Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SUBMISSION, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT

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SUBMISSION, by            
First Line: Oft has my prostrate soule to thee
Last Line: My troubled will, is, to deny it.
Subject(s): Humility; Prayer

OFT has my prostrate Soule to Thee
Great Lord of Love, commended this DESIGNE
Whose restless importunitie
Burns in this Heart of mine
And at thy gracious Feet full low
It & my Self, again I throw.


Thou se'st how many pretious Houres
Of my short Time it spends: Thou seest how
It reigns in all my Thoughts, & pours
Storms of Disquiet through
My deerest Meditations, which
Fain at thy Heavn & Thee would reach.


Most bitter-sweet DESIGNE which hants
My Bosome with such Tyrannous Delight,
That though my Hearts Indeavour pants
To flie this tedious Night
Of gloomy & uncertain Hope,
Still in these doubtfull Mists I grope.


Oft have I thought, that I had drawn
Neer unto Quiets blessed Shore; but strait
By flattering Fancy I was thrown
Into some new Deceit:
Still-joying to Sail in this Sea
Which shipwrackd all my Joies, & Me.


And thus deliciously perplext,
Close in my Breast I huggd my sweet Distress;
Which, though it always knawd & vext
With pleasing Restlesness,
I durst not turn my Foe away
Whoe me so daintily did slay.


My Wounds to any tender Ey
I durst not shew, nor gain a Freinds releif:
I durst not mine own Help supply
To cure ev'n mine own Greif:
I unwishd mine own Wishes, and
With one beat down my other Hand.


A thousand times my Thoughts I chode,
And then as oft those Chideings did recant:
Against my Self I boldly stood,
And when I firmly ment
This Side should Victor be, the other
Soon trampled down his dareing Brother.


Did any Riddle e'r present
So valiant a Coward, as poor I;
Who by the Wings of strange Consent
Pursue ev'n what I fly:
Whoe hate these anxious Thoughts, yet am
So mad to Think none else but them.


O mighty LORD of GOODNES, my
Most aenigmatik Greif appeals to Thee:
Use, Use thine own Authority
Both upon it, & Me.
No more will I own this DESIGNE
Unless it may comply with Thine.


Pure Sweets dwell in thy Will alone,
But mine, when sweetest, with rank Gall doth flow:
O then, may Thine, may Thine be done,
Though mine it overthrow!
The onely way I have to quiet
My troubled Will, is, to Deny it.

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