Classic Poem

A lump of woe affliction is,
Yet thence I borrow lumps of bliss:
Though few can see a blessing in't,
It is my furnace and my mint.

Its sharpness does my lusts dispatch;
Its suddenness alarms my watch;
Its bitterness refines my taste,
And weans me from the creature's breast:

Its weightiness doth try my back,
That faith and patience be not slack:
It is a fanning wind, whereby
I am unchaff'd of vanity.

A furnace to refine my grace,
A wing to lift my soul apace:
Hence still the more I sob distrest,
The more I sing my endless rest.

Mine enemies that seek my hurt,
Of all their bad designs come short;
They serve me duly to my mind,
With favours which they ne'er designed.

The fury of my foes makes me
Fast to my peaceful refuge flee;
And ev'ry persecuting elf
Does make me understand myself.

Their slanders cannot work my shame,
Their vile reproaches raise my name;
In peace with Heav'n my soul can dwell,
Even when they damn me down to hell.

Their fury can't the treaty harm,
Their passion does my pity warm;
Their madness only calms my blood;
By doing hurt, they do me good.

They are my sordid slaves I wot;
My drudges though they know it not:
They act to me a kindly part,
With little kindness in their heart.

They wash my outer-house when foul,
Yea, wash my inner filth of soul:
They help to purge away my blot,
For Moab is my washing-pot.