Classic Poem

Truly poore Night thou wellcome art to mee:
I love thee better in this sad attire
Then that which raiseth some mens phant'sies higher
Like painted outsids which foule inward bee;

I love thy grave, and saddest lookes to see,
Which seems my soule, and dying hart intire,
Like to the ashes of some happy fire
That flam'd in joy, butt quench'd in miserie:

I love thy count'nance, and thy sober pace
Which evenly goes, and as of loving grace
To uss, and mee among the rest oprest

Gives quiet, peace to my poore self alone,
And freely grants day leave when thou art gone
To give cleere light to see all ill redrest.