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Dia Poemata

Poetick Feet Standing Upon Holy Ground: Or, Verses on certain Texts of Scripture. With Epigrams, &c. By E. E. [i.e. Edmund Elys]

Elys, Edmund (ca. 1634-ca. 1707)

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To my FRIEND, Mr. E. E. on his Divine Poems.

On the sacred Poems of my Ingenious Friend, Mr. E. E.

To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.

To my Friend, the Author.

To his Honour'd Friend M. E. E. on his Incomparable Poems.

To Mr. E. E. on his DIA POEMATA.

To Mr. E. E. on his Book, &c.

To the Laurell worthy Mr. E. E. on his Excellent Poems.

To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA.

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In Dia Poemata; Or, Poetick Feet standing upon Holy Ground.

Ad Encomiastas Authoris.

Κοσμος ακοσμος. All is Vanity and vexation of Spirit.

[How light is Man! by ev'ry wind]

[On me, my Friends, ô pity take!]

Lavatus Æthiops.

On Christmas day.

[I'm slave to grief (not mine own man)]

[To light hearts only such light mirth belongs]

[Rapt with Hot Zeale (Elias like) Blest Stephen]

[Of the Ten Leapers, Lord, the world claim's Nine]

[Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?]

[Lord, on my Heart write thou thy Law, that I]

[My Lungs are worn with Groaning; often Moans]

[Ah! Shall my restlesse Mind for ever be]

[Thy Youthfull Heat should still Aspire]

In Obitum VITÆ. On the Death of JESUS.

[I've washt my feet, ev'n in the Bloud]

[Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon]

BACK-SLIDING: OR, A Spirituall Relapse.

[Hold! hold! I will not do't: Shall I]

[Thrice Curst be Wanton Pleasure, Hell's Fine Daughter]

EPIGRAMS, &c. By E. E.

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9

[Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?]

Take, Eat, This is my Body. Mark 14. 22.

Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?
Can Earth-worms relish such Celestial Meat?
O Blessed Lamb of God! shall we be Fed
On thee, whom our Dire Sins have Butchered?
And have we slain thee thus to Feed on thee?
And are we Pious Anthropophagi?
Stretch Faith! ô Mystick sable! where each guest
Is bid to Eat o'th' Master of the Feast:
Nay, where the Meat it self Invites, and where
Our Bodyes Eat, but soules digest the Fare.
Draw neer, my Soul, to this strange Truth, and fly
Out of thy self, by Holy Extasie,
Into the Bosome of the Light of Men,
Who here will make thee to be Born agen.
I come; but Faintly, Lord, as Sick folk doe:
Thou find'st us Meat, ô find us Stomacks too.