Classic Poem

July 9

What is itt, that thou dost require
whilst thou art smartly, knocking off
Our fingers, from what we admire
by it, thou calst for all, our love
What cause have we, if itt be soe
To wonder, thou shouldst stoop so low.

What is our love (deer Lord,) to thee
Thou'rt in thy self, to great, to high
To, gain by it, tis only wee
That ar advantaged, therby
Yet art thou pleas'd thus low to bend
As for soe meane, a thing to send.

All we can have, for to bestow
It will fall short, infinetly
Of that which we, to thee, doe owe
When ages of eternity
Shall still be speant in pouring forth
Our love, on thee, when att full growth.

Oh then what madnese, desparate
Is it to set our love upon
Thosse things, of no moment, or weight
Which also, will be quikly gone
When alls to litle, we can give
Unto the god, on whom we live.

Do thou by some soull scorching beam
From thee, cause love, on fire to be
Lett the whole to-rent, and the stream
Of my affections, run to thee
That when the creture, calls to share
I may, find none, for them, to spare.