The synagogue, or, the shadow of the temple Sacred poems, and private ejaculations. In imitation of Mr George Herbert [by Christopher Harvey] |
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Confusion. |
 | The synagogue, or, the shadow of the temple |  |
Confusion.
Oh! how my minde
is gravel'd!
not a thought
That I can finde,
but's ravel'd
all to nought.
Short ends of threds,
and narrow shreds
of lists,
Knots snarled ruffes,
loose broken tufts
of twists,
Are my torne meditations ragged clothing;
Which wound and woven shape a suit for nothing.
One while I think, and then I am in paine
To think how to unthink that thought againe.
is gravel'd!
not a thought
That I can finde,
but's ravel'd
all to nought.
Short ends of threds,
and narrow shreds
of lists,
Knots snarled ruffes,
loose broken tufts
of twists,
13
Which wound and woven shape a suit for nothing.
One while I think, and then I am in paine
To think how to unthink that thought againe.
How can my soule
but famish
with this food?
Pleasures full bowle
tastes rammish,
taints the blood:
Profit picks bones,
and chewes on stones
that choak:
Honour climbes hils;
fats not, but fils
with smoak.
And whilst my thoughts are greedy upon these,
They passe by pearles, and stoop to pick up pease.
Such wash and draffe is fit for none but swine;
And such I am not, Lord, if I am thine,
Cloth me anew, and feed me then afresh:
Else my soule dyes famisht and starv'd with flesh.
but famish
with this food?
Pleasures full bowle
tastes rammish,
taints the blood:
Profit picks bones,
and chewes on stones
that choak:
Honour climbes hils;
fats not, but fils
with smoak.
And whilst my thoughts are greedy upon these,
They passe by pearles, and stoop to pick up pease.
Such wash and draffe is fit for none but swine;
And such I am not, Lord, if I am thine,
Cloth me anew, and feed me then afresh:
Else my soule dyes famisht and starv'd with flesh.
| The synagogue, or, the shadow of the temple | |