Hymn LXXVII. When we are merry-hearted.
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Sometimes we are more then ordinarily inclined to
cheerfulnesse, and what we should then doe, we are
advised by the Apostle Iames. And lest our mirth
corrupt into vanity, rather then invite us to sing
Psalmes, this Hymn offereth somewhat to consideration,
which may preserve, and sanctifie our cheerfulnesse.
[1]
Methinks I feele more perfect Rest,
Refreshing now, my mind;
And more contentment in my breast,
Then ev'ry day I find.
Such Notions there,
Begotten are,
And forth such thoughts they bring;
That though I would
My voice withhold,
I cannot chuse but sing.
2
Too oft vain musings do dispose
My heart, to fruitlesse Mirth.
And fill it with such fumes as those
Which vapour from the earth.
On such a Fit,
Sometime, I hit,
I know nor how, nor why:
And, as the same
Vnlook'd for came,
Ev'n so away t'will fly.
3
Oh LORD! if this be such a Toy,
Let some well-guided thought,
Translate it to a better Joy;
Or, bring the same to nought.
For, such Delights,
Are like some Sights,
Which in the dark appear:
At their first view,
They comfort shew,
At last, they make us fear.
4
Let those Delights which Fancie fains,
To please a crased mind;
And, that which Folly entertains
With me, no liking find.
But, let in me,
Increased be,
Those Comforts, and those Joyes,
Which do not flow
From things below:
And, which no time destroyes.