Classic Poem

Fayre soule! how long shall veyles thy graces shroud?
How long shall this exile withold thy right?
When will thy sunn disperse this mortall cloude,
And give thy glories scope to blaze their light?
O that a starr, more fitt for angells' eyes,
Should pyne in earth, not shyne above the skyes!

Thy ghostly beauty offred force to God;
It cheyned Him in the linckes of tender love;
It woonn His will with man to make aboade;
It staid His sword, and did His wrath remove:
It made the rigour of His justice yelde,
And crowned Mercy empresse of the feilde.

This lul'd our heavenly Sampson fast asleepe,
And laid Him in our feeble nature's lapp;
This made Him under mortall loade to creepe,
And in our flesh His Godhead to enwrapp;
This made Him sojourne with us in exile,
And not disdayne our titles in His style.

This brought Him from the rancks of heavenly quires
Into this vale of teares and cursed soyle;
From floures of grace into a world of briers,
From life to death, from blisse to balefull toyle.
This made Him wander in our pilgrim-weede,
And tast our tormentes to releive our neede.

O soule! do not thy noble thoughtes abase,
To loose thy loves in any mortall wight;
Content thy eye at home with native grace,
Sith God Himself is ravisht with thy sight;
If on thy bewty God enamored be,
Base be thy love of any lesse then He.

Give not assent to muddy-mynded skill,
That deemes the feature of a pleasing face
To be the sweetest bayte to lure the will;
Not valewing right the worth of ghostly grace;
Let God's and angells' censure wynne beleife,
That of all bewtyes judge our soules the cheife.

Quene Hester was of rare and peerelesse hew,
And Judith once for bewty bare the vaunt;
But he that could our soules' endowments vew,
Would soone to soules the crowne of beuty graunt.
O soule! out of thy self seeke God alone:
Grace more then thyne, but God's, the world hath none.