Iob Militant: The Invocation

GReat God th'indebted praises of thy glory,
If Man shold smother, or his Muse wax faint
To number forth; the stones wold make complaint,
And write a never-ending Story,
And, not without iust reason, say,
Mens hearts are more obdure than they.

Dismount from Heaven (O thou diviner Power)
Handsell my slender Pipe, breath (thou) upon it,
That it may run an everlasting Sonnet,
Which envious Time may not devoure:
Oh, let it sing to After-dayes
(When I am Dust) thy louder Praise.

Direct the footsteps of my sober Muse
To tread thy glorious path: For be it knowne,
She only seeks thy Glory, not her owne,
Nrrouzed for a second use;
If otherwise, O! may she never
Sing more, but be strucke dumbe for ever.