Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 49, by EDWARD TAYLOR



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPAPATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 49, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Lord, do away my motes: and mountains great
Last Line: My harp with songs my masters joyes distill.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


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.





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