Meditation Sixty-Two

Second Series Canticle 1: 12: While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof. Oh! thou, my Lord, thou king of Saints, here mak’st A royall Banquet, thine to entertain With rich and royall fare, Celestial Cates, And sittest at the Table rich of fame. Am I bid to this Feast? Sure Angells stare, Such Rugged looks, and Ragged robes I ware. I’le surely com; Lord, fit mee for this feast: Purge me with Palma Christi from my sin. With Plastrum Gratiae Dei, or at least Unguent Apostolorum healing bring. Give me thy Sage and Savory: me dub With Golden Rod, and with Saint Johns Wort good. Root up my Henbain, Fawnbain, Divells bit, My Dragons, Chokewort, Crosswort, Ragwort, vice: And set my knot with Honeysuckles, stick Rich Herb-a-Grace, and Grains of Paradise, Angelica, yes, Sharons Rose the best, And Herba Trinitatis in my breast. Then let thy Sweetspike sweat its liquid Dew Into my Crystall Viall, and there swim. And, as thou at thy Table in Rich Shew With royal Dainties, sweet discourse as King Dost Welcome thine, My Spiknard with its smell Shall vapour out perfumed Spirits Well./p Whether I at thy Table Guest do sit, And feed my tast, or Wait, and fat mine Eye And Eare with Sights and Sounds, Heart Raptures fit: My Spicknard breaths its sweet perfumes with joy. My heart thy Viall with this spicknard fill, Perfumed praise to thee then breath it will.