O come, and welcome! come, refine!
For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will shine.
Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he,
When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree.
Crosses make straight his crooked ways,
And clouds but cool his dog-star days;
Diseases too, when by Thee blest,
Are both restoratives and rest.
Flow'rs that in sunshines riot still,
Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill,
The fall is fair, e'en to desire,
Where in their sweetness all expire.
O come, pour on! what calms can be
So fair as storms, that appease Thee?