Classic Poem

Thy Humane Frame, my Glorious Lord, I spy,
A Golden Still with Heavenly Choice drugs filld;
Thy Holy Love, the Glowing heate whereby,
The Spirit of Grace is graciously distilld.
Thy Mouth the Neck through which these spirits still.
My Soul thy Violl make, and therewith fill.

Thy Speech the Liquour in thy Vessell stands,
Well ting'd with Grace a blessed Tincture, Loe,
Thy Words distilld, Grace in thy Lips pourd, and,
Give Graces Tinctur in them where they go.
Thy words in graces tincture stilld, Lord, may
The Tincture of thy Grace in me Convay.

That Golden Mint of Words, thy Mouth Divine,
Doth tip these Words, which by my Fall were spoild;
And Dub with Gold dug out of Graces mine
That they thine Image might have in them foild.
Grace in thy Lips pourd out's as Liquid Gold.
Thy Bottle make my Soule, Lord, it to hold.