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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SUBMISSION by JOSEPH BEAUMONT

First Line: OFT HAS MY PROSTRATE SOULE TO THEE
Last Line: MY TROUBLED WILL, IS, TO DENY IT.
Subject(s): HUMILITY; PRAYER;
OFT has my prostrate Soule to Thee
Great @3Lord of Love,@1 commended this @3DESIGNE@1
Whose restless importunitie
Burns in this Heart of mine
And at thy gracious Feet full low
It & my Self, again I throw.

2

Thou se'st how many pretious Houres
Of my short Time it spends: Thou seest how
It reigns in all my Thoughts, & pours
Storms of Disquiet through
My deerest Meditations, which
Fain at thy Heavn & Thee would reach.

3

Most bitter-sweet @3DESIGNE@1 which hants
My Bosome with such Tyrannous Delight,
That though my Hearts Indeavour pants
To flie this tedious Night
Of gloomy & uncertain Hope,
Still in these doubtfull Mists I grope.

4

Oft have I thought, that I had drawn
Neer unto Quiets blessed Shore; but strait
By flattering Fancy I was thrown
Into some new Deceit:
Still-joying to Sail in this Sea
Which shipwrackd all my Joies, & Me.

5

And thus deliciously perplext,
Close in my Breast I huggd my sweet Distress;
Which, though it always knawd & vext
With pleasing Restlesness,
I durst not turn my Foe away
Whoe me so daintily did slay.

6

My Wounds to any tender Ey
I durst not shew, nor gain a Freinds releif:
I durst not mine own Help supply
To cure ev'n mine own Greif:
I unwishd mine own Wishes, and
With one beat down my other Hand.

7

A thousand times my Thoughts I chode,
And then as oft those Chideings did recant:
Against my Self I boldly stood,
And when I firmly ment
This Side should Victor be, the other
Soon trampled down his dareing Brother.

8

Did any Riddle e'r present
So valiant a Coward, as poor I;
Who by the Wings of strange Consent
Pursue ev'n what I fly:
Whoe hate these anxious Thoughts, yet am
So mad to Think none else but them.

9

O mighty LORD of GOODNES, my
Most aenigmatik Greif appeals to Thee:
Use, Use thine own Authority
Both upon it, & Me.
No more will I own this DESIGNE
Unless it may comply with Thine.

10

Pure Sweets dwell in thy Will alone,
But mine, when sweetest, with rank Gall doth flow:
O then, may Thine, may Thine be done,
Though mine it overthrow!
The onely way I have to quiet
My troubled Will, is, to Deny it.



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