My Lord I fain would Praise thee Well but finde
Impossibilities blocke up my pass.
My tongue Wants Words to tell my thoughts, my Minde
Wants thoughts to Comprehend thy Worth, alas!
Thy Glory far Surmounts my thoughts, my thoughts
Surmount my Words: Hence little Praise is brought.

But seing Non-Sense very Pleasant is
To Parents, flowing from the Lisping Child,
I Conjue to thee, hoping thou in this
Will finde some hearty Praise of mine Enfoild,
But though my pen drop’d golden Words, yet would
Thy Glory far out shine my Praise in Gold.

Poor wretched man Deaths Captive stood full chuffe
But thou my Gracious Lord didst finde reliefe,
Thou King of Glory didst, to handy cuff
With King of Terrours, and dasht out his Teeth,
Pluckst out his sting, his Poyson quelst, his head
To pieces brakest. Hence Cruell Death lies Dead.

And still thou by thy gracious Chymistry
Dost of his Carkass Cordialls make rich, High,
To free from Death makst Death a remedy:
A Curb to Sin, a Spur to Piety.
Heavens brightsom Light shines out in Death’s Dark Cave.
The Golden Dore of Glory is the Grave.