Classic Poem

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,
Its fruits in flourish are but skegs to thine.

The Clove, when in its White-green'd blossoms shoots,
Some Call the pleasantst scent the World doth show,
None Eye e're saw, nor nose e're smelt such Fruits,
My Lord, as thine, Thou Tree of Life in'ts blow.
Thou Rose of Sharon, Vallies Lilly true,
Thy Fruits most sweet and glorious ever grew.

Thou art a Tree of Perfect nature trim,
Whose golden lining is of perfect Grace,
Perfum'de with Deity unto the brim,
Whose fruits, of the perfection, grow, of Grace.
Thy Buds, thy Blossoms, and thy fruits adorne
Thyselfe and Works, more shining than the morn.

Art, natures Ape, hath many brave things done:
As th' Pyramids, the Lake of Meris vast,
The Pensile Orchards built in Babylon,
Psammitich's Labyrinth, (arts Cramping task)
Archimedes his Engins made for war,
Romes Golden House, Titus his Theater.

The Clock of Strasburgh, Dresdens Table-sight,
Regsamonts Fly of Steele about that flew,
Turrian's Wooden Sparrows in a flight,
And th' Artificiall man Aquinas slew,
Mark Scaliota's Lock and Key and Chain
Drawn by a Flea, in our Queen Betties reign.

Might but my pen in natures Inventory
Its progress make, 't might make such things to jump,
All which are but Inventions Vents or glory:
Wits Wantonings, and Fancies frollicks plump:
Within whose maws lies buried Times, and Treasures,
Embalmed up in thick dawbd sinfull pleasures.

Nature doth better work than Art, yet thine
Out vie both works of nature and of Art.
Natures Perfection and the perfect shine
Of Grace attend thy deed in ev'ry part.
A Thought, a Word, and Worke of thine, will kill
Sin, Satan, and the Curse: and Law fulfill.

Thou art the Tree of Life in Paradise,
Whose lively branches are with Clusters hung
Of Lovely fruits, and Flowers more sweet than spice.
Bende down to us, and doe outshine the sun.
Delightfull unto God, doe man rejoyce
The pleasant'st fruits in all Gods Paradise.

Lord, feed mine eyes then with thy Doings rare,
And fat my heart with these ripe fruites thou bear'st;
Adorn my Life well with thy works; make faire
My Person with apparrell thou prepar'st.
My Boughs shall loaded bee with fruits that spring
Up from thy Works, while to thy praise I sing.