Edward Taylor

A Curious Knot God made in Paradise, And drew it out inamled neatly Fresh. It was the True-Love Knot, more sweet than spice And set with all the flowres of Graces dress. Its Weddens Knot, that ne're can be unti'de. No Alexanders Sword can it divide. The slips here planted, gay and glorious grow: Unless an Hellish breath do sindge their Plumes. Here Primrose, Cowslips, Roses, Lilies blow With Violets and Pinkes that voide perfumes. Whose beautious leaves ore laid with Hony Dew. And Chanting birds Cherp out sweet Musick true. When in this Knot I planted was, my Stock Soon knotted, and a manly flower out brake. And after it my branch again did knot Brought out another Flowre its sweet breath’d mate. One knot gave one tother the tothers place. Whence Checkling smiles fought in each others face. But oh! a glorious hand from glory came Guarded with Angells, soon did Crop this flowere Which almost tore the root up of the same At that unlookt for, Dolesome, darksome houre. In Pray're to Christ perfum'de it did ascend, And Angells bright did it to heaven tend. But pausing on't, this sweet perfum'd my thought, Christ would in Glory have a Flowre, Choice, Prime, And having Choice, chose this my branch forth brought. Lord, take't. I thanke thee, thou takst ought of mine, It is my pledg in glory, part of mee Is now in it, Lord, glorifi'de with thee. But praying ore my branch, my branch did sprout And bore another manly flower, and gay And after that another, sweet brake out, The which the former hand soon got away. But oh! the tortures, Vomit, screechings, groans, And six weeks fever would pierce hearts like stones. Griefe o're doth flow: and nature fault would finde Were not thy Will, my Spell, Charm, Joy, and Gem: That as I said, I say, take, Lord, they're thine. I piecemeale pass to Glory bright in them. In joy, may I sweet Flowers for Glory breed, Whether thou getst them green, or lets them seed.

Thou sorrow, venom Elfe: Is this thy play, To spin a web out of thyselfe To Catch a Fly? For Why? I saw a pettish wasp Fall foule therein: Whom yet thy Whorle pins did not clasp Lest he should fling His sting. But as affraid, remote Didst stand hereat, And with thy little fingers stroke And gently tap His back. Thus gently him didst treate Lest he should pet, And in a froppish, aspish heate Should greatly fret Thy net. Whereas the silly Fly, Caught by its leg Thou by the throate tookst hastily And 'hinde the head Bite Dead. This goes to pot, that not Nature doth call. Strive not above what strength hath got, Lest in the brawle Thou fall. This Frey seems thus to us. Hells Spider gets His intrails spun to whip Cords thus And wove to nets And sets. To tangle Adams race In's stratigems To their Destructions, spoil'd, made base By venom things, Damn'd Sins. But mighty, Gracious Lord Communicate Thy Grace to breake the Cord, afford Us Glorys Gate And State. We'l Nightingaile sing like When pearcht on high In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright, And thankfully, For joy.

Infinity, when all things it beheld In Nothing, and of Nothing all did build, Upon what Base was fixt the Lath wherein He turn

I kening through Astronomy Divine The Worlds bright Battlement, wherein I spy A Golden Path my Pensill cannot line, From that bright Throne unto my Threshold ly. And while my puzzled thoughts about it pore I finde the Bread of Life in't at my doore. When that this Bird of Paradise put in This Wicker Cage (my Corps) to tweedle praise Had peckt the Fruite forbad: and so did fling Away its Food; and lost its golden dayes; It fell into Celestiall Famine sore: And never could attain a morsell more. Alas! alas! Poore Bird, what wilt thou doe? The Creatures field no food for Souls e're gave. And if thou knock at Angells dores they show An Empty Barrell: they no soul bread have. Alas! Poore Bird, the Worlds White Loafe is done And cannot yield thee here the smallest Crumb. In this sad state, Gods Tender Bowells run Out streams of Grace: And he to end all strife The Purest Wheate in Heaven, his deare-dear Son Grinds, and kneads up into this Bread of Life. Which Bread of Life from Heaven down came and stands Disht on thy Table up by Angells Hands. Did God mould up this Bread in Heaven, and bake, Which from his Table came, and to thine goeth? Doth he bespeake thee thus, This Soule Bread take. Come Eate thy fill of this thy Gods White Loafe? Its Food too fine for Angells, yet come, take And Eate thy fill. Its Heavens Sugar Cake. What Grace is this knead in this Loafe? This thing Souls are but petty things it to admire. Yee Angells, help: This fill would to the brim Heav'ns whelm'd-down Chrystall meele Bowle, yea and higher. This Bread of Life dropt in thy mouth, doth Cry. Eate, Eate me, Soul, and thou shalt never dy.

Make me, O Lord, thy Spining Wheele compleate. Thy Holy Worde my Distaff make for mee. Make mine Affections thy Swift Flyers neate And make my Soule thy holy Spoole to bee. My Conversation make to be thy Reele And reele the yarn thereon spun of thy Wheele. Make me thy Loome then, knit therein this Twine: And make thy Holy Spirit, Lord, winde quills: Then weave the Web thyselfe. The yarn is fine. Thine Ordinances make my Fulling Mills. Then dy the same in Heavenly Colours Choice, All pinkt with Varnisht Flowers of Paradise. Then cloath therewith mine Understanding, Will, Affections, Judgment, Conscience, Memory My Words, and Actions, that their shine may fill My wayes with glory and thee glorify. Then mine apparell shall display before yee That I am Cloathd in Holy robes for glory.

When first thou on me, Lord, wrought'st thy sweet print, My heart was made thy tinder box. My ’ffections were thy tinder in’t: Where fell thy sparks by drops. Those holy sparks of heavenly fire that came Did ever catch and often out would flame. But now my heart is made thy censer trim, Full of thy golden altar’s fire, To offer up sweet incense in Unto thyself entire: I find my tinder scarce thy sparks can feel That drop out from thy holy flint and steel. Hence doubts out bud for fear thy fire in me ’S a mocking ignis fatuus; Or lest thine altars fire out be, It’s hid in ashes thus. Yet when the bellows of thy spirit blow Away mine ashes, then thy fire doth glow.