My Lord I fain would Praise thee Well but finde
Impossibilities blocke up my pa**.
My tongue Wants Words to tell my thoughts, my Minde
Wants thoughts to Comprehend thy Worth, alas!
Thy Glory far Surmounts my thoughts, my thoughts
Surmount my Words: Hence little Praise is brought.
But seing Non-Sense very Pleasant is
To Parents, flowing from the Lisping Child,
I Conjue to thee, hoping thou in this
Will finde some hearty Praise of mine Enfoild,
But though my pen drop'd golden Words, yet would
Thy Glory far out shine my Praise in Gold.
Poor wretched man d**hs Captive stood full chuffe
But thou my Gracious Lord didst finde reliefe,
Thou King of Glory didst, to handy cuff
With King of Terrours, and dasht out his Teeth,
Pluckst out his sting, his Poyson quelst, his head
To pieces brakest. Hence Cruell d**h lies Dead.
And still thou by thy gracious Chymistry
Dost of his Carka** Cordialls make rich, High,
To free from d**h makst d**h a remedy:
A Curb to Sin, a Spur to Piety.
Heavens brightsom Light shines out in d**h's Dark Cave.
The Golden Dore of Glory is the Grave.
The Painter lies who pensills d**h's Face grim
With White bare bu*ter Teeth,, bare staring bones,
With Empty Eyeholes, Ghostly Lookes which fling
Such Dread to see as raiseth Deadly groans,
For thou hast farrely Washt d**hs grim grim face
And made his Chilly finger-Ends drop grace.
d**h Tamde, Subdude, Washt fair by thee! Oh Grace!
Made Usefull thus! thou unto thine dost say
Now d**h is yours, and all it doth in't brace.
The Grave's a Down bed now made for your clay.
Oh! Happiness! How should our bells hereby
Ring Changes, Lord, and praises trust with joy.
Say I am thine, My Lord: Make me thy bell
To ring thy praise. Then d**h is mine indeed
A Hift to Grace, a Spur to Duty; Spell
To Fear; a Frost to nip each naughty Weede.
A Golden doore to Glory. Oh I'le sing
This Triumph o're the Grave! d**h where's thy Sting?