II
No man breathes out more vital air
Than he before sucked in:
Those joys and praises must repair
To us, which 'tis a sin
To bury in a senseless tomb.
An earthly wight must be the heir
Of all those joys the holy Angels prize,
He must a king before a priest become,
And gifts receive or ever sacrifice.
'Tis blindness makes us dumb:
Had we but those celestial eyes,
Whereby we could behold the sum
Of all His bounties, we should overflow
With praises did we but their causes know.