"O stay, my Muse! reach me an Iron Pen, / T' engrave this on the marble hearts of men"
— Keach, Benjamin (1640-1704)
Author
Work Title
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for J. D. by Christopher Hussey [etc.]
Date
1679
Metaphor
"O stay, my Muse! reach me an Iron Pen, / T' engrave this on the marble hearts of men"
Metaphor in Context
O stay, my Muse! reach me an Iron Pen,
T' engrave this on the marble hearts of men.
Let Sinners look within, then let them read
Themselves ungrateful, blind, and dark indeed.
Would not each Soul conclude this Creature were
Besides her self, or else deserv'd to bear
The great'st contempt, and pity'd be by none,
That bids such a dear Lover to be gone?
How oft has he by precious motives try'd
The Soul from sin and evil to divide,
And make her too obdurat heart relent,
And take such ways as Wisdom do's invent?
His Passions, Sighs and Tears are ready still,
As the officious agents of his Will,
To work her to a sence of her estate:
But she's (alas) so dark and desperate,
That his sweet voice, of so divine a strain,
So moving, mov'd her, but seems all in vain.
He sighs for her, he knows her sad distress,
He asks her love, but still without success.
Ah Sinners! view your rocky hearts, and then
Smite on your breasts, lament, and read agen.
The glorious Lord his love's so strange, so great,
He knows not how to think of a retreat.
His soul is griev'd, yet takes not her denial,
But makes a new Essay, another Trial.
T' engrave this on the marble hearts of men.
Let Sinners look within, then let them read
Themselves ungrateful, blind, and dark indeed.
Would not each Soul conclude this Creature were
Besides her self, or else deserv'd to bear
The great'st contempt, and pity'd be by none,
That bids such a dear Lover to be gone?
How oft has he by precious motives try'd
The Soul from sin and evil to divide,
And make her too obdurat heart relent,
And take such ways as Wisdom do's invent?
His Passions, Sighs and Tears are ready still,
As the officious agents of his Will,
To work her to a sence of her estate:
But she's (alas) so dark and desperate,
That his sweet voice, of so divine a strain,
So moving, mov'd her, but seems all in vain.
He sighs for her, he knows her sad distress,
He asks her love, but still without success.
Ah Sinners! view your rocky hearts, and then
Smite on your breasts, lament, and read agen.
The glorious Lord his love's so strange, so great,
He knows not how to think of a retreat.
His soul is griev'd, yet takes not her denial,
But makes a new Essay, another Trial.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "heart" and "engrav" in HDIS (Poetry); found again "iron"
Date of Entry
03/08/2005
