Classic Poem

You goodly pines, which still with braue ascent
In Nature's pride your heads to heav'nward heaue; —
Though you, besides such graces earth hath lent,
Of some late grace a greater grace receiue,
By her who was (O blessed you!) content
With her faire hand your tender barkes to cleaue,
And so by you (O blessed you!) hath sent
Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceiue; —
Yet yeeld your grant; a baser hand may leaue
His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent:
For how would you the mistresse' thoughts bereaue
Of waiting thoughts, all to her seruice ment?
Nay, higher thoughts (though thralled thoughts) I call
My thoughts then hers, who first your ryne did rent:
Then hers, to whom my thoughts, alonely thrall,
Rising from lowe, are to the highest bent;
Where hers, whom worth makes highest ouer all
Comming from her, cannot but downeward fall.