A Feast for Wormes: Meditation 13

MY heart is full, my vent is too too straight;
My tongue's too trusty to my poore conceit
My mind's in labour, and finds no redresse;
My heart conceives, my lips cannot expresse;
MY organs suffer, through a maine defect;
Alas! I want a proper Dialect,
To blazon forth the tythe of what I muse;
The more I meditate, the more accrewes;
But Io, my faultring tongue must say no more,
Vnlesse she step where she hath trod before.
What? sha I then be silent? No, Ile speake
(Till tongue be tyred, and my lungs be weake)
Of dearest mercy, in as sweet a straine,
As it shall please my use to lend a vaine;
And when my voice shall stop within her source,
And speech shall faulter in this high Discourse,
My tyred tongue (unsham'd) shall thus extend,
Onely to name, Deare Mercy, and so end.

Oh high Imperiall King, heavens Architect!
Is Man a thing befittig thy espect?
Lord, thou art Wisedome, and thy wayes are holy,
But Man's polluted, full of filch, and folly;
Yet is he (Lord) the tabricke of thy hand,
And in his Soule he beares thy glorious Brand,
Howe're defaced with the rust of Sin,
Which hath abus'd thy stamp, and eaten in;
'Tis not the frailty' of Mans corrupted nature,
Makes thee asham'd t' acknowledge Man thy Crea-ture;
But like a tender Father, here on earth,
(Whose Childe by nature, or abortive birth,
Doth want that sweet and favourable relish,
Wherewith, her creatures, Nature doth imbelish)
Respects him nerethelesse; even so thy Grace
(Great God) extends to Man; though sin deface
The glorious pourtraiture that man doth beare,
Whereby he loath'd and ugly doth appeare,
Yet thou, (within whose tender bowels are
Deepe gulfes of Mercy, sweet beyond compare)
Regard'st, and ov'st (with rev'rence e it said)
Nay seem'st to dote on Ma; when he hath straid,
Lord, thou hast broght him to his Fold againe;
When he was lost, thou didst not then disdaine
To thinke upon a vagabond, and give
Thy dearest Sonne to dye, that he might live.
How poore a mite art thou content withall,
That an may cape his downeapproching fall?
Though base we are, yet thou dost not abhorre us,
But (as our Story speaks) art pleading for us,
To save us harmelesse from our Foe-mans jawes;
Art thou turn'd Orator to plead our cause?

How are thy Mercies full of admiration!
How soveraigne! how sweet's their application!
Fatning the Soule with sweetnesse, and repayring
The rotten ruines of a Soule despairing.

Lo here (Malfido) is a Feast prepar'd;
Fall to with courage, and let nought be spar'd;
Tast freely of it, Here's no Misers Feast;
Eate what thou canst, and pocket up the rest:
These precious Viands are Restoritie,
Eate then; and if the sweetnesse make thee drie,
Drinke large Carouses out of Mercies Cup,
The best lies in the bottome, Drinke all up:
These Cates are sweet Ambrosia to thy Soule,
And that which fills the brim of Mercies bowle,
Is dainty Nectar; Eate and drinke thy fill;
Spare not the one, nor yet the other spill;
Provide in time: Thy Banquet is begun,
Lay up in store against the Feast be done:
For loe, the time of banquetting is short,
And once being done, the world cannot restor't;
It is a feast of Mercy, and of Grace;
It is a Feast for all, or high, or base:
A feast for him that begs upon the way,
As well for him that does the Scepter sway;
A feast for him that howerly bemoanes
His dearest sins, with sighs, and teares and groane;
A feast for him, whose gentle heart reformes;
A feast for MEN; and so a FEAST FOR WORMES

Deare liefest Lord, that feast'st the World with grac,
Extend thy bounteous hand, thy glorious face:
Bid ioyfull welcome to thy hungry guest,
That we may praise the Master of the Feast;
And in thy mercy grant this boone to mee,
That I may dye to sinne, and live to thee.