When thy Bright Beams, my Lord, do strike mine Eye,
Methinkes I then could truely Chide out right
My Hide bound Soule that stands so n***ardly
That scarce a thought gets glorified by't.
My Quaintest Metaphors are ragged Stuff,
Making the Sun seem like a Mullipuff.

Its my desire, thou shouldst be glorifi'de:
But when thy Glory shines before mine eye,
I pardon Crave, lest my desire be Pride.
Or bed thy Glory in a Cloudy Sky.
The Sun grows wan; and Angells palefac'd shrinke,
Before thy Shine, which I besmeere with Inke.

But shall the Bird sing forth thy Praise, and shall
The little Bee present her thankfull Hum?
But I who see thy shining Glory fall
Before mine Eyes, stand Blockish, Dull, and Dumb?
Whether I speake, or speechless stand, I spy,
I faile thy Glory: therefore pardon Cry.

But this I finde; My Rhymes do better suite
Mine own Dispraise than tune forth praise to thee.
Yet being Chid, whether Consonant, or Mute,
I force my Tongue to tattle, as you see.
That I thy glorious Praise may Trumpet right,
Be thou my Song, and make Lord, mee thy Pipe.