Classic Poem

Most good, most faire.
Or Thing as rare,
To call you's lost;
For all the cost
Words can bestow,
So poorely show
Upon your prayse,
That all the wayes
Sense hath, come short:
Whereby Report
Falls them under;
That when Wonder
More hath seyzed,
Yet not pleased,
That it in kinde
Nothing can finde,
You to expresse:
Neverthelesse,
As by Globes small,
This Mightie All
Is shew'd, though farre
From Life, each Starre
A World being:
So wee seeing
You, like as that,
Onely trust what
Art doth us teach;
And when I reach
At Morall Things,
And that my Strings
Gravely should strike,
Straight some mislike
Blotteth mine O DE .
As with the Loade,
The Steele we touch,
Forc'd ne'r so much,
Yet still removes
To that it loves,
Till there it stayes;
So to your prayse
I turne ever,
And though never
From you moving,
Happie so loving.