Classic Poem

O pleasant port! O place of rest!
O royal rift! O worthy wound!
Come harbour me, a weary guest,
That in the world no ease haue found!

I lie lamenting at Thy gate,
Yet dare I not aduenture in:
I beare with me a troublous mate,
And cumbred am with heape of sinne.

Discharge me of this heauy loade,
That easier passage I may find,
Within this bowre to make aboade,
And in this glorious toomb be shrin'd.

Here must I liue, here must I die,
Here would I vtter all my griefe;
Here would I all those paines descrie,
Which here did meete for my releefe.

Here would I view that bloudy sore,
Which dint of spiteful speare did breed:
The bloudy woundes laid there in store,
Would force a stony heart to bleede.

Here is the spring of trickling teares,
The mirror of all mourning wights,
With dolefull tunes for dumpish eares,
And solemne shewes for sorrowed sights.

Oh, happie soul, that flies so hie
As to attaine this sacred caue!
Lord, send me wings, that I may flie,
And in this harbour quiet haue!