Classic Poem

Doe Fables say, the Rising Sun doth Dance
On Easter Day for joy, thou didst ascende.
O Sun of Righteousness; tho't be a glance
Of Falshoods Spectacles on Rome's nose end?
And shall not I, furled in thy glorious beams,
Ev'n jump for joy, Enjoying such sweet gleams?

What doth the rising Sun with its Curld Locks
And golden wings soon make the Chilly world
Shook with an Ague Fit by night shade drops,
Revive, grow brisk. Suns Eyebright on it hurld?
How should my Soule then sick of th'Scurvy spring
When thy sweet medicating rayes come in?

Alas! Sweet Sun of Righteousness, Dost shine
Upon such Dunghills, as I am? Methinks
My Soule sends out such putrid sents, and rhimes
That with thy beams would Choke the aire with Stincks.
And Nasty vapors ery where, whereby
Thy rayes should venom'd be that from thee fly.

The Fiery Darts of Satan stob my heart.
His Punyards Thrusts are deep, and venom'd too.
His Arrows wound my thoughts, Words, Works, each part
They all a bleeding ly by th' Stobs, and rue.
His Aire I breath in, poison doth my Lungs.
Hence come Consumptions, Fevers, Head pains: Turns.

Yea, Lythargy, the Apoplectick Stroke:
The Catochee, Soul Blindness, Surdity,
Ill Tongue, Mouth Ulcers, Frog, the Quinsie Throate
The Palate Fallen, Wheezings, Pleurisy.
Heart Ach, the Syncopee, bad stomach tricks
Gaul Tumors, Liver grown; spleen evills Cricks.

The Kidny toucht, The Iliak, Colick Griefe
The Ricats, Dropsy, Gout, the Scurvy, Sore
The Miserere Mei. O Reliefe
I want and would, and beg it at thy doore.
O! Sun of Righteousness Thy Beams bright, Hot
Rafter a Doctors, and a Surgeons Shop.

I ope my Case to thee, my Lord: mee in
Thy glorious Bath, of Sun Shine, Bathe, and Sweate.
So rout Ill Humors: And thy purges bring.
Administer in Sunbeame Light, and Heate.
Pound some for Cordiall powders very small
To Cure my Kidnies, Spleen, My Liver, Gaul.

And with the same refresh my Heart, and Lungs
From Wasts, and Weakness. Free from Pleurisy
Bad Stomach, Iliak, Colick Fever, turns,
From Scurvy, Dropsy, Gout, and Leprosy
From Itch, Botch Scab. And purify my Blood
From all Ill Humors: So make all things good.

Weave, Lord, these golden Locks into a web
Of Spiritual Taffity; make of the same
A sweet perfumed Rheum-Cap for my head
To free from Lythargy, the Turn, and Pain,
From Waking-Sleep, Sin-Falling Mallady
From Whimsy, Melancholy Frenzy-dy.

Thy Curled Rayes, Lord, make mine Eare Picker
To Cure my Deafeness: Light, Ophthalmicks pure
To heate my Eyes and make the Sight the Quicker.
That I may use Sins Spectacles no more.
O still some Beams. And with the Spirits fresh
My Palate Ulcerd Mouth, and Ill Tongue dress.

And ply my wounds with Pledgets dipt therein.
And wash therewith my Scabs and Boils so sore,
And all my Stobs, and Arrow wounds come, bring
And syrrindge with the Same. It will them Cure.
With tents made of these Beams well tent them all.
They Fistula'es and Gangrenes Conquour shall.

Lord plaster mee herewith to bring soon down
My Swellings. Stick a Feather of thy Wing
Within my Cap to Cure my Aching Crown.
And with these beams Heale mee of all my Sin.
When with these Wings thou dost mee medicine
I'st weare the Cure, thou th'glory of this Shine.