Classic Poem

Out of Mr.More's Cup: Conf:

Thrice happy he whose name is wrote above,
Who doeth good, though gaining infamy,
Requiteth evill turns with hearty love,
And recks not what befalls him outwardly;
Whose worth is in himself, and onely bliss
In his pure conscience which doth nought amiss
Who placeth pleasure in his purged Soule
And vertuous life his Treasure doth esteem;
Who can his passions master and controule,
And that true Lordly manlyness doth deem,
Who from this world himself hath dearely quit,
Counts nought his own but what lives in his Sprit.
So when his Sprite from this vain world shall flit,
It bears all with it, whatsoe're was deare
Unto it self, passing in easy Fit,
As kindly ripen'd corn comes out o'th Eare
And careless of what idle men will say,
He takes his own, and stilly goes his way.
& ca

Eternall reason! glorious majestie!
Compar'd to whom what can be said to be?
Whose attributes are thee, who art alone
Cause of all various things, and yet but one;
Whose essence can no more be search'd by man,
Then heaven (thy throne) be grasp'd within his Span.
Yet if this great Creation was design'd
To severall ends, fitted to every kind;
Sure man (the world's epitomy) must be
Formed to the best, that is, to study thee.
And as our dignity, 'tis duty too,
Which is summ'd up in this, to know and do.
These comely rows of Creatures spell thy Name,
Whereby we grope to find from whence they came,
By thy own chain of causes brought to think
There must be one, then find the highest link.
Thus all created excellence we see
Is a faint dark resemblance of thee
Such shaddows are produc'd by the moonebeams,
Of Trees or houses, on the running streams
Yet by impressions born with us we find
How good, great, Just thou art, how unconfin'd
Here we are swallow'd up and gladly dwell,
Safely adoring what we cannot tell
All we know is, thou art supreamely good,
And dost delight to be so understood:
A Spicy Mountaine on the Universe,
On which thy richest odours doe disperse.
But as the Sea to fill a vessell heaves
More greedily then any cask receives,
Besieging round to find some Gap in it,
Which will a new infusion admit:
So dost thou covet that thou mayst dispence
Upon the empty world thy influence;
Lov'st to disburse thy selfe in kindness: thus
The King of Kings waites to be Gracious
On this accompt, O God, enlarge my heart
To entertaine what thou wouldst faine impart
Nor let this Soul, by severall titles thine,
And most capacious form'd for things divine,
(So nobly meant, that when it most doth misse,
'Tis in mistaken pantings after blisse)
Degrade it self, in sordid things delight,
Or by profaner mixtures loose its right.
O! that with fixed unbroken thoughts it may
Admire that light which doth obscure the Day;
And since 'tis Angells work it has to doe,
May its composure be like Angells too.
When shall those cloggs of sence and fancy break,
That I may heare the God within me speak?
When with a Silent and retired art,
Shall I with all this empty hurry part?
To the still voice above, my Soule advance;
My light and Joy fix'd in God's Countenance;
By whose dispence my Soule, to such frame brought,
May tame each treacherous, fix each scatter'd thought;
With such distinctions all things here behold,
And so to separate each drosse from Gold,
That nothing my free soule may satisfy,
But t'imitate, enjoy, and study thee.