Classic Poem

Like to the Marigold, I blushing close
My golden blossoms when thy sun goes down:
Moist'ning my leaves with Dewy Sighs, half frose
By the nocturnall Cold, that hoares my Crown.
Mine Apples ashes are in apple shells
And dirty too: strange and bewitching spells!

When Lord, mine Eye doth spie thy Grace to beame
Thy Mediatoriall glory in the shine
Out Spouted so from Adams typick streame
And Emblemiz'd in Noahs pollisht shrine
Thine theirs outshines so far it makes their glory
In brightest Colours, seem a smoaky story.

But when mine Eye full of these beams, doth cast
Its rayes upon my dusty essence thin
Impregnate with a Sparke Divine, defacde,
All Candid o're with Leprosie of Sin,
Such Influences on my Spirits light,
Which them as bitter gall, or Cold ice smite.

My brissled sins hence do so horrid peare,
None but thyselfe, (and thou deckt up must bee
In thy Transcendent glory sparkling cleare)
A Mediator unto God for mee.
So high they rise, Faith scarce can toss a Sight
Over their head upon thyselfe to light.

Is't possible such glory, Lord, ere should
Center its Love on me Sins Dunghill else?
My Case up take? make it its own? Who would
Wash with his blood my blots out? Crown his shelfe
Or Dress his golden Cupboard with such ware?
This makes my pale facde Hope almost despare.

Yet let my Titimouses Quill suck in
Thy Graces milk Pails some small drop: or Cart
A Bit, or Splinter of some Ray, the wing
Of Grace's sun sprindgd out, into my heart:
To build there Wonders Chappell where thy Praise
Shall be the Psalms sung forth in gracious layes.