Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 7, by EDWARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 7, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: All dull, my lord, my spirits flat, and dead
Last Line: While thy sweet praise, my tunes doth glorify.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature


All Dull, my Lord, my Spirits flat, and dead
All water sockt and sapless to the skin.
Oh! Screw mee up and make my Spirits bed
Thy quickening vertue For my inke is dim,
My pensill blunt. Doth Joseph type out thee?
Haraulds of Angells sing out, Bow the Knee.

Is Josephs glorious shine a Type of thee?
How bright art thou? He Envi'de was as well.
And so was thou. He's stript, and pick't, poore hee,
Into the pit. And so was thou. They shell
Thee of thy Kirnell. He by Judah's sold
For twenty Bits, thirty for thee he'd told.

Joseph was tempted by his Mistress vile.
Thou by the Divell, but both shame the foe.
Joseph was cast into the jayle awhile.
And so was thou. Sweet apples mellow so.
Joseph did from his jayle to glory run.
Thou from Death's pallot rose like morning sun.

Joseph layes in against the Famine, and
Thou dost prepare the Bread of Life for thine.
He bought with Corn for Pharaoh th'men and Land.
Thou with thy Bread mak'st such themselves Consign
Over to thee, that eate it. Joseph makes
His brethren bow before him. Thine too quake.

Joseph constrains his Brethren till their sins
Do gall their Souls. Repentance babbles fresh.
Thou treatest sinners till Repentance springs
Then with him sendst a Benjamin like messe.
Joseph doth Cheare his humble brethren. Thou
Dost stud with Joy the mourning Saints that bow.

Josephs bright shine th'Eleven Tribes must preach.
And thine Apostles now Eleven, thine.
They beare his presents to his Friends: thine reach
Thine unto thine, thus now behold a shine.
How hast thou pensild out, my Lord, most bright
Thy glorious Image here, on Josephs Light.

This I bewaile in me under this shine
To see so dull a Colour in my Skin.
Lord, lay thy brightsome Colours on me thine.
Scoure thou my pipes then play thy tunes therein.
I will not hang my Harp in Willows by.
While thy sweet praise, my Tunes doth glorify.





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