Classic Poem

V.
What harts content can he finde,
What happy sleepes can his eies embrace,
That beares a guiltie minde?
His tast sweet wines wil abhorre:
No musicks sounde can appease the thoughts
That wicked deeds deplore.
The passion of a present feare
Stil makes his restles motion there;
And all the day hee dreads the night,
And all the night, as one agast, hee feares the morning light
But he that loves to be lov'd,
And in his deedes doth adore heavens power,
And is with pitie mov'd;
The night gives rest to his heart,
The cheerefull beames do awake his soule,
Revived in everie part.
He lives a comfort to his friendes,
And heaven to him such blessing sendes
That feare of hell cannot dismaie
His stedfast hart that is enurd the truth still to obey