Classic Poem

Lett fickle Fortune runn her blyndest race,
I setled have an unremovèd mynde;
I scorne to be the game of Phancie's chase,
Or fane to shewe the change of every winde.
Light giddy humours, stinted to no rest,
Still change their choyse, yet never choose the best.

My choise was guided by foresightfull heede,
It was averrèd with approvinge will;
It shall be followed with performinge deede,
And seald with vow, till death the chooser kill.
Yea death, though finall date of vayne desires,
Endes not my choise, which with no tyme expires.

To beautye's fading blisse I am no thrall;
I bury not my thoughtes in mettall mynes;
I ayme not at such fame as feareth fall;
I seeke and finde a light that ever shynes:
Whose glorious beames display such heavenly sightes,
As yeld my soule the summe of all delightes.

My light to love, my love to life, doth guide,—
To life that lives by love, and loveth lighte;
By love of one, to Whome all loves are tyd
By duest debt, and never-equalld right;
Eyes' light, harte's love, soule's truest life He is,
Consorting in three joyes one perfect blisse.