Classic Poem

Swift roling Spheares, cleere burning Lamps divine,
That with your beames disgrace the glorious Sunne:
Faire Ladders by which I to Heaven clime,
And by your Influence this rare course doe runne.
Ah, if not quickly hither you returne,
Too late (in vaine) my losse you then shall mourne.

My Spirits for you did seeke to ope each way,
That you might passage make into my Hart,
And joyfull were they when you there did stay,
But sorrowfull when you from thence did part.
And now my Soule is summond by Despaire,
For want of you his only Hope and Care.

All comfortles I live here all alone,
Banisht from Mirth, and Bondslave unto Noy:
Feeding my selfe (now you from hence are gone)
With sweete Remembrance of forepassed Joy,
And with kinde Hope: these twaine together strive
To keepe me, gainst despairing Thoughts alive.

The first, doth ALBAS selfe (for my reliefe)
Present (of which I am now dispossest);
The other doth abate each swelling griefe,
Which els my Hart would overmuch molest.
Ah pleasing Hope, ah gratious Memorie,
You make me live, which els of force should die.