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Poem by William Cartwright
I do confess, O God, my wand'ring Fires Are kindled not from Zeal, but loose desires; My ready Tears, shed from Instructed Eyes, Have not been Pious Griefs, but Subtleties; And only sorry that Sins miss, I ow To thwarted wishes al the Sighs I blow: My Fires thus merit Fire; my Tears the fall Of Showers provoke; my Sighs for Blasts do call. O then Descend in Fire; but let it be Such as snatch'd up the Prophet; such as We Read of in Moses Bush, a Fire of Joy, Sent to Enlighten, rather than Destroy. O then Descend in Showers: But let them be Showers only and not Tempests; such as we Feel from the Mornings Eye-lids; such as Feed, Not Choak the sprouting of the Tender Seed. O then Descend in Blasts: But let them be Blasts only, and not Whirlwinds; Such as we Take in for Health's sake, soft and easie Breaths, Taught to Conveigh Refreshments, and not Deaths. So shall the Fury of my Fires asswage, And that turn Fervour which was Brutish Rage; So shall my Tears be then untaught to feign, And the diseased Waters Heal'd again; So shall my Sighs not be as Clouds t' invest My Sins with Night, but Winds to purge my Brest.
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