Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 46, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 46, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Nay, may I, lord, believe it? Shall my skeg
Last Line: My tune perfume thy praise shall with the best.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


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.





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