The Poems of Edward Taylor :: :: University of Virginia Library

What Love is this of thine, that Cannot bee
In thine Infinity, O Lord, Confinde,
Unless it in thy very Person see,
Infinity, and Finity Conjoyn'd?
What hath thy Godhead, as not satisfide
Marri'de our Manhood, making it its Bride?

Oh, Matchless Love! filling Heaven to the brim!
O're running it: all running o're beside
This World! Nay Overflowing Hell; wherein
For thine Elect, there rose a mighty Tide!
That there our Veans might through thy Person bleed,
To quench those flames, that else would on us feed.

Oh! that thy Love might overflow my Heart!
To fire the same with Love: for Love I would.
But oh! my streight'ned Breast! my Lifeless Sparke!
My Fireless Flame! What Chilly Love, and Cold?
In measure small! In Manner Chilly! See.
Lord blow the Coal: Thy Love Enflame in mee.

2. Meditation on Can. 1.3. Thy Name is an Ointment poured out.

12.9m [Nov.] 1682.

My Dear, Deare, Lord I do thee Saviour Call:
Thou in my very Soul art, as I Deem,

Soe High, not High enough, Soe Great; too small:
Soe Deare, not Dear enough in my esteem.
Soe Noble, yet So Base: too Low; too Tall:
Thou Full, and Empty art: Nothing, yet all.

A Precious Pearle, above all price dost 'bide.
Rubies no Rubies are at all to thee.
Blushes of burnisht Glory Sparkling Slide
From every Square in various Colour'd glee
Nay Life itselfe in Sparkling Spangles Choice.
A Precious Pearle thou art above all price.

Oh! that my Soul, Heavens Workmanship (within
My Wicker'd Cage,) that Bird of Paradise
Inlin'de with Glorious Grace up to the brim
Might be thy Cabbinet, oh Pearle of Price.
Oh! let thy Pearle, Lord, Cabbinet in mee.
I'st then be rich! nay rich enough for thee.

My Heart, oh Lord, for thy Pomander gain.
Be thou thyselfe my sweet Perfume therein.
Make it thy Box, and let thy Pretious Name
My Pretious Ointment be emboxt therein.
If I thy box and thou my Ointment bee
I shall be sweet, nay, sweet enough for thee.

Enough! Enough! oh! let me eat my Word.
For if Accounts be ballanc'd any way,
Can my poore Eggeshell ever be an Hoard,
Of Excellence enough for thee? Nay: nay.
Yet may I Purse, and thou my Mony bee.
I have enough. Enough in having thee.

3. Meditation. Can. 1.3. Thy Good Ointment

11.12m [Feb.] 1682.

How sweet a Lord is mine? If any should
Guarded, Engarden'd, nay, Imbosomd bee
In reechs of Odours, Gales of Spices, Folds
Of Aromaticks, Oh! how sweet was hee?
He would be sweet, and yet his sweetest Wave
Compar'de to thee my Lord, no Sweet would have.

A Box of Ointments, broke; sweetness most sweet.
A surge of spices: Odours Common Wealth,
A Pillar of Perfume: a steaming Reech
Of Aromatick Clouds: All Saving Health.
Sweetness itselfe thou art: And I presume
In Calling of thee Sweet, who art Perfume.

But Woe is mee! who have so quick a Sent
To Catch perfumes pufft out from Pincks, and Roses
And other Muscadalls, as they get Vent,
Out of their Mothers Wombs to bob our noses.
And yet thy sweet perfume doth seldom latch
My Lord, within my Mammulary Catch.

Am I denos'de? or doth the Worlds ill sents
Engarison my nosthrills narrow bore?
Or is my smell lost in these Damps it Vents?
And shall I never finde it any more?
Or is it like the Hawks, or Hownds whose breed
Take stincking Carrion for Perfume indeed?

This is my Case. All things smell sweet to mee:
Except thy sweetness, Lord. Expell these damps.
Breake up this Garison: and let me see
Thy Aromaticks pitching in these Camps.
Oh! let the Clouds of thy sweet Vapours rise,
And both my Mammularies Circumcise.

Shall Spirits thus my Mammularies suck?
(As Witches Elves their teats,) and draw from thee
My Dear, Dear Spirit after fumes of muck?
Be Dunghill Damps more sweet than Graces bee?
Lord, clear these Caves. These Passes take, and keep.
And in these Quarters lodge thy Odours sweet.

Lord, breake thy Box of Ointment on my Head;
Let thy sweet Powder powder all my hair:
My Spirits let with thy perfumes be fed
And make thy Odours, Lord, my nosthrills fare.
My Soule shall in thy sweets then soar to thee:
I'le be thy Love, thou my sweet Lord shalt bee.

The Experience.

Oh! that I alwayes breath'd in such an aire,
As I suckt in, feeding on sweet Content!
Disht up unto my Soul ev'n in that pray're
Pour'de out to God over last Sacrament.
What Beam of Light wrapt up my sight to finde
Me neerer God than ere Came in my minde?

Most strange it was! But yet more strange that shine
Which filld my Soul then to the brim to spy
My Nature with thy Nature all Divine
Together joyn'd in Him thats Thou, and I.

Flesh of my Flesh, Bone of my Bone. There's run
Thy Godhead, and my Manhood in thy Son.

Oh! that that Flame which thou didst on me Cast
Might me enflame, and Lighten ery where.
Then Heaven to me would be less at last
So much of heaven I should have while here.
Oh! Sweet though Short! Ile not forget the same.
My neerness, Lord, to thee did me Enflame.

I'le Claim my Right: Give place, ye Angells Bright.
Ye further from the Godhead stande than I.
My Nature is your Lord; and doth Unite
Better than Yours unto the Deity.
Gods Throne is first and mine is next: to you
Onely the place of Waiting-men is due.

Oh! that my Heart, thy Golden Harp might bee
Well tun'd by Glorious Grace, that e'ry string
Screw'd to the highest pitch, might unto thee
All Praises wrapt in sweetest Musick bring.
I praise thee, Lord, and better praise thee would
If what I had, my heart might ever hold.

The Return.

Inamoring Rayes, thy Sparkles, Pearle of Price
Impearld with Choisest Gems, their beams Display
Impoysoning Sin, Guilding my Soule with Choice
Rich Grace, thy Image bright, making me pray,
Oh! that thou Wast on Earth below with mee
Or that I was in Heaven above with thee.

Thy Humane Frame, with Beauty Dapled, and
In Beds of Graces pald with golden layes,
Lockt to thy Holy Essence by thy hand,
Yields Glances that enflame my Soul, that sayes
Oh! that thou wast on Earth below with mee!
Or that I was in Heaven above with thee.

All Love in God, and's Properties Divine
Enam'led are in thee: thy Beauties Blaze
Attracts my Souls Choice golden Wyer to twine
About thy Rose-sweet selfe. And therefore prayes
Oh! that thou wast on Earth below with mee!
Or, that I was in Heaven above with thee.

A Magazeen of Love: Bright Glories blaze:
Thy Shine fills Heaven with Glory; Smile Convayes
Heavens Glory in my Soule, which it doth glaze
All ore with amoring Glory; that she sayes,
Oh! that thou wast on Earth below with mee!
Or, that I was in Heaven above with thee!

Heavens Golden Spout thou art where Grace most Choice
Comes Spouting down from God to man of Clay.
A Golden Stepping Stone to Paradise
A Golden Ladder into Heaven! I'l pray
Oh! that thou wast on Earth below with mee
Or that I was in Heaven above with thee.

Thy Service is my Freedom Pleasure, Joy,
Delight, Bliss, Glory, Heaven on Earth, my Stay,
In Gleams of Glory thee to glorify.
But oh! my Dross and Lets. Wherefore I say
Oh! that thou wast on Earth below with mee:
Or that I was in Heaven above with thee.

If off as Offall I be put, if I
Out of thy Vineyard Work be put away:
Life would be Death: my Soule would Coffin'd ly,
Within my Body; and no longer pray

Oh! that thou wast on Earth below with mee:
But that I was in Heaven above with thee.

But I've thy Pleasant Pleasant Presence had
In Word, Pray're, Ordinances, Duties; nay,
And in thy Graces, making me full Glad,
In Faith, Hope, Charity, that I do say,
That thou hast been on Earth below with mee.
And I shall be in Heaven above with thee.

Be thou Musician, Lord, Let me be made
The well tun'de Instrument thou dost assume.
And let thy Glory be my Musick plaide.
Then let thy Spirit keepe my Strings in tune,
Whilst thou art here on Earth below with mee
Till I sing Praise in Heaven above with thee.

4. Meditation. Cant. 2.1. I am the Rose of Sharon.

22.2m [April] 1683.

My Silver Chest a Sparke of Love up locks:
And out will let it when I can't well Use.
The gawdy World me Courts t'unlock the Box,
A motion makes, where Love may pick and choose.
Her Downy Bosom opes, that pedlars Stall,
Of Wealth, Sports, Honours, Beauty, slickt up all.

Love pausing on't, these Clayey Faces she
Disdains to Court; but Pilgrims life designs,
And Walkes in Gilliads Land, and there doth see
The Rose of Sharon which with Beauty shines.
Her Chest Unlocks; the Sparke of Love out breaths
To Court this Rose: and lodgeth in its leaves.

No flower in Garzia Horti shines like this:
No Beauty sweet in all the World so Choice:
It is the Rose of Sharon sweet, that is
The Fairest Rose that Grows in Paradise.
Blushes of Beauty bright, Pure White, and Red
In Sweats of Glory on Each Leafe doth bed.

Lord lead me into this sweet Rosy Bower:
Oh! Lodge my Soul in this Sweet Rosy bed:
Array my Soul with this sweet Sharon flower:
Perfume me with the Odours it doth shed.
Wealth, Pleasure, Beauty Spirituall will line
My pretious Soul, if Sharons Rose be mine.

The Blood Red Pretious Syrup of this Rose
Doth all Catholicons excell what ere.
Ill Humours all that do the Soule inclose
When rightly usd, it purgeth out most clear.
Lord purge my Soul with this Choice Syrup, and
Chase all thine Enemies out of my land.

The Rosy Oyle, from Sharons Rose extract
Better than Palma Christi far is found.
Its Gilliads Balm for Conscience when she's wrackt
Unguent Apostolorum for each Wound.
Let me thy Patient, thou my Surgeon bee.
Lord, with thy Oyle of Roses Supple mee.

No Flower there is in Paradise that grows
Whose Virtues Can Consumptive Souls restore
But Shugar of Roses made of Sharons Rose
When Dayly usd, doth never fail to Cure.
Lord let my Dwindling Soul be dayly fed
With Sugar of Sharons Rose, its dayly Bread.

God Chymist is, doth Sharons Rose distill.
Oh! Choice Rose Water! Swim my Soul herein.
Let Conscience bibble in it with her Bill.
Its Cordiall, ease doth Heart burns Causd by Sin.
Oyle, Syrup, Sugar, and Rose Water such.
Lord, give, give, give; I cannot have too much.

But, oh! alas! that such should be my need
That this Brave Flower must Pluckt, stampt, squeezed bee,
And boyld up in its Blood, its Spirits sheed,
To make a Physick sweet, sure, safe for mee.
But yet this mangled Rose rose up again
And in its pristine glory, doth remain.

All Sweets, and Beauties of all Flowers appeare
In Sharons Rose, whose Glorious Leaves out vie
In Vertue, Beauty, Sweetness, Glory Cleare,
The Spangled Leaves of Heavens cleare Chrystall Sky.
Thou Rose of Heaven, Glory's Blossom Cleare
Open thy Rosie Leaves, and lodge mee there.

My Dear-Sweet Lord, shall I thy Glory meet
Lodg'd in a Rose, that out a sweet Breath breaths.
What is my way to Glory made thus sweet,
Strewd all along with Sharons Rosy Leaves.
I'le walk this Rosy Path: World fawn, or frown
And Sharons Rose shall be my Rose, and Crown.

The Reflexion.

Lord, art thou at the Table Head above
Meat, Med'cine, sweetness, sparkling Beautys to
Enamour Souls with Flaming Flakes of Love,
And not my Trencher, nor my Cup o'reflow?
Be n't I a bidden Guest? Oh! sweat mine Eye.
Oreflow with Teares: Oh! draw thy fountains dry.

Shall I not smell thy sweet, oh! Sharons Rose?
Shall not mine Eye salute thy Beauty? Why?
Shall thy sweet leaves their Beautious sweets upclose?
As halfe ashamde my sight should on them ly?
Woe's me! for this my sighs shall be in grain
Offer'd on Sorrows Altar for the same.

Had not my Soule's thy Conduit, Pipes stopt bin
With mud, what Ravishment would'st thou Convay?
Let Graces Golden Spade dig till the Spring
Of tears arise, and cleare this filth away.
Lord, let thy spirit raise my sighings till
These Pipes my soule do with thy sweetness fill.

Earth once was Paradise of Heaven below
Till inkefac'd sin had it with poyson stockt
And Chast this Paradise away into
Heav'ns upmost Loft, and it in Glory Lockt.
But thou, sweet Lord, hast with thy golden Key
Unlockt the Doore, and made, a golden day.

Once at thy Feast, I saw thee Pearle-like stand
'Tween Heaven, and Earth where Heavens Bright glory all

In streams fell on thee, as a floodgate and,
Like Sun Beams through thee on the World to Fall.
Oh! sugar sweet then! my Deare sweet Lord, I see
Saints Heavens-lost Happiness restor'd by thee.

Shall Heaven, and Earth's bright Glory all up lie
Like Sun Beams bundled in the sun, in thee?
Dost thou sit Rose at Table Head, where I
Do sit, and Carv'st no morsell sweet for mee?
So much before, so little now! Sprindge, Lord,
Thy Rosie Leaves, and me their Glee afford.

Shall not thy Rose my Garden fresh perfume?
Shall not thy Beauty my dull Heart assaile?
Shall not thy golden gleams run through this gloom?
Shall my black Velvet Mask thy fair Face Vaile?
Pass o're my Faults: shine forth, bright sun: arise
Enthrone thy Rosy-selfe within mine Eyes.

5. Meditation. Cant. 2.1. The Lilly of the Vallies.

2.7m [Sept.] 1683.

My Blessed Lord, art thou a Lilly Flower?
Oh! that my Soul thy Garden were, that so
Thy bowing Head root in my Heart, and poure
Might of its Seeds, that they therein might grow.
Be thou my Lilly, make thou me thy knot:
Be thou my Flowers, I'le be thy Flower Pot.

My barren heart thy Fruitfull Vally make:
Be thou my Lilly flouerishing in mee:

Oh Lilly of the Vallies. For thy sake,
Let me thy Vally, thou my Lilly bee.
Then nothing shall me of thyselfe bereave.
Thou must not me, or must thy Vally leave.

How shall my Vallie's Spangling Glory spred,
Thou Lilly of the Vallies Spangling
There springing up? Upon thy bowing Head
All Heavens bright Glory hangeth dangling.
My Vally then with Blissfull Beams shall shine,
Thou Lilly of the Vallys, being mine.

[6.] Another Meditation at the same time.

Am I thy Gold? Or Purse, Lord, for thy Wealth;
Whether in mine, or mint refinde for thee?
Ime counted so, but count me o're thyselfe,
Lest gold washt face, and brass in Heart I bee.
I Feare my Touchstone touches when I try
Mee, and my Counted Gold too overly.

Am I new minted by thy Stamp indeed?
Mine Eyes are dim; I cannot clearly see.
Be thou my Spectacles that I may read
Thine Image, and Inscription stampt on mee.
If thy bright Image do upon me stand
I am a Golden Angell in thy hand.

Lord, make my Soule thy Plate: thine Image bright
Within the Circle of the same enfoile.
And on its brims in golden Letters write
Thy Superscription in an Holy style.
Then I shall be thy Money, thou my Hord:
Let me thy Angell bee, bee thou my Lord.

7. Meditation. Ps. 45.2. Grace in thy lips is poured out.

10.12m [Feb.] 1683.

Thy Humane Frame, my Glorious Lord, I spy,
A Golden Still with Heavenly Choice drugs filld;
Thy Holy Love, the Glowing heate whereby,
The Spirit of Grace is graciously distilld.
Thy Mouth the Neck through which these spirits still.
My Soul thy Violl make, and therewith fill.

Thy Speech the Liquour in thy Vessell stands,
Well ting'd with Grace a blessed Tincture, Loe,
Thy Words distilld, Grace in thy Lips pourd, and,
Give Graces Tinctur in them where they go.
Thy words in graces tincture stilld, Lord, may
The Tincture of thy Grace in me Convay.

That Golden Mint of Words, thy Mouth Divine,
Doth tip these Words, which by my Fall were spoild;
And Dub with Gold dug out of Graces mine
That they thine Image might have in them foild.
Grace in thy Lips pourd out's as Liquid Gold.
Thy Bottle make my Soule, Lord, it to hold.

8. Meditation. Joh. 6.51. I am the Living Bread.

8.4m [June] 1684.

I kening through Astronomy Divine
The Worlds bright Battlement, wherein I spy
A Golden Path my Pensill cannot line,
From that bright Throne unto my Threshold ly.
And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore
I finde the Bread of Life in't at my doore.

When that this Bird of Paradise put in
This Wicker Cage (my Corps) to tweedle praise
Had peckt the Fruite forbad: and so did fling
Away its Food; and lost its golden dayes;
It fell into Celestiall Famine sore:
And never could attain a morsell more.

Alas! alas! Poore Bird, what wilt thou doe?
The Creatures field no food for Souls e're gave.
And if thou knock at Angells dores they show
An Empty Barrell: they no soul bread have.
Alas! Poore Bird, the Worlds White Loafe is done.
And cannot yield thee here the smallest Crumb.

In this sad state, Gods Tender Bowells run
Out streams of Grace: And he to end all strife
The Purest Wheate in Heaven, his deare-dear Son
Grinds, and kneads up into this Bread of Life.
Which Bread of Life from Heaven down came and stands
Disht on thy Table up by Angells Hands.

Did God mould up this Bread in Heaven, and bake,
Which from his Table came, and to thine goeth?
Doth he bespeake thee thus, This Soule Bread take.

Come Eate thy fill of this thy Gods White Loafe?
Its Food too fine for Angells, yet come, take
And Eate thy fill. Its Heavens Sugar Cake.

What Grace is this knead in this Loafe? This thing
Souls are but petty things it to admire.
Yee Angells, help: This fill would to the brim
Heav'ns whelm'd-down Chrystall meele Bowle, yea and higher.
This Bread of Life dropt in thy mouth, doth Cry.
Eate, Eate me, Soul, and thou shalt never dy.

9. Meditation. Joh. 6.51. I am the Living Bread.

7.7m [Sept.] 1684.

Did Ever Lord such noble house mentain,
As my Lord doth? Or such a noble Table?
'T would breake the back of kings, nay, Monarchs brain
To do it. Pish, the Worlds Estate's not able.
I'le bet a boast with any that this Bread
I eate excells what ever Caesar had.

Take earth's Brightst Darlings, in whose mouths all flakes
Of Lushous Sweets she hath do croude their Head,
Their Spiced Cups, sweet Meats, and Sugar Cakes
Are but dry Sawdust to this Living Bread.
I'le pawn my part in Christ, this Dainti'st Meate,
Is Gall, and Wormwood unto what I eate.

The Boasting Spagyrist (Insipid Phlegm,
Whose Words out strut the Sky) vaunts he hath rife
The Water, Tincture, Lozenge, Gold, and Gem,

Of Life itselfe. But here's the Bread of Life.
I'le lay my Life, his Aurum Vitae Red
Is to my Bread of Life, worse than dead head.

The Dainti'st Dish of Earthly Cookery
Is but to fat the body up in print.
This Bread of Life doth feed the Soule, whereby
Its made the Temple of Jehovah in't.
I'le Venture Heav'n upon't that Low or High
That eate this Living Bread shall never dy.

This Bread of Life, so excellent, I see
The Holy Angells doubtless would, if they
Were prone unto base Envie, Envie't mee.
But oh! come, tast how sweet it is. I say,
I'le Wage my Soule and all therein uplaid,
This is the sweetest Bread that e're God made.

What wonder's here, that Bread of Life should come
To feed Dead Dust? Dry Dust eate Living Bread?
Yet Wonder more by far may all, and some
That my Dull Heart's so dumpish when thus fed.
Lord Pardon this, and feed mee all my dayes,
With Living Bread to thy Eternall Prayse.

10. Meditation. Joh. 6.55. My Blood is Drinke indeed.

26.8m [Oct.] 1684.

Stupendious Love! All Saints Astonishment!
Bright Angells are black Motes in this Suns Light.
Heav'ns Canopy the Paintice to Gods tent
Can't Cover't neither with its breadth, nor height.
Its Glory doth all Glory else out run,
Beams of bright Glory to't are motes i'th'sun.

My Soule had Caught an Ague, and like Hell
Her thirst did burn: she to each spring did fly,
But this bright blazing Love did spring a Well
Of Aqua-Vitae in the Deity,
Which on the top of Heav'ns high Hill out burst
And down came running thence t'allay my thirst.

But how it came, amazeth all Communion.
Gods onely Son doth hug Humanity,
Into his very person. By which Union
His Humane Veans its golden gutters ly.
And rather than my Soule should dy by thirst,
These Golden Pipes, to give me drink, did burst.

This Liquour brew'd, thy sparkling Art Divine
Lord, in thy Chrystall Vessells did up tun,
(Thine Ordinances,) which all Earth o're shine
Set in thy rich Wine Cellars out to run.
Lord, make thy Butlar draw, and fill with speed
My Beaker full: for this is drink indeed.

Whole Buts of this blesst Nectar shining stand
Lockt up with Saph'rine Taps, whose splendid Flame
Too bright do shine for brightest Angells hands
To touch, my Lord. Do thou untap the same.
Oh! make thy Chrystall Buts of Red Wine bleed
Into my Chrystall Glass this Drink-Indeed.

How shall I praise thee then? My blottings Jar
And wrack my Rhymes to pieces in thy praise.
Thou breath'st thy Vean still in my Pottinger
To lay my thirst, and fainting spirits raise.
Thou makest Glory's Chiefest Grape to bleed
Into my cup: And this is Drink-Indeed.

Nay, though I make no pay for this Red Wine,
And scarce do say I thank-ye-for't; strange thing!
Yet were thy silver skies my Beer bowle fine

I finde my Lord, would fill it to the brim.
Then make my life, Lord, to thy praise proceed
For thy rich blood, which is my Drink-Indeed.

11. Meditation. Isai. 25.6. A Feast of Fat things.

31.3m [Mar.] 1685.

A Deity of Love Incorporate
My Lord, lies in thy Flesh, in Dishes stable
Ten thousand times more rich than golden Plate
In golden Services upon thy Table,
To feast thy People with. What Feast is this!
Where richest Love lies Cookt in e'ry Dish?

A Feast, a Feast, a Feast of Spiced Wine
Of Wines upon the Lees, refined well
Of Fat things full of Marrow, things Divine
Of Heavens blest Cookery which doth excell.
The Smell of Lebanon, and Carmell sweet
Are Earthly damps unto this Heavenly reech.

This Shew-Bread Table all of Gold with white
Fine Table Linen of Pure Love, 's ore spred
And Courses in Smaragdine Chargers bright
Of Choicest Dainties Paradise e're bred.
Where in each Grace like Dainty Sippits lie
Oh! brave Embroderies of sweetest joy!

Oh! what a Feast is here? This Table might
Make brightest Angells blush to sit before.
Then pain my Soule! Why wantst thou appitite?
Oh! blush to thinke thou hunger dost no more.
There never was a feast more rich than this:
The Guests that Come hereto shall swim in bliss.

Hunger, and Thirst my Soule, goe Fasting Pray,
Untill thou hast an Appitite afresh:
And then come here; here is a feast will pay
Thee for the same with all Deliciousness.
Untap Loves Golden Cask, Love run apace:
And o're this Feast Continually say Grace.

12. Meditation. Isai. 63.1. Glorious in his Apparell.

19.5m [July] 1685.

This Quest rapt at my Eares broad golden Doores
Who's this that comes from Edom in this shine
In Died Robes from Bozrah? this more ore
All Glorious in's Apparrell; all Divine?
Then through that Wicket rusht this buss there gave,
Its I that right do speake mighty to save.

I threw through Zions Lattice then an Eye
Which spide one like a lump of Glory pure
Nay, Cloaths of gold button'd with pearls do ly
Like Rags, or shooclouts unto his he wore.
Heavens Curtains blancht with Sun, and Starrs of Light
Are black as sackcloath to his Garments bright.

One shining sun guilding the skies with Light
Benights all Candles with their flaming Blaze
So doth the Glory of this Robe benight
Ten thousand suns at once ten thousand wayes.
For e'ry thrid therein's dy'de with the shine
Of All, and Each the Attributes Divine.

The sweetest breath, the sweetest Violet
Rose, or Carnation ever did gust out
Is but a Foist to that Perfume beset
In thy Apparell steaming round about:
But is this so? My Peuling soul then pine
In Love untill this Lovely one be thine.

Pluck back the Curtains, back the Window Shutts:
Through Zions Agate Window take a view;
How Christ in Pinckted Robes from Bozrah puts
Comes Glorious in's Apparell forth to Wooe.
Oh! if his Glory ever kiss thine Eye,
Thy Love will soon Enchanted bee thereby.

Then Grieve, my Soul, thy vessell is so small
And holds no more for such a Lovely Hee.
That strength's so little, Love scarce acts at all.
That sight's so dim, doth scarce him lovely see.
Grieve, grieve, my Soul, thou shouldst so pimping bee,
Now such a Price is here presented thee.

All sight's too little sight enough to make
All strength's too little Love enough to reare
All Vessells are too small to hold or take
Enough Love up for such a Lovely Deare.

How little to this Little's then thy all.
For Him whose Beauty saith all Love's too small?

My Lovely One, I fain would love thee much
But all my Love is none at all I see,
Oh! let thy Beauty give a glorious tuch
Upon my Heart, and melt to Love all mee.
Lord melt me all up into Love for thee
Whose Loveliness excells what love can bee.

13. Meditation. Col. 2.3. All the Treasures of Wisdom.

27.7m [Sept.] 1685.

Thou Glory Darkning Glory, with thy Flame
Should all Quaint Metaphors teem ev'ry Bud
Of Sparkling Eloquence upon the same
It would appeare as dawbing pearls with mud.
Nay Angells Wits are Childish tricks, and like
The Darksom night unto thy Lightsom Light.

Oh! Choicest Cabbinet, more Choice than gold
Or Wealthist Pearles Wherein all Pearls of Price
All Treasures of Choice Wisdom manifold
Inthroned reign. Thou Cabinet most Choice
Not scant to hold, not staind with cloudy geere
The Shining Sun of Wisdom bowling there.

Thou Shining Golden Lanthorn with pain'd Lights
Of Chrystall cleare, thy golden Candles flame,
Makes such a Shine, as doth the Sun benights.
Its but a Smoaky vapor to the Same.
All Wisdom knead into a Chrystall Ball,
Shines like the Sun in thee, its azure Hall.

Thou rowling Eye of Light, to thee are sent
All Dazzling Beams of Shine the Heavens distill.
All Wisdoms Troops do quarter in thy Tents
And all her Treasures Cabin in thy tills.
Be thou, Lord, mine: then I shall Wealthy bee,
Enricht with Wisdoms Treasures, Stoughd in thee.

That little Grain within my golden Bowle,
Should it attempt to poise thy Talent cleare,
It would inoculate into my Soule,
As illookt Impudence as ever were.
But, loe, it stands amaizd, and doth adore,
Thy Magazeen of Wisdom, and thy Store.

14. 15. Meditations. Heb. 4.14. A Great High Priest.

14.9m [Nov.] 1685. 10.11m [Jan.] 1685.

Raptures of Love, surprizing Loveliness,
That burst through Heavens all, in Rapid Flashes,
Glances guilt o're with smiling Comliness!
(Wonders do palefac'd stand smit by such dashes).
Glory itselfe Heartsick of Love doth ly
Bleeding out Love o're Loveless mee, and dy.

Might I a glance of this bright brightness shew;
Se it in him who gloriously is dresst:
A Gold Silk Stomacher of Purple, blew
Blancht o're with Orient Pearles being on his Breast:
And all his Robes being answerable, but
This glory seen, to that unseen's a Smut.

Yea, Beauteous Hee, in all his Glory stands,
Tendring himselfe to God, and Man where hee
Doth Justice thus bespeake, Hold out thy hands:
Come, take thy Penworths now for mine of mee.

I'le pay the fine that thou seest meet to set
Upon their Heads: I'le dy to cleare their debts.

Out Rampant Justice steps in Sparkling White,
Him rends in twain, who on her Altar lies
A Lump of Glory flaming in her bright
Devouring Flames, to be my Sacrifice
Untill her Fire goes out well Satisfide:
And then he rose in Glory to abide.

To Heav'n went he, and in his bright Throne sits
At Gods right hand pleading poor Sinners Cases.
With Golden Wedges he of Promise, splits
The Heav'ns ope, to shew what Glory 'braces.
And in its thickness thus with Arms extended,
Calls, come, come here, and ever be befriended.

Frost bitten Love, Frozen Affections! Blush;
What icy Chrystall mountain lodge you in?
What Wingless Wishes, Hopes pinfeatherd tush!
Sore Hooft Desires hereof do in you spring?
Oh hard black Kirnell at the Coare! not pant?
Encastled in an heart of Adamant!

What strange Congealed Heart have I when I
Under such Beauty shining like the Sun
Able to make Frozen Affection fly,
And Icikles of Frostbitt Love to run.
Yea, and Desires lockt in an heart of Steel
Or Adamant, breake prison, nothing feel.

Lord may thy Priestly Golden Oares but make
A rowing in my Lumpish Heart, thou'lt see
My Chilly Numbd Affections Charm, and break
Out in a rapid Flame of Love to thee.
Yea, they unto thyselfe will fly in flocks
When thy Warm Sun my frozen Lake unlocks.

Be thou my High Priest, Lord; and let my name
Ly in some Grave dug in these Pearly rocks

Upon thy Ephods Shoulder piece, like flame
Or graved in thy Breast Plate-Gem: brave Knops.
Thou'lt then me beare before thy Fathers Throne
Rowld up in Folds of Glory of thine own.

One of these Gems I beg, Lord, that so well
Begrace thy Breast Plate, and thy Ephod cleaver
To stud my Crown therewith: or let me dwell
Among their sparkling, glancing Shades for ever.
I'st then be deckt in glory bright to sing
With Angells, Hallelujahs to my King.

16. Meditation. Lu. 7.16. A Greate Prophet is risen up.

6.1m [Mar.] 1685/6.

Leafe Gold, Lord of thy Golden Wedge o'relaid
My Soul at first, thy Grace in e'ry part
Whose peart, fierce Eye thou such a Sight hadst made
Whose brightsom beams could break into thy heart
Till thy Curst Foe had with my Fist mine Eye
Dasht out, and did my Soule Unglorify.

I cannot see, nor Will thy Will aright.
Nor see to waile my Woe, my loss and hew
Nor all the Shine in all the Sun can light
My Candle, nor its Heate my Heart renew.
See, waile, and Will thy Will, I must, or must
From Heavens sweet Shine to Hells hot flame be thrust.

Grace then Conceald in God himselfe, did rowle
Even Snow Ball like into a Sunball Shine
And nestles all its beams buncht in thy Soule
My Lord, that sparkle in Prophetick Lines.
Oh! Wonder more than Wonderfull! this Will
Lighten the Eye which Sight Divine did spill.

What art thou, Lord, this Ball of Glory bright?
A Bundle of Celestiall Beams up bound
In Graces band fixt in Heavens topmost height
Pouring thy golden Beams thence, Circling round
Which shew thy Glory, and thy glories Way
And ery Where will make Celestiall Day.

Lord let thy Golden Beams pierce through mine Eye
And leave therein an Heavenly Light to glaze
My Soule with glorious Grace all o're, whereby
I may have Sight, and Grace in mee may blaze.
Lord ting my Candle at thy Burning Rayes,
To give a gracious Glory to thy Prayse.

Thou Lightning Eye, let some bright Beames of thine
Stick in my Soul, to light and liven it:
Light, Life, and Glory, things that are Divine;
I shall be grac'd withall for glory fit.
My Heart then stufft with Grace, Light, Life, and Glee
I'le sacrifice in Flames of Love to thee.

17. Meditation. Rev. 19.16. King of Kings.

13.4m [June] 1686.

A King, a King, a King indeed, a King
Writh up in Glory! Glorie's glorious Throne
Is glorifide by him, presented him.
And all the Crowns of Glory are his own.
A King, Wise, Just, Gracious, Magnificent.
Kings unto him are Whiffles, Indigent.

What is his Throne all Glory? Crown all Gay?
Crown all of Brightest Shine of Glory's Wealth?
This is a Lisp of Non-sense. I should say,
He is the Throne, and Crown of Glory 'tselfe.

Should Sun beams come to gilde his glory they
Would be as 'twere to gild the Sun with Clay.

My Phancys in a Maze, my thoughts agast,
Words in an Extasy; my Telltale Tongue
Is tonguetide, and my Lips are padlockt fast
To see thy Kingly Glory in to throng.
I can, yet cannot tell this Glory just,
In Silence bury't, must not, yet I must.

This King of King's Brave Kingdom doth Consist
Of Glorious Angells, and Blesst Saints alone
Or Chiefly. Where all Beams of Glory twist,
Together, beaming from, lead to his throne
Which Beams his Grace Coiles in a Wreath to Crown
His, in the End in Endless Bright Renown.

His Two-Edg'd Sword, not murdering Steel so base,
Is made of Righteousness, unspotted, bright
Imbellisht o're with overflowing Grace
Doth killing, Cure the Sinner, kills Sin right.
Makes milkwhite Righteousness, and Grace to reign,
And Satan and his Cubs with Sin ly slain.

Were all Kings deckt with Sparkling Crowns, and arm'd
With flaming Swords, and firy Courage traind
And led under their King Abaddon, Charmd
In battell out against their foes disdaind
One smiling look of this bright Shine would fell
Them and their Crowns of Glory all to Hell.

Thou art my king: let me not be thy Shame.
Thy Law my Rule: my Life thy Life in Mee.
Thy Grace my Badge: my Glory bright thy Name.
I am resolv'd to live and dy with thee.
Keep mee, thou King of Glory on Record.
Thou art my King of Kings, and Lord of Lords.

18. Meditation. Isai. 52.14. His Vissage was marr'd more than any man.

29.6m [Aug.] 1686.

Astonisht stand, my Soule; why dost not start
At this surprizing Sight shewn here below?
Oh! let the twitch made by my bouncing Heart
Gust from my breast this Enterjection, Oh!
A Sight so Horrid, sure its Mercies Wonder
Rocks rend not at't, nor Heavens split asunder.

Souls Charg'd with Sin, Discharge at God, beside
Firld up in Guilt, Wrapt in Sins Slough, and Slime.
Wills wed to Wickedness, Hearts Stonifide
Flinty Affections, Conscience Chalybdine
Flooding the World with Horrid Crimes, arise
Daring Almighty God Contemptuouswise.

Hence Vengeance rose with her fierce Troops in Buff,
Soul-piercing Plagues, Heart-Aching Griefs, and Groans,
Woes Pickled in Revenges Powdering Trough:
Pain fetching forth their Proofs out of the boanes.
Doth all in Flames of Fire surround them so
Which they can ne're o'recome, nor undergo.

In this sad Plight the richest Beauty Cleare
That th'bravest Flower, that bud was big with, wore,
Did glorify those Cheeks, whose Vissage were
Marr'd more than any mans, and Form spoild more.
Oh! Beauty beautifull, not toucht with vice!
The fairest Flower in all Gods Paradise!

Stept in, and in its Glory 'Counters all.
And in the Belly of this Dismall Cloud,
Of Woes in Pickle is gulpht up, whose Gall
He dranke up quite. Whose Claws his Face up plow'd.

Yet in these Furrows sprang the brightest Shine
That Glory's Sun could make, or Love Enshrine.

Then Vengeance's Troops are routed, Pickled Woe
Heart-aching Griefes, Pains plowing to the boanes,
Soul piercing Plagues, all Venom do foregoe.
The Curse now Cures, though th'Griefe procureth groans.
As th'Angry Bee doth often lose her Sting,
The Law was Cursless made in Cursing him.

And now his shining Love beams out its rayes
My Soul, upon thy Heart to thaw the same:
To animate th'Affections till they blaze;
To free from Guilt, and from Sins Slough, and Shame.
Open thy Casement wide, let Glory in,
To Guild thy Heart to be an Hall for him.

My Breast, be thou the ringing Virginalls:
Ye mine Affections, their sweet Golden Strings,
My Panting Heart, be thou for Stops, and Falls:
Lord, let thy quick'ning Beams dance o're the Pins.
Then let thy Spirit this sweet note resume,
altaschath michtam, in Seraphick Tune.

19. Meditation. Phil. 2.9. God hath highly exalted him.

14.9m [Nov.] 1686.

Looke till thy Looks look Wan, my Soule; here's ground.
The Worlds bright Eye's dash't out: Day-Light so brave
Bemidnighted; the sparkling sun, palde round
With flouring Rayes lies buri'de in its grave
The Candle of the World blown out, down fell.
Life knockt a head by Death: Heaven by Hell.

Alas! this World all filld up to the brim
With Sins, Deaths, Divills, Crowding men to Hell.

For whose reliefe Gods milkwhite Lamb stept in
Whom those Curst Imps did worry, flesh, and fell.
Tread under foot, did Clap their Wings and so
Like Dunghill Cocks over their Conquourd, Crow.

Brave Pious Fraud; as if the Setting Sun:
Dropt like a Ball of Fire into the Seas,
And so went out. But to the East come, run:
You'l meet the morn Shrinde with its flouring Rayes.
This Lamb in laying of these Lyons dead;
Drank of the brooke: and so lift up his Head.

Oh! sweet, sweet joy! These Rampant Fiends befoold:
They made their Gall his Winding sheete; although
They of the Heart-ach dy must, or be Coold
With Inflamation of the Lungs, they know.
He's Cancelling the Bond, and making Pay:
And Ballancing Accounts: its Reckoning day.

See, how he from the Counthouse shining went,
In Flashing Folds of Burnisht Glory, and
Dasht out all Curses from the Covenant
Hath Justices Acquittance in his hand
Pluckt out Deaths Sting, the Serpents Head did mall
The Bars and Gates of Hell he brake down all.

The Curse thus Lodgd within his Flesh, and Cloyde,
Can't run from him to his, so much he gave.
And like a Gyant he awoke, beside,
The Sun of Righteousness rose out of's Grave.
And setting Foot upon its neck I sing
Grave, where's thy Victory? Death, Where's thy Sting?

20. Meditation. Phil. 2.9. God hath highly Exalted him.

9.11m [Jan.] 1686.

View all ye eyes above, this sight which flings
Seraphick Phancies in Chill Raptures high,
A Turffe of Clay, and yet bright Glories King
From dust to Glory Angell-like to fly.
A Mortall Clod immortalizde, behold,
Flyes through the Skies swifter than Angells could.

Upon the Wings he of the Winde rode in
His Bright Sedan, through all the Silver Skies
And made the Azure Cloud his Charriot bring
Him to the Mountain of Celestiall joyes.
The Prince o'th'Aire durst not an Arrow spend
While through his Realm his Charriot did ascend.

He did not in a Fiery Charriot's Shine,
And Whirlewinde, like Elias upward goe.
But th'golden Ladders Jasper rounds did climbe
Unto the Heavens high from Earth below.
Each step trod on a Golden Stepping Stone
Of Deity unto his very Throne.

Methinks I see Heavens sparkling Courtiers fly,
In flakes of Glory down him to attend:
And heare Heart Cramping notes of Melody,
Surround his Charriot as it did ascend
Mixing their Musick making e'ry string
More to inravish as they this tune sing.

God is Gone up with a triumphant Shout
The Lord with sounding Trumpets melodies.

Sing Praise, sing Praise, sing Praise, sing Praises out,
Unto our King sing praise seraphickwise.
Lift up your Heads ye lasting Doore they sing
And let the King of Glory Enter in.

Art thou ascended up on high, my Lord,
And must I be without thee here below?
Art thou the sweetest Joy the Heavens afford?
Oh! that I with thee was! what shall I do?
Should I pluck Feathers from an Angells Wing,
They could not waft me up to thee my King.

Lend mee thy Wings, my Lord, I'st fly apace.
My Soules Arms stud with thy strong Quills, true Faith,
My Quills then Feather with thy Saving Grace,
My Wings will take the Winde thy Word displai'th.
Then I shall fly up to thy glorious Throne
With my strong Wings whose Feathers are thine own.

21. Meditation. Phil. 2.9. God hath Highly Exalted Him.

13.1m [Mar.] 1686/7.

What Glory's this, my Lord? Should one small Point
Of one small Ray of't touch my Heart 'twould spring
Such joy as would an Adamant unjoynt
If in't, and tare it, to get out and sing.
T'run on Heroick golden Feet, and raise
Heart Ravishing Tunes, Curld with Celestiall praise.

Oh! Bright! Bright thing! I fain would something say:
Lest Silence should indict me. Yet I feare
To say a Syllable lest at thy day
I be presented for my Tattling here.

Course Phancy, Ragged Faculties, alas!
And Blunted Tongue don't Suit: Sighs Soile the Glass.

Yet shall my mouth stand ope, and Lips let run
Out gliding Eloquence on each light thing?
And shall I gag my mouth, and ty my Tongue,
When such bright Glory glorifies within?
That makes my Heart leape, dancing to thy Lute?
And shall my tell tale tongue become a Mute?

Lord spare I pray, though my attempts let fall
A slippery Verse upon thy Royall Glory.
I'le bring unto thine Altar th'best of all
My Flock affords. I have no better Story.
I'le at thy Glory my dark Candle light:
Not to descry the Sun, but use by night.

A Golden Throne whose Banisters are Pearles,
And Pomills Choicest Gems: Carbuncle-Stayes
Studded with Pretious Stones, Carv'd with rich Curles
Of Polisht Art, sending out flashing Rayes,
Would him surround with Glory, thron'de therein.
Yet this is to thy Throne a dirty thing.

Oh! Glorious Sight! Loe, How Bright Angells stand
Waiting with Hat in hand on Him alone
That is Enthron'de, indeed at Gods right hand:
Gods Heart itselfe being his Happy Throne.
The Glory that doth from this Person fall,
Fills Heaven with Glory, else there's none at all.

22. Meditation. Phil. 2.9. God hath Highly Exalted him.

12.4m [June] 1687.

When thy Bright Beams, my Lord, do strike mine Eye,
Methinkes I then could truely Chide out right

My Hide bound Soule that stands so niggardly
That scarce a thought gets glorified by't.
My Quaintest Metaphors are ragged Stuff,
Making the Sun seem like a Mullipuff.

Its my desire, thou shouldst be glorifi'de:
But when thy Glory shines before mine eye,
I pardon Crave, lest my desire be Pride.
Or bed thy Glory in a Cloudy Sky.
The Sun grows wan; and Angells palefac'd shrinke,
Before thy Shine, which I besmeere with Inke.

But shall the Bird sing forth thy Praise, and shall
The little Bee present her thankfull Hum?
But I who see thy shining Glory fall
Before mine Eyes, stand Blockish, Dull, and Dumb?
Whether I speake, or speechless stand, I spy,
I faile thy Glory: therefore pardon Cry.

But this I finde; My Rhymes do better suite
Mine own Dispraise than tune forth praise to thee.
Yet being Chid, whether Consonant, or Mute,
I force my Tongue to tattle, as you see.
That I thy glorious Praise may Trumpet right,
Be thou my Song, and make Lord, mee thy Pipe.

This shining Sky will fly away apace,
When thy bright Glory splits the same to make
Thy Majesty a Pass, whose Fairest Face
Too foule a Path is for thy Feet to take.
What Glory then, shall tend thee through the Sky
Draining the Heaven much of Angells dry?

What Light then flame will in thy Judgment Seate,
'Fore which all men, and angells shall appeare?
How shall thy Glorious Righteousness them treate,

Rend'ring to each after his Works done here?
Then Saints With Angells thou wilt glorify:
And burn Lewd Men, and Divells Gloriously.

One glimps, my Lord, of thy bright Judgment day,
And Glory piercing through, like fiery Darts,
All Divells, doth me make for Grace to pray,
For filling Grace had I ten thousand Hearts.
I'de through ten Hells to see thy Judgment Day
Wouldst thou but guild my Soule with thy bright Ray.

23. Meditation. Cant. 4.8. My Spouse.

21.6m [Aug.] 1687.

Would God I in that Golden City were,
With Jaspers Walld, all garnisht, and made swash,
With Pretious Stones, whose Gates are Pearles most cleare
And Street Pure Gold, like to transparent Glass.
That my dull Soule, might be inflamde to see
How Saints and Angells ravisht are in Glee.

Were I but there, and could but tell my Story,
'Twould rub those Walls of Pretious Stones more bright:
And glaze those Gates of Pearle, with brighter Glory;
And pave the golden Street with greater light.
'Twould in fresh Raptures Saints, and Angells fling.
But I poore Snake Crawl here, scarce mudwalld in.

May my Rough Voice, and my blunt Tongue but spell
My Tale (for tune they can't) perhaps there may
Some Angell catch an end of't up, and tell
In Heaven, when he doth return that way,
He'l make thy Palace, Lord, all over ring,
With it in Songs, thy Saint, and Angells sing.

I know not how to speak't, it is so good:
Shall Mortall, and Immortall marry? nay,
Man marry God? God be a Match for Mud?
The King of Glory Wed a Worm? mere Clay?
This is the Case. The Wonder too in Bliss.
Thy Maker is thy Husband. Hearst thou this?

My Maker, he my Husband? Oh! strange joy!
If Kings wed Worms, and Monarchs Mites wed should,
Glory spouse Shame, a Prince a Snake or Fly
An Angell Court an Ant, all Wonder would.
Let such wed Worms, Snakes, Serpents, Divells, Flyes.
Less Wonder than the Wedden in our Eyes.

I am to Christ more base, than to a King
A Mite, Fly, Worm, Ant, Serpent, Divell is,
Or Can be, being tumbled all in Sin,
And shall I be his Spouse? How good is this?
It is too good to be declar'de to thee.
But not too good to be believ'de by mee.

Yet to this Wonder, this is found in mee,
I am not onely base but backward Clay,
When Christ doth Wooe: and till his Spirit bee
His Spokes man to Compell me I deny.
I am so base and Froward to him, Hee
Appears as Wonders Wonder, wedding mee.

Seing, Dear Lord, its thus, thy Spirit take
And send thy Spokes man, to my Soul, I pray.
Thy Saving Grace my Wedden Garment make:
Thy Spouses Frame into my Soul Convay.
I then shall be thy Bride Espousd by thee
And thou my Bridesgroom Deare Espousde shalt bee.

24. Meditation. Eph. 2.18. Through him we have—an Access—unto the Father.

6.9m [Nov.] 1687.

Was there a Palace of Pure Gold, all Ston'de
And pav'de with Pearles, whose Gates Rich Jaspers were,
And Throne a Carbuncle, whose King Enthronde
Sat on a Cushion all of Sunshine Cleare;
Whose Crown a Bunch of Sun Beams was: I should
Prize such as in his favour shrine me Would.

Thy Milke white Hand, my Glorious Lord, doth this:
It opes this Gate, and me Conducts into
This Golden Palace whose rich Pavement is
Of Pretious Pearles: and to this King also.
Thus Thron'de, and Crown'd: whose Words are 'bellisht all
With brighter Beams, than e're the Sun let fall.

But oh! Poore mee, thy sluggish Servant, I
More blockish than a block, as blockhead, stand.
Though mine Affections Quick as Lightning fly
On toys, they Snaile like move to kiss thy hand.
My Coal-black doth thy Milke white hand avoide,
That would above the Milky Way me guide.

What aim'st at, Lord? that I should be so Cross.
My minde is Leaden in thy Golden Shine.
Though all o're Spirit, when this dirty Dross
Doth touch it with its smutting leaden lines.
What shall an Eagle t'catch a Fly thus run?
Or Angell Dive after a Mote ith'Sun?

What Folly's this? I fain would take, I thinke,
Vengeance upon myselfe: But I Confess,
I can't. Mine Eyes, Lord, shed no Tears but inke.
My handy Works, are Words, and Wordiness.

Earth's Toyes ware Knots of my Affections, nay,
Though from thy Glorious Selfe they're Stoole away.

Oh! that my heart was made thy Golden Box
Full of Affections, and of Love Divine
Knit all in Tassles, and in True-Love Knots,
To garnish o're this Worthy Worke of thine.
This Box and all therein more rich than Gold,
In sacred Flames, I to thee offer would.

With thy rich Tissue my poore Soule array:
And lead me to thy Fathers House above.
Thy Graces Storehouse make my Soule I pray.
Thy Praise shall then ware Tassles of my Love.
If thou Conduct mee in thy Fathers Wayes,
I'le be the Golden Trumpet of thy Praise.

25. Meditation. Eph. 5.27. A Glorious Church.

22.11m [Jan.] 1687.

Why should my Bells, which Chime thy Praise, when thou
My Shew-Bread, on thy Table wast, my King,
Their Clappers, or their Bell-ropes want even now?
Or those that can thy Changes sweetly ring?
What is a Scar-Fire broken out? No, no.
The Bells would backward ring if it was so.

Its true: and I do all things backward run,
Poor Pillard I have a sad tale to tell:
My soule starke nakt, rowld all in mire, undone.
Thy Bell may tole my passing Peale to Hell.
None in their Winding sheet more naked stay
Nor Dead than I. Hence oh! the Judgment Day.

When I behold some Curious Piece of Art,
Or Pritty Bird, Flower, Star, or Shining Sun,

Poure out o'reflowing Glory: oh! my Heart
Achs seing how my thoughts in Snick-Snarls run.
But all this Glory to my Lord's a spot
While I instead of any, am all blot.

But, my sweet Lord, what glorious robes are those
That thou hast brought out of thy Grave for thine?
They do outshine the Sun-Shine, Grace the Rose.
I leape for joy to thinke, shall these be mine?
Such are, as waite upon thee in thy Wars,
Cloathd with the Sun, and Crowned with twelve Stars.

Dost thou adorn some thus, and why not mee?
Ile not believe it. Lord, thou art my Chiefe.
Thou me Commandest to believe in thee.
I'l not affront thee thus with Unbeliefe.
Lord, make my Soule Obedient: and when so,
Thou saist Believe, make it reply, I do.

I fain the Choicest Love my soule Can get,
Would to thy Gracious selfe a Gift present
But cannot now unscrew Loves Cabbinet.
Say not this is a Niggards Complement.
For seing it is thus I choose now rather
To send thee th'Cabbinet, and Pearle together.

26. Meditation. Act. 5.31. To Give—Forgiveness of Sins.

15.1m [Mar.] 1688.

My Noble Lord, thy Nothing Servant I
Am for thy sake out with my heart, that holds,
So little Love for such a Lord: I Cry [OMITTED]

How should I be but angry thus to see
My Heart so hidebound in her Acts to thee?

Thou art a Golden Theame: but I am lean,
A Leaden Oritor upon the same.
Thy Golden Web excells my Dozie Beam:
Whose Linsy-Wolsy Loom deserves thy blame.
Its all defild, unbiasst too by Sin:
An hearty Wish for thee's scarce shot therein.

It pitties mee who pitty Cannot show,
That such a Worthy Theame abusd should bee.
I am undone, unless thy Pardons doe
Undoe my Sin I did, undoing mee.
My Sins are greate, and grieveous ones, therefore
Carbuncle Mountains can't wipe out their Score.

But thou, my Lord, dost a Free Pardon bring.
Thou giv'st Forgiveness: yet my heart through Sin,
Hath naught but naught to file thy Gift up in.
An hurden Haump doth Chafe a Silken Skin.
Although I pardons beg, I scarce can see,
When thou giv'st pardons, I give praise to thee.

O bad at best! what am I then at worst?
I want a Pardon: and when pardon'd, want
A Thankfull Heart: Both which thou dost disburst.
Giv'st both, or neither: for which Lord I pant.
Two such good things at once! methinks I could
Avenge my heart, lest it should neither hold.

Lord tap mine Eyes, seing such Grace in thee,
So little doth affect my Graceless Soule.
And take my teares in lue of thanks of mee,
New make my heart: then take it for thy tole.
Thy Pardons then will make my heart to sing
Its Michtam-David: With sweet joy Within.

27. Meditation. Col. 1.19. In Him should all Fulness Dwell.

1.5m [July] 1688.

Oh! Wealthy Theam! Oh! Feeble Phancy: I
Must needs admire, when I recall to minde,
That's Fulness, This it's Emptiness, though spy
I have no Flowring Brain thereto inclinde.
My Damps do out my fire. I cannot, though
I would Admire, finde heate enough thereto.

What shall I say? Such rich rich Fullness would
Make stammering Tongues speake smoothly, and Enshrine
The Dumb mans mouth with Silver Streams like gold
Of Eloquence making the Aire to Chime.
Yet I am Tonguetide stupid, sensless stand,
And Drier drain'd than is my pen I hand.

Oh! Wealthy Box: more Golden far than Gold
A Case more Worth than Wealth: a richer Delph,
Than Rubies; Cabbinet, than Pearles here told
A Purse more glittering than Glory 'tselfe
A Golden Store House of all Fulness: Shelfe,
Of Heavenly Plate. All Fulness in thyselfe.

Oh! Godhead Fulness! There doth in thee flow
All Wisdoms Fulness; Fulness of all Strength:
Of Justice, Truth, Love, Holiness also
And Graces Fulness to its upmost length
Do dwell in thee. Yea and thy Fathers Pleasure.
Thou art their Cabbinet, and they thy Treasure.

All Office Fulness with all Office Gifts
Imbossed are in thee, Whereby thy Grace,
Doth treat both God, and Man, bringst up by hifts
Black Sinner and White Justice to imbrace.

Making the Glory of Gods Justice shine:
And making Sinners to Gods glory Climbe.

All Graces Fulness dwells in thee, from Whom
The Golden Pipes of all Convayance ly,
Through which Grace to our Clayie Panchins Come.
Fullness of Beauty, and Humanity.
Oh! Glorious Flow're, Glory, and Sweetness splice,
In thee to Grace, and sweeten Paradise!

But, oh! the Fathers Love! herein most vast!
Angells engrave't in brightest Marble, t'see
This Flower that in his Bosom sticks so fast,
Stuck in the Bosom of such stuffe as wee
That both his Purse, and all his Treasure thus,
Should be so full, and freely sent to us.

Were't not more than my heart can hold, or hord,
Or than my Tongue can tell; I thus would pray,
Let him in Whom all Fulness Dwells, dwell, Lord
Within my Heart: this Treasure therein lay.
I then shall sweetly tune thy Praise, When hee
In Whom all Fulness dwells, doth dwell in mee.

28. Meditation. Joh. 1.16. Of His Fulness wee all receive: and Grace—

2.7m [Sept.] 1688.

When I Lord, send some Bits of Glory home,
(For Lumps I lack) my Messenger, I finde,
Bewildred, lose his Way being alone
In my befogg'd Dark Phancy, Clouded minde.
Thy Bits of Glory packt in Shreds of Praise
My Messenger doth lose, losing his Wayes.

Lord Cleare the Coast: and let thy sweet sun shine.
That I may better speed a second time:
Oh! fill my Pipkin with thy Blood red Wine:
I'l drinke thy Health: To pledge thee is no Crime.
Although I but an Earthen Vessell bee
Convay some of thy Fulness into mee.

Thou, thou my Lord, art full, top full of Grace,
The Golden Sea of Grace: Whose springs thence come,
And Pretious Drills, boiling in ery place.
Untap thy Cask, and let my Cup Catch some.
Although its in an Earthen Vessells Case,
Let it no Empty Vessell be of Grace.

Let thy Choice Caske, shed, Lord, into my Cue
A Drop of Juyce presst from thy Noble Vine.
My Bowl is but an Acorn Cup, I sue
But for a Drop: this will not empty thine.
Although I'me in an Earthen Vessells place,
My Vessell make a Vessell, Lord, of Grace.

My Earthen Vessell make thy Font also:
And let thy Sea my Spring of Grace in't raise.
Spring up oh Well. My Cup with Grace make flow.
Thy Drops will on my Vessell ting thy Praise.
I'l sing this Song, when I these Drops Embrace.
My Vessell now's a Vessell of thy Grace.

29. Meditation. Joh. 20.17. My Father, and your Father, to my God, and your God.

11.9m [Nov.] 1688.

My shattred Phancy stole away from mee,
(Wits run a Wooling over Edens Parke)

And in Gods Garden saw a golden Tree,
Whose Heart was All Divine, and gold its barke.
Whose glorious limbs and fruitfull branches strong
With Saints, and Angells bright are richly hung.

Thou! thou! my Deare-Deare Lord, art this rich Tree
The Tree of Life Within Gods Paradise.
I am a Withred Twig, dri'de fit to bee
A Chat Cast in thy fire, Writh off by Vice.
Yet if thy Milke white-Gracious Hand will take mee
And grafft mee in this golden stock, thou'lt make mee.

Thou'lt make me then its Fruite, and Branch to spring.
And though a nipping Eastwinde blow, and all
Hells Nymps with spite their Dog's sticks thereat ding
To Dash the Grafft off, and it's fruits to fall,
Yet I shall stand thy Grafft, and Fruits that are
Fruits of the Tree of Life thy Grafft shall beare.

I being grafft in thee there up do stand
In us Relations all that mutuall are.
I am thy Patient, Pupill, Servant, and
Thy Sister, Mother, Doove, Spouse, Son, and Heire.
Thou art my Priest, Physician, Prophet, King,
Lord, Brother, Bridegroom, Father, Ev'ry thing.

I being grafft in thee am graffted here
Into thy Family, and kindred Claim
To all in Heaven, God, Saints, and Angells there.
I thy Relations my Relations name.
Thy Father's mine, thy God my God, and I
With Saints, and Angells draw Affinity.

My Lord, what is it that thou dost bestow?
The Praise on this account fills up, and throngs
Eternity brimfull, doth overflow
The Heavens vast with rich Angelick Songs.
How should I blush? how Tremble at this thing,
Not having yet my Gam-Ut, learnd to sing.

But, Lord, as burnish't Sun Beams forth out fly
Let Angell-Shine forth in my Life out flame,
That I may grace thy gracefull Family
And not to thy Relations be a Shame.
Make mee thy Grafft, be thou my Golden Stock.
Thy Glory then I'le make my fruits and Crop.

30. Meditation. 2 Cor. 5.17.—He is a New Creature.

6.11m [Jan.] 1688.

The Daintiest Draught thy Pensill ever Drew:
The finest vessell, Lord, thy fingers fram'de:
The statelist Palace Angells e're did view,
Under thy Hatch betwixt Decks here Contain'd
Broke, marred, spoild, undone, Defild doth ly
In Rubbish ruinde by thine Enemy.

What Pittie's this? Oh Sunshine Art! What Fall?
Thou that more Glorious wast than glories Wealth!
More Golden far than Gold! Lord, on whose Wall
Thy scutchons hung, the Image of thyselfe!
Its ruinde, and must rue, though Angells should
To hold it up heave while their Heart Strings hold.

But yet thou stem of Davids stock when dry
And shrivled held, although most green was lopt
Whose sap a sovereign Sodder is, whereby
The breach repared is in which its dropt.
Oh Gracious Twig! thou Cut off? bleed rich juyce
T'Cement the Breach, and Glories shine reduce?

Oh Lovely One! how doth thy Loveliness
Beam through the Chrystall Casements of the Eyes
Of Saints, and Angells sparkling Flakes of Fresh

Heart Ravishing Beauty, filling up their joyes?
And th'Divells too; if Envies Pupills stood
Not peeping there these sparkling Rayes t'exclude?

Thou Rod of Davids Root, Branch of his Bough
My Lord, repare thy Palace, Deck thy Place.
I'm but a Flesh and Blood bag: Oh! do thou
Sill, Plate, Ridge, Rib, and Rafter me with Grace.
Renew my Soule, and guild it all within:
And hang thy saving Grace on ery Pin.

My Soule, Lord, make thy Shining Temple, pave
Its Floore all o're with Orient Grace: thus guild
It o're with Heavens gold: Its Cabbins have
Thy Treasuries with Choicest thoughts up filld.
Pourtray thy Glorious Image round about
Upon thy Temple Walls within, and Out.

Garnish thy Hall with Gifts, Lord, from above
With that Rich Coate of Male thy Righteousness,
Truths Belt, the Spirits Sword, the Buckler Love
Hopes Helmet, and the Shield of Faith kept fresh.
The Scutchons of thy Honour make my Sign
As Garland Tuns are badges made of Wine.

New mould, new make me thus, me new Create
Renew in me a spirit right, pure, true.
Lord make me thy New Creature, then new make
All things to thy New Creature here anew,
New Heart, New thoughts, New Words, New wayes likewise.
New Glory then shall to thyselfe arise.

31. Meditation. 1 Cor. 3.21.22. All things are yours.

17.12m [Feb.] 1688.

Begracde with Glory, gloried with Grace,
In Paradise I was, when all Sweet Shines
Hung dangling on this Rosy World to face
Mine Eyes, and Nose, and Charm mine Eares with Chimes.
All these were golden Tills the which did hold
My evidences wrapt in glorious folds.

But as a Chrystall Glass, I broke, and lost
That Grace, and Glory I was fashion'd in
And cast this Rosy World with all its Cost
Into the Dunghill Pit, and Puddle Sin.
All right I lost in all Good things, each thing
I had did hand a Vean of Venom in.

Oh! Sad-Sad thing! Satan is now turnd Cook:
Sin is the Sauce he gets for ev'ry Dish.
I cannot bite a bit of Bread or Roote
But what is sopt therein, and Venomish.
Right's lost in what's my Right. Hence I do take
Onely what's poison'd by th'infernall Snake.

But this is not the Worst: there's worse than this.
My Tast is lost; no bit tasts sweet to mee,
But what is Dipt all over in this Dish
Of Ranck ranck Poyson: this my Sauce must bee.
Hell Heaven is, Heaven hell, yea Bitter Sweet:
Poison's my Food: Food poison in't doth keep.

What e're we want, we cannot Cry for, nay,
If that we could, we could not have it thus.
The Angell's can't devise, nor yet Convay

Help in their Golden Pipes from God to us.
But thou my Lord, (Heart leape for joy and sing)
Hast done the Deed: and't makes the Heavens ring.

By mee all lost, by thee all are regain'd.
All things are thus fall'n now into thy hande.
And thou steep'st in thy Blood what Sin had stain'd
That th'Stains, and Poisons may not therein stand.
And having stuck thy Grace all o're the same
Thou giv'st it as a Glorious Gift again.

Cleare up my Right, my Lord, in thee, and make
Thy Name stand Dorst upon my Soule in print,
In grace I mean, that so I may partake
Of what I lost, in thee, and of thee in't.
I'l take it then, Lord, at thy hand, and sing
Out Hallelujah for thy Grace therein.

32. Meditation. 1 Cor. 3.22. Whether Paul or Apollos, or Cephas.

28.2m [Apr.] 1689.

Thy Grace, Dear Lord's my golden Wrack, I finde
Screwing my Phancy into ragged Rhimes,
Tuning thy Praises in my feeble minde
Untill I come to strike them on my Chimes.
Were I an Angell bright, and borrow could
King Davids Harp, I would them play on gold.

But plung'd I am, my minde is puzzled,
When I would spin my Phancy thus unspun,
In finest Twine of Praise I'm muzzled.
My tazzled Thoughts twirld into Snick-Snarls run.
Thy Grace, my Lord, is such a glorious thing,
It doth Confound me when I would it sing.

Eternall Love an Object mean did smite
Which by the Prince of Darkness was beguilde,
That from this Love it ran and sweld with spite
And in the way with filth was all defilde
Yet must be reconcild, cleansd, and begrac'te
Or from the fruits of Gods first Love displac'te.

Then Grace, my Lord, wrought in thy Heart a vent,
Thy Soft Soft hand to this hard worke did goe,
And to the Milke White Throne of Justice went
And entred bond that Grace might overflow.
Hence did thy Person to my Nature ty
And bleed through humane Veans to satisfy.

Oh! Grace, Grace, Grace! this Wealthy Grace doth lay
Her Golden Channells from thy Fathers throne,
Into our Earthen Pitchers to Convay
Heavens Aqua Vitae to us for our own.
O! let thy Golden Gutters run into
My Cup this Liquour till it overflow.

Thine Ordinances, Graces Wine-fats where
Thy Spirits Walkes, and Graces runs doe ly
And Angells waiting stand with holy Cheere
From Graces Conduite Head, with all Supply.
These Vessells full of Grace are, and the Bowls
In which their Taps do run, are pretious Souls.

Thou to the Cups dost say (that Catch this Wine,)
This Liquour, Golden Pipes, and Wine-fats plain,
Whether Paul, Apollos, Cephas, all are thine.
Oh Golden Word! Lord speake it ore again.
Lord speake it home to me, say these are mine.
My Bells shall then thy Praises bravely chime.

33. Meditation. 1 Cor. 3.22. Life is youres.

7.5m [July] 1689.

My Lord my Life, can Envy ever bee
A Golden Vertue? Then would God I were
Top full thereof untill it colours mee
With yellow streaks for thy Deare sake most Deare,
Till I be Envious made by't at myselfe,
As scarcely loving thee my Life, my Health.

Oh! what strange Charm encrampt my Heart with spite
Making my Love gleame out upon a Toy?
Lay out Cart-Loads of Love upon a mite?
Scarce lay a mite of Love on thee, my Joy?
Oh, Lovely thou! Shalt not thou loved bee?
Shall I ashame thee thus? Oh! shame for mee!

Nature's amaz'de, Oh monstrous thing Quoth shee,
Not Love my life? What Violence doth split
True Love, and Life, that they should sunder'd bee?
She doth not lay such Eggs, nor on them sit.
How do I sever then my Heart with all
Its Powers whose Love scarce to my Life doth crawle.

Glory lin'de out a Paradise in Power
Where e'ry seed a Royall Coach became
For Life to ride in, to each shining Flower.
And made mans Flower with glory all ore flame.
Hells Inkfac'de Elfe black Venom spat upon
The same, and kill'd it. So that Life is gone.

Life thus abusde fled to the golden Arke,
Lay lockt up there in Mercie's seate inclosde:
Which did incorporate it whence its Sparke
Enlivens all things in this Arke inclosde.

Oh, glorious Arke! Life's Store-House full of Glee!
Shall not my Love safe lockt up ly in thee?

Lord arke my Soule safe in thyselfe, whereby
I and my Life again may joyned bee.
That I may finde what once I did destroy
Again Conferde upon my soul in thee.
Thou art this Golden Ark; this Living Tree
Where life lies treasurde up for all in thee.

Oh! Graft me in this Tree of Life within
The Paradise of God, that I may live.
Thy Life make live in mee; I'le then begin
To bear thy Living Fruits, and them forth give.
Give mee my Life this way; and I'le bestow
My Love on thee my Life, and it shall grow.

34. Meditation. 1 Cor. 3.22. Death is Yours.

25.9m [Nov.] 1689.

My Lord I fain would Praise thee Well but finde
Impossibilities blocke up my pass.
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 Deaths 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,
Plucktst out his sting, his Poyson quelst, his head
To pieces brakest. Hence Cruell Death lies Dead.

And still thou by thy gracious Chymistry
Dost of his Carkass Cordialls make rich, High,
To free from Death makst Death a remedy:
A Curb to Sin, a Spur to Piety.
Heavens brightsom Light shines out in Death's Dark Cave.
The Golden Dore of Glory is the Grave.

The Painter lies who pensills death's Face grim
With White bare butter Teeth, bare staring bones,
With Empty Eyeholes, Ghostly Lookes which fling
Such Dread to see as raiseth Deadly groans,
For thou hast farely Washt Deaths grim grim face
And made his Chilly finger-Ends drop grace.

Death Tamde, Subdude, Washt fair by thee! Oh Grace!
Made Usefull thus! thou unto thine dost say
Now Death 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 Death 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! Death where's thy Sting?

35. Meditation. 1 Cor. 3.22. Things Present.

19.11m [Jan.] 1689.

Oh! that I ever felt what I profess.
'Twould make me then the happi'st man alive.
Ten thousand Worlds of Saints can't make this less
By living on't, but it would make them thrive.
These Loaves and Fishes are not lessened
Nor Pasture over stock, by being fed.

Lord am I thine? art thou, Lord, mine? So rich!
How doth thy Wealthy bliss branch out thy sweets
Through all things Present? These the Vent-holes which
Let out those Ravishing Joys our Souls to greet?
Impower my Powers sweet Lord till up they raise
My 'Fections that thy glory on them blaze.

How many things are there now, who display'th?
How many Acts each thing doth here dispense?
How many Influences each thing hath?
How many Contraries each Influence?
How many Contraries from Things do flow?
From Acts? from Influences? Who can show?

How Glorious then is he that doth all raise
Rule and Dispose and make them all Conspire
In all their Jars, and Junctures, Good-bad wayes
To meliorate the self same Object higher?
Earth, Water, Fire, Winds, Herbs, Trees, Beasts and Men,
Angells, and Divells, Bliss, Blasts, advance one stem?

Hell, Earth, and Heaven with their Whole Troops come
Contrary Windes, Grace, and Disgrace, Soure, Sweet,
Wealth, Want, Health, Sickness, to Conclude in Sum
All Providences Works in this good meet?

Who, who can do't, but thou, my Lord? and thou
Dost do this thing. Yea thou performst it now.

Oh, that the Sweets of all these Windings, spoute
Might, and these Influences streight, and Cross,
Upon my Soule, to make thy Shine breake out
That Grace might in get and get out my dross!
My Soule up lockt then in this Clod of Dust
Would lock up in't all Heavenly Joyes most just.

But oh! thy Wisdom, Lord! thy Grace! thy Praise!
Open mine Eyes to see the same aright.
Take off their film, my Sins, and let the Rayes
Of thy bright Glory on my peepholes light.
I fain would love and better love thee should,
If 'fore me thou thy Loveliness unfold.

Lord, Cleare my Sight, thy Glory then out dart.
And let thy Rayes beame Glory in mine eye
And stick thy Loveliness upon my heart,
Make me the Couch on which thy Love doth ly.
Lord make my heart thy bed, thy heart make mine.
Thy Love bed in my heart, bed mine in thine.

36. Meditation. 1 Cor. 3.22. Things to come yours.

16.1m [Mar.] 1689.

What rocky heart is mine? My pincky Eyes
Thy Grace spy blancht, Lord, in immensitie.
But finde the Sight me not to meliorize,
O Stupid Heart! What strang-strange thing am I?
I many months do drown in Sorrows Spring
But hardly raise a Sigh to blow down Sin.

To find thee Lord, thus overflowing kinde,
And t'finde mee thine, thus overflowing vile,
A Riddle seems onrivetted I finde.
This reason saith is hard to reconcile.
Dost Vileness choose? Or can't thy kindness shown
Me meliorate? Or am I not thine own?

The first two run thy glory would to Shame:
The last plea doth my Soule to hell Confine.
My Faith therefore doth all these Pleas disdain.
Thou kindness art, it saith, and I am thine.
Upon this banck it doth on tiptoes stand
To ken o're Reasons head at Graces hand.

But Did I say, I wonder, Lord, to spie
Thy Selfe so kind; and I so vile yet thine?
I eate my Word: and wonder more that I
No viler am, though all ore vile do shine.
As full of Sin I am, as Egge of meate.
Yet finde thy golden Rod my Sin to treate.

Nay did I say, I wonder t'see thy Store
Of kindnesses, yet me thus vile with all?
I now Unsay my Say: I wonder more
Thou dash me not to pieces with thy maule,
But in the bed, Lord, of thy goodness lies
The Reason of't, which makes my Wonders rise.

For now I wonder t'feele how I thus feele.
My Love leapes into Creatures bosoms; and
Cold Sorrows fall into my Soule as Steel,
When faile they, yet I kiss thy Love's White hand.
I scarce know what t'make of myselfe. Wherefore
I crave a Pardon, Lord, for thou hast Store.

How wondrous rich art thou? Thy Storehouse vast
Holdes more ten thousand fold told ore and ore
Than this Wide World Can hold. The doore unshasp.
And bring me thence a Pardon out therefore.
Thou Stoughst the World so tite with present things
That things to Come, though crowd full hard, cant in.

These things to Come, tread on the heels of those.
The presents breadth doth with the broad world run.
The Depth and breadth of things to come out goes
Unto Times End which bloweth out the Sun.
These breadth and length meate out Eternity.
These are the things that in thy Storehouse ly.

A Cockle Shell contains this World as well
As can this World thy Liberallness contain.
And by thy Will these present things all fell
Unto thy Children for their present gain;
And things to Come too, to Eternity.
Thou Willedst them: they're theirs by Legacy.

But am I thine? Oh! what strange thing's in mee?
Enricht thus by thy Legacy? yet finde
When one small Twig's broke off, the breach should bee
Such an Enfeebling thing upon my minde.
Then take a pardon from thy Store, and twist
It in my Soule for help. 'Twill not be mist.

I am asham'd to say I love thee do.
But dare not for my Life, and Soule deny't.
Yet wonder much Love's Springs should lie so low
Thy loveliness its Object shines so bright.
Shall all the Beams of Love upon me shine?
And shall my Love Love's Object still make pine?

I'me surely made a Gazing Stock to all.
The Holy Angells Wonder: and the Mock
Of Divells (pining that they misse it all)
To see these beams gild me a Stupid Stock.
Thy Argument is good, Lord point it, come
Let't lance my heart, till True Loves Veane doth run.

But that there is a Crevice for one hope
To creep in, and this Message to Convay
That I am thine, makes me refresh. Lord ope

The Doore so wide that Love may Scip, and play.
My Spirits then shall dance thy Praise. I'me thine.
And Present things with things to come are mine.

37. Meditation. 1 Cor. 3.23. You are Christ's.

4.3m [May] 1690.

My Soule, Lord, quailes to thinke that I should bee
So high related, have such colours faire
Stick in my Hat, from Heaven: yet should see
My Soule thus blotcht: Hells Liveries to beare.
What Thine? New-naturizd? Yet this Relation
Thus barren, though't 's a Priviledg-Foundation?

Shall I thy Vine branch be, yet grapes none beare?
Grafft in thy Olive stand: and fatness lack?
A Shackeroon, a Ragnell, yet an Heire?
Thy spouse, yet, oh! my Wedden Ring thus slack?
Should Angel-Feathers plume my Cap, I should
Be swash? but oh! my Heart hereat grows Cold.

What is my Title but an empty Claim?
Am I a fading Flower within thy Knot?
A Rattle, or a gilded Box, a Flame
Of Painted Fire, a glorious Weedy Spot?
The Channell ope of Union, the ground
Of Wealth, Relation: yet I'me barren found?

What am I thine, and thou not mine? or dost
Not thou thy Spouse joyn in thy Glory Cleare?
Is my Relation to thee but a boast?
Or but a blustring say-so, or spruice jeere?
Should Roses blow more late, sure I might get,
If thine, some Prim-Rose or sweet Violet?

Make me thy Branch to bare thy Grapes, Lord, feed
Mee with thy bunch of Raisins of the Sun.
Mee stay with apples; let me eate indeed
Fruits of the tree of Life: its richly hung.
Am I thy Child, Son, Heir, thy Spouse, yet gain
Not of the Rights that these Relations claim?

Am I hop't on thy knees, yet not at ease?
Sunke in thy bosom, yet thy Heart not meet?
Lodgd in thine Arms? yet all things little please?
Sung sweetly, yet finde not this singing sweet?
Set at thy Table, yet scarce tast a Dish
Delicious? Hugd, yet seldom gain a Kiss?

Why? Lord, why thus? Shall I in Question Call
All my Relation to thyselfe? I know
It is no Gay to please a Child withall
But is the Ground whence Priviledges flow.
Then ope the sluce: let some thing spoute on me.
Then I shall in a better temper bee.

38. Meditation. 1 Joh. 2.1. An Advocate With the Father.

6.5m [July] 1690.

Oh! What a thing is Man? Lord, Who am I?
That thou shouldst give him Law (Oh! golden Line)
To regulate his Thoughts, Words, Life thereby.
And judge him Wilt thereby too in thy time.
A Court of Justice thou in heaven holdst
To try his Case while he's here housd on mould.

How do thy Angells lay before thine eye
My Deeds both White, and Black I dayly doe?

How doth thy Court thou Pannellst there them try?
But flesh complains. What right for this? let's know.
For right, or wrong I can't appeare unto't.
And shall a sentence Pass on such a suite?

Soft; blemish not this golden Bench, or place.
Here is no Bribe, nor Colourings to hide
Nor Pettifogger to befog the Case
But Justice hath her Glory here well tri'de.
Her spotless Law all spotted Cases tends.
Without Respect or Disrespect them ends.

God's Judge himselfe: and Christ Atturny is,
The Holy Ghost Regesterer is founde.
Angells the sergeants are, all Creatures kiss
The booke, and doe as Evidences abounde.
All Cases pass according to pure Law
And in the sentence is no Fret, nor flaw.

What saist, my soule? Here all thy Deeds are tri'de.
Is Christ thy Advocate to pleade thy Cause?
Art thou his Client? Such shall never slide.
He never lost his Case: he pleads such Laws
As Carry do the same, nor doth refuse
The Vilest sinners Case that doth him Choose.

This is his Honour, not Dishonour: nay
No Habeas-Corpus gainst his Clients came
For all their Fines his Purse doth make down pay.
He Non-Suites Satan's Suite or Casts the Same.
He'l plead thy Case, and not accept a Fee.
He'l plead Sub Forma Pauperis for thee.

My Case is bad. Lord, be my Advocate.
My sin is red: I'me under Gods Arrest.
Thou hast the Hint of Pleading; plead my State.
Although it's bad thy Plea will make it best.
If thou wilt plead my Case before the King:
I'le Waggon Loads of Love, and Glory bring.

39. Meditation. from 1 Joh. 2.1. If any man sin, we have an Advocate.

9.9m [Nov.] 1690.

My Sin! my Sin, My God, these Cursed Dregs,
Green, Yellow, Blew streakt Poyson hellish, ranck,
Bubs hatcht in natures nest on Serpents Eggs,
Yelp, Cherp and Cry; they set my Soule a Cramp.
I frown, Chide, strik and fight them, mourn and Cry
To Conquour them, but cannot them destroy.

I cannot kill nor Coop them up: my Curb
'S less than a Snaffle in their mouth: my Rains
They as a twine thrid, snap: by hell they're spurd:
And load my Soule with swagging loads of pains.
Black Imps, young Divells, snap, bite, drag to bring
And pick mee headlong hells dread Whirle Poole in.

Lord, hold thy hand: for handle mee thou may'st
In Wrath: but, oh, a twinckling Ray of hope
Methinks I spie thou graciously display'st.
There is an Advocate: a doore is ope.
Sin's poyson swell my heart would till it burst,
Did not a hope hence creep in't thus, and nurse't.

Joy, joy, Gods Son's the Sinners Advocate
Doth plead the Sinner guiltless, and a Saint.
But yet Atturnies pleas spring from the State
The Case is in: if bad its bad in plaint.
My Papers do contain no pleas that do
Secure mee from, but knock me down to, woe.

I have no plea mine Advocate to give:
What now? He'l anvill Arguments greate Store
Out of his Flesh and Blood to make thee live.
O Deare bought Arguments: Good pleas therefore.

Nails made of heavenly Steel, more Choice than gold
Drove home, Well Clencht, eternally will hold.

Oh! Dear bought Plea, Deare Lord, what buy't so deare?
What with thy blood purchase thy plea for me?
Take Argument out of thy Grave t'appeare
And plead my Case with, me from Guilt to free.
These maule both Sins, and Divells, and amaze
Both Saints, and Angells; Wreath their mouths with praise.

What shall I doe, my Lord? what do, that I
May have thee plead my Case? I fee thee will
With Faith, Repentance, and obediently
Thy Service gainst Satanick Sins fulfill.
I'l fight thy fields while Live I do, although
I should be hackt in pieces by thy foe.

Make me thy Friend, Lord, be my Surety: I
Will be thy Client, be my Advocate:
My Sins make thine, thy Pleas make mine hereby.
Thou wilt mee save, I will thee Celebrate.
Thou'lt kill my Sins that cut my heart within:
And my rough Feet shall thy smooth praises sing.

40. Meditation. 1 Joh. 2.2. He is a Propitiation for our Sin.

12m [Feb.] 1690/1.

Still I complain; I am complaining still.
Oh! woe is me! Was ever Heart like mine?
A Sty of Filth, a Trough of Washing-Swill
A Dunghill Pit, a Puddle of mere Slime.
A Nest of Vipers, Hive of Hornets; Stings.
A Bag of Poyson, Civit-Box of Sins.

Was ever Heart like mine? So bad? black? Vile?
Is any Divell blacker? Or can Hell
Produce its match? It is the very Soile
Where Satan reads his Charms, and sets his Spell.
His Bowling Ally, where he sheeres his fleece
At Nine Pins, Nine Holes, Morrice, Fox and Geese.

His Palace Garden where his courtiers walke.
His Jewells Cabbinet. Here his Caball
Do sham it, and truss up their Privie talk
In Fardells of Consults and bundles all.
His shambles, and his Butchers stale's herein.
It is the Fuddling Schoole of every sin.

Was ever Heart like mine? Pride, Passion, fell.
Ath'ism, Blasphemy, pot, pipe it, dance
Play Barlybreaks, and at last Couple in Hell.
At Cudgells, Kit-Cat, Cards and Dice here prance.
At Noddy, Ruff-and-trumpt, Jing, Post-and-Pare,
Put, One-and-thirty, and such other ware.

Grace shuffled is away: Patience oft sticks
Too soon, or draws itselfe out, and's out Put.
Faith's over trumpt, and oft doth lose her tricks.
Repentance's Chalkt up Noddy, and out shut.
They Post, and Pare off Grace thus, and its shine.
Alas! alas! was ever Heart like mine?

Sometimes methinks the serpents head I mall:
Now all is still: my spirits do recreute.
But ere my Harpe can tune sweet praise, they fall
On me afresh, and tare me at my Root.
They bite like Badgers now nay worse, although
I tooke them toothless sculls, rot long agoe.

My Reason now's more than my sense, I feele
I have more Sight than Sense. Which seems to bee
A Rod of Sun beams t'whip mee for my steele.
My Spirits spiritless, and dull in mee

For my dead prayerless Prayers: the Spirits winde
Scarce blows my mill about. I little grinde.

Was ever Heart like mine? My Lord, declare.
I know not what to do: What shall I doe?
I wonder, split I don't upon Despare.
Its grace's wonder that I wrack not so.
I faintly shun't: although I see this Case
Would say, my sin is greater than thy grace.

Hope's Day-peep dawns hence through this chinck. Christs name
Propitiation is for sins. Lord, take
It so for mine. Thus quench thy burning flame
In that clear stream that from his side forth brake.
I can no Comfort take while thus I see
Hells cursed Imps thus jetting strut in mee.

Lord take thy sword: these Anakims destroy:
Then soake my soule in Zions Bucking tub
With Holy Soap, and Nitre, and rich Lye.
From all Defilement me cleanse, wash and rub.
Then wrince, and wring mee out till th'water fall
As pure as in the Well: not foule at all.

And let thy Sun, shine on my Head out cleare.
And bathe my Heart within its radient beams:
Thy Christ make my Propitiation Deare.
Thy Praise shall from my Heart breake forth in streams.
This reeching Vertue of Christs blood will quench
Thy Wrath, slay Sin and in thy Love mee bench.

41. Meditation. Joh. 14.2. I go to prepare a Place for you.

24.3m [May] 1691.

A Clew of Wonders! Clusterd Miracles!
Angells, come whet your sight hereon. Here's ground.
Sharpen your Phansies here, ye Saints in Spiricles.
Here is enough in Wonderment to drownd's.
Make here the Shining dark or White on which
Let all your Wondring Contemplations pitch.

The Magnet of all Admiration's here.
Your tumbling thoughts turn here. Here is Gods Son,
Wove in a Web of Flesh, and Bloode rich geere.
Eternall Wisdoms Huswifry well spun.
Which through the Laws pure Fulling mills did pass.
And so went home the Wealthy'st Web that was.

And why thus shew? Hark, harke, my Soule. He came
To pay thy Debt. And being come most Just
The Creditor did sue him for the same,
Did winn the Case, and in the grave him thrust.
Who having in this Prison paid the Debt.
And took a Quittance, made Death's Velvet fret.

He broke her Cramping tallons did unlute
The sealed Grave, and gloriously up rose.
Ascendeth up to glory on this Sute,
Prepares a place for thee where glorie glowes.
Yea yea for thee, although thy griefe out gush
At such black Sins at which the Sun may blush.

What Wonder's here? Big belli'd Wonders in't
Remain, though wrought for Saints as white as milk.
But done for me whose blot's as black as inke.
A Clew of Wonders finer far than Silke.

Thy hand alone that wound this Clew I finde
Can to display these Wonders it unwinde.

Why didst thou thus? Reason stands gasterd here.
She's overflown: this Soares above her Sight.
Gods onely Son for Sinners thus appeare,
Prepare for Durt a throne in glory bright!
Stand in the Doore of Glory to imbrace
Such dirty bits of Dirt, with such a grace!

Reason, lie prison'd in this golden Chain.
Chain up thy tongue, and silent stand a while.
Let this rich Love thy Love and heart obtain
To tend thy Lord in all admiring Style.
Lord screw my faculties up to the Skill
And height of praise as answers thy good Will.

Then while I eye the Place thou hast prepar'de
For such as I, I'le sing thy glory out
Untill thou welcome me, as 'tis declar'de
In this sweet glory runing rounde about.
I would do more but can't, Lord help me so
That I may pay in glory what I owe.

42. Meditation. Rev. 3.22. I will give Him to sit with me in my Throne.

2.6m [Aug.] 1691.

Apples of gold, in silver pictures shrin'de
Enchant the appetite, make mouths to water.
And Loveliness in Lumps, tunn'd, and enrin'de
In Jasper Cask, when tapt, doth briskly vaper:
Brings forth a birth of Keyes t'unlock Loves Chest,
That Love, like Birds, may fly to't from its nest.

Such is my Lord, and more. But what strang thing
Am I become? Sin rusts my Lock all o're.
Though he ten thousand Keyes all on a string
Takes out, scarce one, is found, unlocks the Doore.
Which ope, my Love crincht in a Corner lies
Like some shrunck Crickling: and scarce can rise.

Lord ope the Doore: rub off my Rust, Remove
My sin, And Oyle my Lock. (Dust there doth shelfe).
My Wards will trig before thy Key: my Love
Then, as enliven'd, leape will on thyselve.
It needs must be, that giving handes receive
Again Receivers Hearts furld in Love Wreath.

Unkey my Heart; unlock thy Wardrobe: bring
Out royall Robes: adorne my Soule, Lord: so,
My Love in rich attire shall on my King
Attend, and honour on him well bestow.
In Glory he prepares for his a place
Whom he doth all beglory here with grace.

He takes them to the shining threashould cleare
Of his bright Palace, cloath'd in Grace's flame.
Then takes them in thereto, not onely there
To have a Prospect, but possess the same.
The Crown of Life, the Throne of Glorys Place,
The Fathers House blancht o're with orient Grace.

Can'an in golden print enwalld with jems:
A Kingdome rim'd with Glory round: in fine
A glorious Crown pal'de thick with all the stems
Of Grace, and of all Properties Divine.
How happy wilt thou make mee when these shall
As a bless't Heritage unto mee fall?

Adorn me, Lord, with Holy Huswifry.
All blanch my Robes with Clusters of thy Graces:
Thus lead me to thy threashold: give mine Eye
A Peephole there to see bright glories Chases.
Then take mee in: I'le pay, when I possess,
Thy Throne, to thee the Rent in Happiness.

43. Meditation. Rev. 2.10. A Crown of Life.

8.9m [Nov.] 1691.

Fain I would sing thy Praise, but feare I feign.
My Sin doth keepe out of my heart thy Feare,
Damps Love: defiles my Soule. Old Blots new stain.
Hopes hoppled lie, and rusty Chains worn cleare.
My Sins that make me stand in need of thee,
Do keep me back to hugge all Sin I see.

Nature's Corrupt, a nest of Passion, Pride,
Lust, Worldliness, and such like bubs: I pray,
But struggling finde, these bow my Heart aside.
A Knot of Imps at barly breaks in't play.
They do inchant me from my Lord, I finde,
The thoughts whereof proove Daggers in my minde.

Pardon, and Poyson them, Lord, with thy Blood.
Cast their Curst Karkasses out of my Heart.
My Heart fill with thy Love: let Grace it dub.
Make this my Silver Studs by thy rich art.
My Soule shall then be thy sweet Paradise.
Thou'st be its Rose, and it thy Bed of Spice.

Why mayn't my Faith now drinke thy Health, Lord, ore,
The Head of all my Sins? And Cast her Eye,
In glorifying glances, on the Doore
Of thy Free Grace, where Crowns of Life do lie?
Thou'lt give a Crown of Life to such as bee
Faithfull to Death. And shall Faith faile in mee?

A Crown of Life, of Glory, Righteousness,
Thou wilt adorn them with, that will not fade.
Shall Faith in mee shrinke up for Feebleness?
Nor take my Sins by th'Crown, till Crownless made?

Breath, Lord, thy Spirit on my Faith, that I
May have thy Crown of Life, and Sin may dy.

How Spirituall? Holy shall I shine, when I
Thy Crown of Righteousness ware on my Head?
How Glorious when thou dost me glorify
To ware thy Crown of Glory pollished?
How shall I when thy Crown of Life I ware
In lively Colours flowrish, fresh, and fair?

When thou shalt Crown me with these Crowns I'l bend
My Shallow Crown to crown with Songs thy Name.
Angels shall set the tune, I'le it attend:
Thy Glory'st be the burden of the same.
Till then I cannot sing, my tongue is tide.
Accept this Lisp till I am glorifide.

44. Meditation. 2 Tim. 4.8. A Crown of Righteousness.

17.11m [Jan.] 1691.

A Crown, Lord, yea, a Crown of Righteousness.
Oh! what a Gift is this? Give Lord I pray
An Holy Head, and Heart it to possess
And I shall give thee glory for the pay.
A Crown is brave, and Righteousness much more.
The glory of them both will pay the score.

A Crown indeed consisting of fine gold
Adherent, and Inherent Righteousness,
Stuck with their Ripe Ripe Fruits in every fold
Like studded Carbuncles they do it dress.
A Righteous Life doth ever ware renown
And thrusts the Head at last up in this Crown.

A Milk whit hand sets't on a Righteous Head.
An hand Unrighteous can't dispose it nay
It's not in such an hande. Such hands would bed
Black Smuts on't should they fingers on it lay.
Who can the Crown of Righteousness suppose
In an Unrighteous hand for to dispose.

When once upon the head its ever green
And altogether Usde in Righteousness,
Where blessed bliss, and blissfull Peace is seen,
And where no jar, nor brawler hath access.
Oh! blessed Crown what hold the breadth of all
The State of Happiness in Heavens Hall.

A Crown of Righteousness, a Righteous Head,
Oh naughty man! my brain pan turrit is
Where Swallows build, and hatch: Sins black and red.
My head and heart do ach, and frob at this.
Lord were my Turret cleansd, and made by thee
Thy Graces Dovehouse turret much might bee.

Oh! make it so: then Righteousness pure, true
Shall Roost upon my boughs, and in my heart
And all its fruits that in Obedience grew
To stud this Crown like jems in every part.
Ist then be garnisht for this Crown, and thou
Shalt have my Songs to diadem thy brow.

Oh! Happy me, if thou wilt Crown me thus.
Oh! naughty heart! What swell with Sin? fy, fy.
Oh! Gracious Lord, me pardon: do not Crush
Me all to mammocks: Crown and not destroy.
Ile tune thy Prayses while this Crown doth come.
Thy Glory bring I tuckt up in my Songe.

45. Meditation. 1 Pet. 5.4. Ye shall receive a Crown of Glory.

24.2m [Apr.] 1692.

A Crown of Glory! Oh! I'm base, its true.
My Heart's a Swamp, Brake, Thicket vile of Sin.
My Head's a Bog of Filth; Blood bain'd doth spew
Its venom streaks of Poyson o're my Skin.
My Members Dung-Carts that bedung at pleasure,
My Life, the Pasture where Hells Hurdloms leasure.

Becrown'd with Filth! Oh! what vile thing am I?
What Cost, and Charge to make mee Meddow ground?
To drain my Bogs? to lay my Frog-pits dry?
To stub up all my brush that doth abound?
That I may be thy Pasture fat and frim,
Where thy choice Flowers, and Hearbs of Grace shine trim?

Vast charge thus to subdue me: Wonders play
Hereat like Gamesters; 'bellisht Thoughts dresst fine,
In brave attire, cannot a finger lay
Upon it that doth not besmut the Shine.
Yet all this cost and more thou'rt at with me.
And still I'm sad, a Seing Eye may see.

Yet more than this: my Hands that Crown'd thy Head
With sharpest thorns, thou washest in thy Grace.
My Feet that did upon thy Choice Blood tread
Thou makest beautifull thy Way to trace.
My Head that knockt against thy head, thou hugg'st
Within thy bosom: boxest not, nor lugg'st.

Nay more as yet: thou borrow'st of each Grace
That stud the Hearts of Saints, and Angells bright

Its brightest beams, the beams too of the place
Where Glory dwells: and all the Beames of Light
Thy, and thy Fathers Glorious Face out spread,
To make this Crown of Glory for my head.

If it was possible the thoughts that are
Imbellisht with the riches of this tender
Could torment such as do this bright Crown Ware,
Their Love to thee Lord's lac'de so streight, and slender.
These beams would draw up Griefe to cloude this Glory,
But not so then; though now Grace acts this Story.

My Pen enravisht with these Rayes out strains
A sorry Verse: and when my gold dwells in
A Purse guilt with the glory bright that flames
Out from this Crown, I'le tune an higher pin.
Then make me Lord heir of this Crown. Ile sing
And make thy Praise on my Heroicks ring.

46. Meditation. Rev. 3.5. The same shall be cloathed in White Raiment.

17.5m [July] 1692.

Nay, may I, Lord, believe it? Shall my Skeg
Be ray'd in thy White Robes? My thatcht old Cribb
(Immortal Purss hung on a mortall Peg,)
Wilt thou with fair'st array in heaven rig?
I'm but a jumble of gross Elements
A Snaile Horn where an Evill Spirit tents.

A Dirt ball dresst in milk white Lawn, and deckt
In Tissue tagd with gold, or Ermins flush,
That mocks the Starrs, and sets them in a fret
To se themselves out shone thus. Oh they blush.
Wonders stand gastard here. But yet my Lord,
This is but faint to what thou dost afford.

I'm but a Ball of dirt. Wilt thou adorn
Mee with thy Web wove in thy Loom Divine
The Whitest Web in Glory, that the morn
Nay, that all Angell glory, doth ore shine?
They ware no such. This whitest Lawn most fine
Is onely worn, my Lord, by thee and thine.

This Saye's no flurr of Wit, nor new Coin'd Shape
Of frollick Fancie in a Rampant Brain.
It's juyce Divine bled from the Choicest Grape
That ever Zions Vinyarde did mentain.
Such Mortall bits immortalliz'de shall ware
More glorious robes, than glorious Angells bare.

Their Web is wealthy, wove of Wealthy Silke
Well wrought indeed, its all brancht Taffity.
But this thy Web more white by far than milke
Spun on thy Wheele twine of thy Deity
Wove in thy Web, Fulld in thy mill by hand
Makes them in all their bravery seem tand.

This Web is wrought by best, and noblest Art
That heaven doth afford of twine most choice
All brancht, and richly flowerd in every part
With all the sparkling flowers of Paradise
To be thy Ware alone, who hast no peere
And Robes for glorious Saints to thee most deare.

Wilt thou, my Lord, dress my poore wither'd Stump
In this rich web whose whiteness doth excell
The Snow, though 'tis most black? And shall my Lump
Of Clay ware more than e're on Angells fell?
What shall my bit of Dirt be deckt so fine
That shall Angelick glory all out shine?

Shall things run thus? Then Lord, my tumberill
Unload of all its Dung, and make it cleane.
And load it with thy wealthi'st Grace untill
Its Wheeles do crack, or Axletree complain.

I fain would have it cart thy harvest in,
Before its loosed from its Axlepin.

Then screw my Strings up to thy tune that I
May load thy Glory with my Songs of praise.
Make me thy Shalm, thy praise my Songs, whereby
My mean Shoshannim may thy Michtams raise.
And when my Clay ball's in thy White robes dresst
My tune perfume thy praise shall with the best.

47. Meditation on Matt. 25.21. Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.

9.8m [Oct.] 1692.

Strang, strang indeed. It rowell doth my heart
With pegs of Greefe, and tents of greatest joy:
When I wore Angells Glory in each part
And all my skirts wore flashes of rich die
Of Heavenly Colour, hedg'd in with rosie Reechs,
A spider spit its Vomit on my Cheeks.

This ranckling juyce bindg'd in its cursed stain
Doth permeat both Soul and Body: soile
And drench each Fibre, and infect each grain.
Its ugliness swells over all the ile.
Whose stain'd mishapen bulk's too high, and broad
For th'Entry of the narrow gate to God.

Ready to burst, thus, and to burn in hell:
Now in my path I finde a Waybred spring
Whose leafe drops balm that doth this venom quell
And juyce's a Bath, that doth all stains out bring
And sparkling beauty in the room convay.
Lord feed me with this Waybred Leafe, I pray.

My stain will out: and swelling swage apace.
And holy Lusters on my shape appeare.
All Rosie Buds: and Lilly flowers of grace
Will grace my turfe with sweet sweet glory here.
Under whose shades Angells will bathing play
Who'l guard my Pearle to glory, hous'd in clay.

Those Gates of Pearle, porter'd with Seraphims,
On their carbuncle joynts will open wide.
And entrance give me where all glory swims
In to the Masters Joy, e're to abide.
O sweet sweet thought. Lord take this praise though thin.
And when I'm in't Ile tune an higher pin.

48. Meditation on Matt. 25.21. Enter into the Joy of thy Lord.

10m? [Dec.] 1692.

When I, Lord, eye thy Joy, and my Love, small,
My heart gives in: what now? Strange! Sure I love thee!
And finding brambles 'bout my heart to crawl
My heart misgives mee. Prize I ought above thee?
Such great Love hugging them, such small Love, thee!
Whether thou hast my Love, I scarce can see.

My reason rises up, and chides my Cup
Bright Loveliness itselfe. What not love thee!
Tumbling thy Joy, Lord, ore, it rounds me up.
Shall loves nest be a thorn bush: not thee bee?
Set Hovells up of thorn kids in my heart!
Avant adultrous Love. From me depart.

The Influences my vile heart sucks in
Of Puddle Water boyld by Sunn beams till

Its Spiritless, and dead, nothing more thin
Tasts wealthier than those thou dost distill.
This seems to numb my heart to think that I
Should null all good to optimate a toy.

Yet when the beamings, Lord, of thy rich Joys,
Do guild my Soule, meethinks I'm sure I Love thee.
They Calcine all these brambly trumperys
And now I'm sure that I prize naught above thee.
Thy beams making a bonefire of my Stack
Of Faggots, bring my Love to thee in'ts pack.

For when the Objects of thy Joy impress
Their shining influences on my heart
My Soule seems an Alembick doth possess
Love stilld into rich Spirits by thy Art.
And all my pipes, were they ten thousand would
Drop Spirits of Love on thee, more rich than gold.

Now when the world with all her dimples in't
Smiles on me, I do love thee more than all:
And when her glory freshens, all in print,
I prize thee still above it all. And shall.
Nay all her best to thee, do what she can,
Drops but like drops dropt in a Closestoole pan.

The Castings of thy Joy, my Lord therefore
Let in the Cabbin of my Joy rise high,
And let thy Joy enter in mee before
I enter do into my masters joy.
Thy joyes in mee will make my Pipes to play
For joy thy Praise while teather'd to my clay.

49. Meditation. Matt. 25.21. The joy of thy Lord.

26.12m [Feb.] 1692.

Lord, do away my Motes: and Mountains great.
My nut is vitiate. Its kirnell rots:
Come, kill the Worm, that doth its kirnell eate
And strike thy sparkes within my tinderbox.
Drill through my metall-heart an hole wherein
With graces Cotters to thyselfe it pin.

A Lock of Steel upon my Soule, whose key
The serpent keeps, I fear, doth lock my doore.
O pick't: and through the key-hole make thy way
And enter in: and let thy joyes run o're.
My Wards are rusty. Oyle them till they trig
Before thy golden key: thy Oyle makes glib.

Take out the Splinters of the World that stick
Do in my heart: Friends, Honours, Riches, and
The Shivers in't of Hell whose venoms quick
And firy make it swoln and ranckling stand.
These wound and kill: those shackle strongly to
Poore knobs of Clay, my heart. Hence sorrows grow.

Cleanse, and enlarge my kask: It is too small:
And tartarizd with worldly dregs dri'de in't.
It's bad mouth'd too: and though thy joyes do Call
That boundless are, it ever doth them stint.
Make me thy Chrystall Caske: those wines in't tun
That in the Rivers of thy joyes do run.

Lord make me, though suckt through a straw or Quill,
Tast of the Rivers of thy joyes, some drop.

'Twill sweeten me: and all my Love distill
Into thy glass, and me for joy make hop.
'Twill turn my water into wine: and fill
My Harp with Songs my Masters joyes distill.