Classic Poem

I.

Is this the Yoke which fools abhor, to be,
(Great Lord) made like to thee?
Is this a burthen? Cannot flesh indure
To be as thou art, pure?
Is this so scorn'd, so loathsome a condition?
Poor swinish soul! canst thou desire
To be an Hog? daub'd, cas'd in mire?
Is this the height of thy deep faln ambition?

II.

This all the service which thou dost desire,
To wash me from my mire?
This all the burthen which thou laist upon me,
To set thy beautie on me?
That beautie, which those glorious Spirits viewing,
Are rapt in heavenly ecstasies,
Drink healths, and making drunk their eyes,
Sing, drencht in amorous joyes, thy praise renewing.

III.

How beauteous is thy house? thy spangled Court?
Yet to thy beautie durt.
How glorious is the Sun, the spring of light?
Yet to thy glory night.
How bright thy Angels in their spritely feature?
Yet to thy brightness smoke to fire.
How then should we (poor souls!) admire
Thy beautie, glory, brightness in thy creature.

IV.

Oh what am I (my Lord!) without thy likeness,
But a dull dying sickness?
Stript of thy Image, and that God-like feature
I, less than any creature.
The meanest, sensless, liveless overgits me,
And goes beyond me; stones last longer,
Flowers are fairer, trees are stronger
The beasts out-sense, the Divels self outwits me.

V.

Let Swine then serve their muddy lusts, and ly
Mir'd in their stinking stie.
Doggs serve the ravening world, devour, be sick,
Spew, and their vomit lick.
But oh let me renew my first condition,
Conform'd unto thy glorious beautie
Serve thee in every holy dutie.
This my whole honour, this my sole ambition.