The orator from rhetorick gardens picks
His Spangled Flowers of sweet-breathd Eloquence
Wherewith his Oratory brisk he tricks
Whose Spicy Charms Eare jewells do commence.
Shall bits of Brains be candid thus for eares?
My Theme claims Sugar Candid far more cleare.

Things styld Transcendent, do transcende the Stile
Of Reason, reason's stares neere reach so high.
But Jacob's golden Ladder rounds do foile
All reasons Strides, wrought of the antrophy.
Two Natures distance-standing, infinite,
Are Onifide, in person, and Unite.

Halfe dead: and rotten at the coare: my Lord!
I am Consumptive: and my Wasted lungs
Scarce draw a Breath of aire: my Silver Coard
Is loose. My buckles almost have no tongues.
My Heart is Fistulate: I am a Shell.
In Guilt and Filth I wallow, Sent and Smell.

Shall not that Wisdom horded up in thee
(One key whereof is Sacerdotall Types)
Provide a Cure for all this griefe in mee
And in the Court of Justice save from Stripes,
And purge away all Filth and Guilt, and bring
A Cure to my Consumption as a King?

Guilty, my Lord, What can I more declare?
— — Thou knowst the Case, and Cases of my Soule.
Box of tinder: Sparks that falling o're
— — Set all on fire, and worke me all in Shoals.
— — A Pouch of Passion is my Pericarde.
— — Sparks fly when ere my Flint and Steele strike hard.

I am a Dish of Dumps: yea ponderous dross,
— — Black blood all clotted, burdening my heart,
That Anger's anvill, and my bark bears moss.
— — My Spirits soakt are drunke with blackish Art.
— — If any Vertue stir, it is but feeble.

All dull, my Lord, my spirits flat, and dead
All water sockt and sapless to the skin.
Oh! Screw mee up and make my Spirits bed
Thy quickening vertue For my inke is dim,
My pensill blunt. Doth Joseph type out thee?
Haraulds of Angells sing out, Bow the Knee.

Is Josephs glorious shine a Type of thee?
How bright art thou? He Envi'de was as well.
And so was thou. He's stript, and pick't, poore hee,
Into the pit. And so was thou. They shell
Thee of thy Kirnell. He by Judah's sold
For twenty Bits, thirty for thee he'd told.

Should I with silver tooles delve through the Hill
Of Cordilera for rich thoughts, that I
My Lord, might weave with an angelick skill
A Damask Web of Velvet Verse, thereby
To deck thy Works up, all my Web would run
To rags and jags: so snick-snarld to the thrum.

Thine are so rich: within, without refin'd:
No worke like thine. No Fruits so sweete that grow
On th' trees of righteousness of Angell kinde,
And Saints, whose limbs reev'd with them bow down low.
Should I search ore the Nutmeg Gardens shine,

Oh Leaden heeld. Lord, give, forgive I pray,
Infire my Heart: it bedded is in Snow.
I Chide myselfe seing myselfe decay.
In heate and Zeale to thee, I frozen grow.
File my dull Spirits: make them sharp and bright:
Them firbush for thyselfe, and thy delight.

My Stains are such, and sinke so deep, that all
The Excellency in Created Shells
Too low, and little is to make it fall
Out of my leather Coate wherein it dwells.
This Excellence is but a Shade to that
Which is enough to make my Stains go back.

Oh! Golden Rose! Oh. Glittering Lilly White
Spic'd o're With heavens File divine, till Rayes
Fly forth whose Shine doth Wrack the strongest Sight
That Wonders Eye is tent of, while't doth gaze
On thee. Whose Swaddle Bonde's Eternity.
And Sparkling Cradle is Rich Deity.

First Born of e'ry Being: hence a Son
Begot o' th' First: Gods onely Son begot.
Hence Deity all ore. Gods nature run
Into a Filiall Mould: Eternall knot.
A Father then, and Son: persons distinct.
Though them Sabellians contrar'ly inckt.

My Gracious Lord, I would thee glory doe;
But finde my Garden over grown with weeds:
My Soile is sandy; brambles o're it grow;
My Stock is stunted; branch no good Fruits breeds.
My Garden weed: Fatten my Soile, and prune
My Stock, and make it with thy glory bloome.

O Glorious One, the gloriou'st thought I thincke
Of thee falls black as Inck upon thy Glory.
The brightest Saints that rose, do Star like, pinck.
Nay, Abrams Shine to thee's an Allegory,
Or fleeting Sparke in th' Smoke, to typify

My Blessed Lord, how doth thy Beautious Spouse
In Stately Stature rise in Comliness?
With her two breasts like two little Roes that browse
Among the lillies in their Shining dress
Like stately milke pailes ever full and flow
With spirituall milke to make her babes to grow.

Celestiall Nectar Wealthier far than Wine
Wrought in the Spirits brew house and up tund
Within these Vessells which are trust up fine
Likend to two pritty neate twin Roes than run'd
Most pleasently by their dams sides like Cades

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.