I
But shall my soul no wealth possess,
No outward riches have?
Shall hands and eyes alone express
Thy bounty? Which the grave
Shall strait devour. Shall I become
Within myself a living tomb
Of useless wonders? Shall the fair and brave
And great endowments of my soul lie waste,
Which ought to be a fountain, and a womb
Of praises unto Thee?
Shall there no outward objects be,
For these to see and taste?
Not so, my God, for outward joys and pleasures
Are even the things for which my limbs are treasures.