Classic Poem

Teach me the art of teares,
Thou Lord of joy, learne mee to swimme in sorow,
Both at this present, and to morow,
For sinnes of many yeares,
And in this bitter deluge drowne my feares.

(Lord) Thou dids't for me sweate,
Pure rubyes, in thy pretious agonye,
Why should I render then to thee,
Pearles that are counterfeyte,
Farre too unworthye of thy cabinet

Thou, by thy grace divine,
Cans't worke my teares to orientall gemmes,
More rich then those of diadem's
If Thou shalt in mee shine;
Mine is the comfort, but the glory thine.

Could I bothe th'Indyes gaine,
To bowell, and impoverish their rich wombes:
Or might I have Arabia's gummes,
I should from these abstaine;
The richer treasures of thy grace t'obtaine.

Oh let my sorowes source,
From vapours, and pure exhalations flow,
Which by thy spirit first did grow;
Oh pitty my remorse,
(That am vile earth) in these thy meteours.