Classic Poem

Weake is my Barke in which my Life doth rowe,
My wretched life, through grievous faults mispent,
And in the World (his Ocean ) sayles but slowe,
Because it falles into the Occident:
 My sickly Minde runnes selfe same doubtfull way,
 And Soule doth grieve that Fancie so doth stray.

And though a gentle calmie Winde to blowe,
She findes about her, as she fresh doth sayle,
Yet under Waters doe I spie belowe,
The Foe of my poore Soule her to assayle:
 And in that part wherein he doth espie
 The Ship to leake, in that he close doth lie.

Ah, now it grieves me, now I doe repent
My retchlesse Race , that I so lewde have runne,
Yet hath my God in mercie to me sent
Helpe to my Vessell weake, else I undone:
  Hope at the left hand standes, that part to guide,
 And constant Faith on right hand doth abide.

Earth was my flesh before, and earth againe
Ere long it shall be, but my Soule on hie,
Shall be lift up in brightest Heavens to raigne,
If I from false alluring Sinne can flie:
 When at his feete, who first life to me gave,
 A Glorious Seat for ever I shall have.