The Holy Ghost

  O Holy Ghost, whose temple I 
Am, but of mud walls , and condensèd dust, 
  And being sacrilegiously 
Half wasted with youth’s fires of pride and lust, 
              Must with new storms be weather-beat, 
              Double in my heart Thy flame, 
Which let devout sad tears intend, and let—
Though this glass lanthorn, flesh, do suffer maim—
Fire, sacrifice, priest, altar be the same.