

But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture

To show their face, since cross to thy decrees:

There the circumference earth is, heav’n the centre.

In so much dregs the quintessence is small:

The spirit and good extract of my heart

Comes to about the many hundredth part.

Yet Lord restore thine image, hear my call:

And though my hard heart scarce to thee can groan,

Remember that thou once didst write in stone.