Tixall Poetry.
41
Yet still except we prophets, saints, and kings;
Who hears a heaven's voice, of heaven sings,
Nor fears he precipices that has wings.
But I should lend the sun an arrow's pace,
And borrow nature's ragges to furnish grace,
Or pick up flowers to deck an angell's face.
As the poore whining lover, thinking shame
T' invoke his Lucy by a Christian name,
Miscalles her little duck, or pretty lambe.
With words impure to prayse a dyety,
Weire but a moderne kind of blasphemy,
As ws, whos greatest sinnes in sanctity.
Thay who with pocky mouthes the saints dare woo,
Nor take ther sacred names, as others doe,
Vainely, and foolishly, but foulely too.
You know temtation once brought me too in,
To faigne a teare or two of Magdalen,
But she, a sinner once, forgave the sin.
And yet Medea lent me not a moane,
Nor Ariadne yet a single grone,
Nor Niobe a brest, or foot of stone.
Who hears a heaven's voice, of heaven sings,
Nor fears he precipices that has wings.
But I should lend the sun an arrow's pace,
And borrow nature's ragges to furnish grace,
Or pick up flowers to deck an angell's face.
As the poore whining lover, thinking shame
T' invoke his Lucy by a Christian name,
Miscalles her little duck, or pretty lambe.
With words impure to prayse a dyety,
Weire but a moderne kind of blasphemy,
As ws, whos greatest sinnes in sanctity.
Thay who with pocky mouthes the saints dare woo,
Nor take ther sacred names, as others doe,
Vainely, and foolishly, but foulely too.
You know temtation once brought me too in,
To faigne a teare or two of Magdalen,
But she, a sinner once, forgave the sin.
And yet Medea lent me not a moane,
Nor Ariadne yet a single grone,
Nor Niobe a brest, or foot of stone.
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