Classic Poem

Sometimes I am transfigur'd to a saint,
And seeme like those who mett upon Mount Tabor;
And then againe My Soule through feare wax'd faint,
Doth in the Valley of Gehennon labour:
Sometimes I mount like fire, or aire;
Then petrify'd by cold dispaire,
I to the center sinke,
And my self thinke,
At the pittes brinke./

(Lord) ballance mee with discreete moderation,
But from my heeles the clogges of Sinne untye,
Least that I fall too low, through desperation,
Nor through presumption, let mee soare too high:
But let thy Grace teach mee to acte,
And to observe a middle tract:
Hee that on waxen plumes,
To rise presumes,
Himself consumes.