Classic Poem

When, Lord, I seeke to shew thy praises, then
— — Thy shining Majesty doth stund my minde,
Encramps my tongue and tongue ties fast my Pen,
— — That all my doings, do not what's designd.
— — My Speeche's Organs are so trancifide
— — My words stand startld, can't thy praises stride.

Nay Speeches Bloomery can't from the Ore
— — Of Reasons mine, melt words for to define
Thy Deity, nor t'deck the reechs that sore
— — From Loves rich Vales, sweeter than hony rhimes.
— — Words though the finest twine of reason, are
— — Too Course a web for Deity to ware.

Words Mentall are syllabicated thoughts:
— — Words Orall but thoughts Whiffld in the Winde.
Words Writ, are incky, Goose quill-slabbred draughts,
— — Although the fairest blossoms of the minde.
— — Then can such glasses cleare enough descry
— — My Love to thee, or thy rich Deity?

Words are befould, Thoughts filthy fumes that smoake,
— — From Smutty Huts, like Will-a-Wisps that rise
From Quaugmires, run ore bogs where frogs do Croake,
— — Lead all astray led by them by the eyes.
— — My muddy Words so dark thy Deity,
— — And cloude thy Sun-Shine, and its Shining Sky.