Classic Poem

My Blessed Lord, that Golden Linck that joyns
— — My Soule, and thee, out blossoms on't this Spruice
Peart Pronown MY more spiritous than wines,
— — Rooted in Rich Relation, Graces Sluce.
— — This little Voice feasts mee with fatter Sweets
— — Than all the Stars that pave the Heavens Streets.

It hands me All, my heart, and hand to thee
— — And up doth lodge them in thy persons Lodge
And as a Golden bridg ore it to mee
— — Thee, and thine All to me, and never dodge.
— — In this small Ship a mutuall Intrest sayles
— — From Heaven and Earth, by th'holy Spirits gales.

Thy Ware to me's so rich, should my Returns
— — Be packt in sparkling Metaphors, out stilld
From Zion's garden flowers, by fire that burns
— — Aright, of Saphire Battlements up filld
— — And sent in Jasper Vialls it would bee
— — A pack of guilded Non-Sense unto thee.