On Affliction

Wellcome, what e're my tender flesh may say,Welcome affliction, to my reason, still;Though hard, and ruged on that rock I layA sure foundation, which if rais'd with skill,Shall compasse Babel's aim, and reach th' Almighty's hill.Wellcome the rod, that does adoption shew,The cup, whose wholsome dregs are giv'n me here ;There is a day behind, if God be true,When all these Clouds shall passe, & heav'n be clear,When those whom most they shade, shall shine most glorious there.Affliction is the line, which every SaintIs measured by, his stature taken right;So much itt shrinks, as they repine or faint,But if their faith and Courage stand upright,By that is made the Crown, and the full robe of light.