Classic Poem

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
— — That fatten Souls, that with it welcomd are.

My Trencher, Lord, with thy Roast Mutton dress:
— — And my dry Bisket in thy Dripping Sap.
And feed my Soul with thy Choice Angell Mess:
— — My heart thy Praise, Will, tweedling Larklike tap.
— — My florid notes, like Tenderills of Vines
— — Twine round thy Praise, plants sprung in true Love's Mines.