Lord, Thou Hast Given Me A Cell Wherein To Dwell; An Little House, Whose Humble Roof Is Weather-Proof; Under The Spars Of Which I Lie Both Soft And Dry; Where Thou My Chamber For To Ward Hast Set A Guard Of Harmless Thoughts, To Watch And Keep Me, While I Sleep. Low Is My Porch As Is My Fate, Both Void Of State; And Yet The Threshold Of My Door Is Worn By'Th' Poor, Who Thither Come, And Freely Get Good Words, Or Meat; Like As My Parlour, So My Hall And Kitchen'S Small; A Little Butterie And Therein A Little Bin, Which Keeps My Little Loaf Of Bread Unchipp'D, Unflay'D; Some Brittle Sticks Of Thorn Or Briar Make Me A Fire, Close By Whose Living Coal I Sit, And Glow Like It. Lord, I Confess Too, When I Dine, The Pulse Is Thine, And All Those Other Bits That Be There Plac'D By Thee; The Worts, The Purslain, And The Mess Of Water-Cress, Which Of Thy Kindness Thou Hast Sent; And My Content Makes Those, And My Beloved Beet, To Be More Sweet. 'Tis Thou That Crown'St My Glitt'Ring Hearth With Guiltless Mirth; And Giv'St Me Wassail Bowls To Drink, Spic'D To The Brink. Lord, 'Tis Thy Plenty-Dropping Hand That Soils My Land; And Giv'St Me, For My Bushel Sown, Twice Ten For One; Thou Mak'St My Teeming Hen To Lay Her Egg Each Day; Besides My Healthful Ewes To Bear Me Twins Each Year; The While The Conduits Of My Kine Run Cream (For Wine.) All These, And Better Thou Dost Send Me, To This End, That I Should Render, For My Part, A Thankful Heart, Which, Fir'D With Incense, I Resign As Wholly Thine; But The Acceptance, That Must Be, My Christ, By Thee.