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

Lord with thine Altars Fire, mine Inward man
— — Refine from dross: burn out my sinfull guise
And make my Soul thine Altars Drippen pan
— — To Catch the Drippen of thy Sacrifice.
— — This is the Unction thine receive; the which
— — Doth teach them all things of an happy pitch.

Thy Altars Fire burns not to ashes down
— — This Offering. But it doth roast it here.
This is thy Roastmeate cooked up sweet, brown,
— — Upon thy table set for Souls good cheer.
— — The Drippen, and the meate are royall fair

But Woe is mee! who have so quick a Sent
— — To Catch perfumes pufft out from Pincks, and Roses
And other Muscadalls, as they get Vent,
— — Out of their Mothers Wombs to bob our noses.
— — And yet thy sweet perfume doth seldom latch
— — My Lord, within my Mammulary Catch.

Am I denos'de? or doth the Worlds ill sents
— — Engarison my nosthrills narrow bore?
Or is my smell lost in these Damps it Vents?
— — And shall I never finde it any more?
— — Or is it like the Hawks, or Hownds whose breed

A Pit indeed of Sin: No water's here:
— — Whose bottom's furthest off from Heaven bright,
And is next doore to Hell Gate, to it neer:
— — And here I dwell in sad and solemn night,
— — My Gold-Fincht Angell Feathers dapled in
— — Hells Scarlet Dy fat, blood red grown with Sin.

I in this Pit all Destitute of Light
— — Cram'd full of Horrid Darkness, here do Crawle
Up over head, and Eares, in Nauseous plight:
— — And Swinelike Wallow in this mire, and Gall:
— — No Heavenly Dews nor Holy Waters drill:

When, Lord, I seeke to shew thy praises, then
— — Thy shining Majesty doth stund my minde,
Encramps my tongue and tongue ties fast my Pen,
— — That all my doings, do not what's designd.
— — My Speeche's Organs are so trancifide
— — My words stand startld, can't thy praises stride.

Nay Speeches Bloomery can't from the Ore
— — Of Reasons mine, melt words for to define
Thy Deity, nor t'deck the reechs that sore
— — From Loves rich Vales, sweeter than hony rhimes.
— — Words though the finest twine of reason, are

My Metaphors are but dull Tacklings tag'd
— — With ragged Non-Sense. Can such draw to thee
My stund affections all with Cinders clag'd,
— — If thy bright beaming headship touch not mee?
— — If that thy headship shines not in mine eyes,
— — My heart will fuddled ly with worldly toyes.

My Blessed Lord, that Golden Linck that joyns
— — My Soule, and thee, out blossoms on't this Spruice
Peart Pronown MY more spiritous than wines,
— — Rooted in Rich Relation, Graces Sluce.
— — This little Voice feasts mee with fatter Sweets
— — Than all the Stars that pave the Heavens Streets.

It hands me All, my heart, and hand to thee
— — And up doth lodge them in thy persons Lodge
And as a Golden bridg ore it to mee
— — Thee, and thine All to me, and never dodge.
— — In this small Ship a mutuall Intrest sayles

A bran, a chaff, a very barley yawn,
An husk, a shell, a nothing, nay yet worse,
A thistle, briar prickle, pricking thorn,
A lump of lewdness, pouch of sin, a purse
Of naughtiness I am, yea what not, Lord?
And wilt thou be mine altar? And my board?

Mine heart's a park or chase of sins; mine head
'S a bowling alley. Sins play ninehole here.
Fancy's a green: sin, barley breaks in it led.
Judgement's a pingle: blind man's buff's played there.
Sin plays at coursey park within my mind:
My will's a walk in which it airs what's blind.

What shall a mote up to a monarch rise?
An Emmet match an Emperor in might?
If Princes make their personall Exercise
Betriming mouse holes, painting with delight!
Or hanging Hornets nests with rich attire
All that pretende to Wisdome would admire.

The Highest Office and Highst Officer
Expende on lowest intrest in the world
The greatest Cost and wealthiest treasure far
Twould shew mans wisdom's up in folly furld.
That Humane Wisdom's hatcht within the nest
Of addle brains which wisdom ne'er possesst.

A state, a state, oh! dungeon state indeed.
In which mee headlong, long agoe Sin pitcht:
As dark as Pitch, where Nastiness doth breed:
And Filth defiles: and I am with it ditcht.
A Sinfull State: This Pit no Water's in't.
A Bugbare State: as black as any inke.

I once sat singing on the Summit high
'Mong the Celestiall Coire in Musick Sweet
On highest bough of Paradisall joy,
Glory and Innocence did in mee meet.
I, as a Gold-Fincht Nighting Gale, tun'd ore
Melodious Songs 'fore Glorie's Palace Doore.