Classic Poem

Thou whitest Soul, thou thine own Day,
Not sully'd by the Bodies Clay,
Fly to thy Native Seat,
Surrounded with this Heat,
Make thy Disease which would destroy thee
Thy Charriot only to conveigh thee;
And while thou soar'st and leav'st us here beneath,
Wee'l think it thy translation, not thy death.

But with this Empty feign'd Relief
We do but flatter our Just Grief
And we as well may say
That Martyr dy'd that day,
Ride up in flames, whom we saw Burn,
And into paler Ashes turn;
Who's he that such a Fate Translation calls
Where the whole Body like the Mantle falls?

But we beguile our Sorrows so
By a false Scene of Specious Woe;
Wee'l weigh, and count, and rate
Our loss, then grieve the Fate.
Wee'l know the measure of her worth,
Then mete and deal our Sadness forth:
And when the Sum's made up, and all is clos'd,
Say Death undid what Love himself Compos'd.

What Morns did from her smiling rise?
What day was gather'd in her Eyes?
What Air? what Truth? what Art?
What Musick in each Part?
What Grace? what motion? and what skil?
How all by manage doubled still?
Thus 'twixt her self and Nature was a strife,
Nature Materials brought, but she the Life.

The Rose when't only pleas'd the Sence,
Arm'd with no Throns to give Offence,
That Rose, as yet Curse-free,
Was not more mild than She,
Clear as the Tears that did bedew her,
Fresh as the Flowers that bestrew her,
Fair while She was, and when She was not, fair,
Some Ruines more than other Buildings are.

Gardens parch'd up with Heat do so
Her Fate as fainter Emblems show.
Thus Incense doth expire;
Thus perfumes dye in fire;
Thus did Diana 's Temple burn,
And all her Shrines to Ashes turn.
As She a fairer Temple far did waste
She that was far more Goddess, and more Chaste.

Returning thus as innocent
To Heav'n as she to Earth was lent,
Snatch'd hence ere she drank in
The Taint of Age and Sin,
Her Mind being yet a Paradise,
Free from all Weeds of spreading Vice,
We may Conclude her Feaver, without doubt
Was but the Flaming Sword to keep Eve out.