Lord, do away my Motes: and Mountains great. My nut is vitiate. Its kirnell rots: Come, kill the Worm, that doth its kirnell eate And strike thy sparkes within my tinderbox. Drill through my metall-heart an hole wherein With graces Cotters to thyselfe it pin. A Lock of Steel upon my Soule, whose key The serpent keeps, I fear, doth lock my doore. O pick't: and through the key-hole make thy way And enter in: and let thy joyes run o're. My Wards are rusty. Oyle them till they trig Before thy golden key: thy Oyle makes glib. Take out the Splinters of the World that stick Do in my heart: Friends, Honours, Riches, and The Shivers in't of Hell whose venoms quick And firy make it swoln and ranckling stand. These wound and kill: those shackle strongly to Poore knobs of Clay, my heart. Hence sorrows grow. Cleanse, and enlarge my kask: It is too small: And tartarizd with worldly dregs dri'de in't. It's bad mouth'd too: and though thy joyes do Call That boundless are, it ever doth them stint. Make me thy Chrystall Caske: those wines in't tun That in the Rivers of thy joyes do run. Lord make me, though suckt through a straw or Quill, Tast of the Rivers of thy joyes, some drop. 'Twill sweeten me: and all my Love distill Into thy glass, and me for joy make hop. 'Twill turn my water into wine: and fill My Harp with Songs my Masters joyes distill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO BEACHEY, 1912 by CARL SANDBURG LEAVING THE HARBOR by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE [JUNE 1, 1813] by THOMAS TRACY BOUVE A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER; THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS by CHARLES KINGSLEY EPITHALAMIUM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ASLEEP, ASLEEP; MARTYDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN by LUCY ANN BENNETT |