 | Poems by Robert Gomersall |  |
Psal. 92
I will bee glad and rejoyce in thee, yea my Songs will I make of thy name, O thou most High.
Father of Lights, whose praises to rehearseWould pose the boldnesse of the ablest verse;
Who art so far above what we can say,
That what we leave is greatest: shew the way
To my weake Muse, that being full of thee
She judge Devotion the best Poesie,
Teach her to shunne those ordinary wayes,
Wherein the greater sort seeke shamefull praise
By witty sinne, which ill affections stirres,
Whose pennes at leastwise are Adulterers.
O teach me Modesty: let it not be
My care to keepe my verse from harshnes free
And not from lightnesse; let me censure thus,
That what is Bad, that too is Barbarous.
Then shall my soule warm'd with thy sacred fire,
Advance her thoughts, and without Pride aspire,
Then shall I shew the glory of my King,
Then shall I hate the faults which now I Sing,
| Poems by Robert Gomersall | |