Thou that hast giv'n so much to me,

Give one thing more, a gratefull heart.

See how thy beggar works on thee

By art.

He makes thy gifts occasion more,

And sayes, If he in this be crost,

All thou hast giv'n him heretofore

Is lost.

But thou didst reckon, when at first

Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,

What it would come to at the worst

To save.

Perpetuall knockings at thy doore,

Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,

Gift upon gift, much would have more,

And comes.

This not withstanding, thou wentst on,

And didst allow us all our noise:

Nay thou hast made a sigh and grone

Thy joyes.

Not that thou hast not still above

Much better tunes, then grones can make;

But that these countrey-aires thy love

Did take.

Wherefore I crie, and crie again;

And in no quiet canst thou be,

Till I a thankfull heart obtain

Of thee:

Not thankfull, when it pleaseth me;

As if thy blessings had spare dayes:

But such a heart, whose pulse may be

Thy praise.