The poem
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.