Classic Poem

Deare life, while I do touch
These corrall ports of blisse,
Which still themselves do kiss,
And sweetly me invite to do as much,
All panting in my lips
My heart my life doth leave,
No sense my senses have,
And inward powers do find a strange ecclipse:
This death so heavenly well
Doth so me please, that I
Would never longer seeke in sense to dwell,
If that even thus I only could but dye.