Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 82, by EDWARD TAYLOR

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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 82, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: My tatter'd fancy; and my ragged rhymes
Last Line: Upon her virginalls, praise for this thing.
Subject(s): Puritans In Literature

My tatter'd Fancy; and my Ragged Rymes
Teeme leaden Metaphors: which yet might serve
To hum a little touching terrene Shines.
But Spirtuall Life doth better fare deserve.
This thought on, sets my heart upon the Rack.
I fain would have this Life but han't its knack.

Reason stands for it, moving to persue't.
But Flesh and Blood, are Elementall things.
That sink me down, dulling my Spirits fruit.
Life Animall a Spirituall Sparke ne'er springs.
But if thy Altars Coale Enfire my heart,
With this Blesst Life my Soule will be thy Sparke.

I'm Common matter: Lord thine Altar make mee.
Then sanctify thine Altar with thy blood:
I'l offer on't my heart to thee. (Oh! take mee)
And let thy fire Calcine mine Altars Wood,
Then let thy Spirits breath, as Bellows, blow
That this new kindled Life may flame and glow.

Some Life with Spoon, or Trencher do mentain
Or suck its food through a Small Quill, or Straw:
But make me, Lord, this Life thou givst, sustain
With thy Sweet Flesh, and Blood, by Gospell Law.
Feed it on Zions Pasty Plate-Delights:
I'de suck it from her Candlesticks Sweet Pipes.

Need makes the Old wife trot: Necessity
Saith, I must eate this Flesh, and drinke this blood.
If not, no Life's in mee that's worth a Fly,
This mortall Life, while here eats mortall Foode.
That sends out influences to mentaine,
A little while, and then holds back the same.

But Soule Sweet Bread, is in Gods Back house, made
On Heavens high Dresser Boarde and throughly bakd:
On Zions Gridiron, sapt in'ts dripping trade,
That all do live that on it do partake,
Its Flesh, and Blood even of the Deity;
None that do eat, and Drinke, it, ever dy.

Have I a vitall Sparke even of this Fire?
How Dull am I? Lord let thy Spirit blow
Upon my Coale, untill its heart is higher,
And I be quickned by the same, and Glow.
Here's Manna Angells food to fatten them.
That I must eate or be a witherd stem.

Lord, make my Faith thy golden Quill where through
I vitall Spirits from thy blood may suck.
Make Faith my Grinders, thy Choice Flesh to chew,
My Witherd Stock shall with frim Fruits be stuck.
My Soule shall then in Lively Notes forth ring
Upon her Virginalls, praise for this thing.

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