Classic Poem

Vias tuas Domine demonstra mihi.

Where have I wandred? In what way
 Horrid as night
Increast by stormes did I delight?
Though my sad soule did often say
T'was death and madnesse so to stray.

On that false ground I joy'd to tread
 Which seem'd most faire,
Though every path had a new snare,
And every turning still did lead,
To the darke Region of the dead.

But with the surfet of delight
 I am so tyred
That now I loath what I admired,
And my distasted appetite
So 'bhors the meate, it hates the sight.

For should we naked sinne discry
 Not beautified
By th' ayde of wantonnesse and pride
Like some mishapen birth 'twould lye
A torment to th' affrighted eye.

But cloath'd in beauty and respect
 Even ore the wise,
How powerfull doth it tyrannize!
Whose monstrous forme should they detect
They famine sooner would affect.

And since those shadowes which oppresse
 My sight begin
To cleere, and show the shape of sinne,
A Scorpion sooner be my guest,
And warme his venome in my brest.

May I before I grow so vile
 By sinne agen,
Be throwne off as a scorne to men!
May th' angry world decree, t' exile
Me to some yet unpeopled Isle.

Where while I straggle, and in vaine
 Labor to finde
Some creature that shall have a minde,
What justice have I to complaine
If I thy inward grace retaine?

My God if thou shalt not exclude
 Thy comfort thence:
What place can seeme to troubled sence
So melancholly darke and rude,
To be esteem'd a solitude?

Cast me upon some naked shore
 Where I may tracke
Onely the print of some sad wracke;
If thou be there, though the seas roare,
I shall no gentler calme implore.

Should the Cymmerians , whom no ray
 Doth ere enlight
But gaine thy grace, th' have lost their night:
Not sinners at high noone, but they
'Mong their blind cloudes have found the day.

Vias tuas Domine demonstra mihi.

Where have I wandred? In what way
 Horrid as night
Increast by stormes did I delight?
Though my sad soule did often say
T'was death and madnesse so to stray.

On that false ground I joy'd to tread
 Which seem'd most faire,
Though every path had a new snare,
And every turning still did lead,
To the darke Region of the dead.

But with the surfet of delight
 I am so tyred
That now I loath what I admired,
And my distasted appetite
So 'bhors the meate, it hates the sight.

For should we naked sinne discry
 Not beautified
By th' ayde of wantonnesse and pride
Like some mishapen birth 'twould lye
A torment to th' affrighted eye.

But cloath'd in beauty and respect
 Even ore the wise,
How powerfull doth it tyrannize!
Whose monstrous forme should they detect
They famine sooner would affect.

And since those shadowes which oppresse
 My sight begin
To cleere, and show the shape of sinne,
A Scorpion sooner be my guest,
And warme his venome in my brest.

May I before I grow so vile
 By sinne agen,
Be throwne off as a scorne to men!
May th' angry world decree, t' exile
Me to some yet unpeopled Isle.

Where while I straggle, and in vaine
 Labor to finde
Some creature that shall have a minde,
What justice have I to complaine
If I thy inward grace retaine?

My God if thou shalt not exclude
 Thy comfort thence:
What place can seeme to troubled sence
So melancholly darke and rude,
To be esteem'd a solitude?

Cast me upon some naked shore
 Where I may tracke
Onely the print of some sad wracke;
If thou be there, though the seas roare,
I shall no gentler calme implore.

Should the Cymmerians , whom no ray
 Doth ere enlight
But gaine thy grace, th' have lost their night:
Not sinners at high noone, but they
'Mong their blind cloudes have found the day.