Classic Poem

Mo lest me not, full sighs and flowing teares,
You storms and showres of nature; stop your eares.
Fond flesh and blood, against the strong temptation
Of sullen griefe, and sense-bereaving passion:
Cease to lament; Let not thy slow-pac'd numbers
Disturbe his rest, that so, so sweetly slumbers;
The childe of vertue is asleepe, not dead;
He dies, alone, whom death hath conquer'd:
Why should we shed a teare for him? or why
Lament me, whom we rather should envie!
He lives, he lives a life shall never taste
A change, so long as Crownes of glory last.