Classic Poem

Since thou fayre soule, art warblinge to a spheare
from whose resultances these quicknd were
Since thou hast layd that downy Couch aside
of Lillyes, Violetts, and roseall pride
And lockt in marble chests, that Tapestrye
that did adorne the worlds Epitome,
soe safe, that Doubt it selfe can never thinke,
fortune or fate hath power, to make a chinke,
Since, thou for state, hath raisd thy state, soe farr,
To a large heaven, from a vaute circular,
because, the thringinge virtues, in thy breste
could not have roome enough, in such a chest,
what need hast thou these blotted lines should tell,
soules must againe take rise, from whence they fell,
From paradice, and that this earths Darke wombe
is but a wardrobe till the day of Dome?
To keepe those wormes, that on hir bosome bredd,
till tyme, and death, bee both extermined,
Yet in thy passage, fayre soule, let me know
what things thou saw'st in riseinge from below?
Whether that Cynthia regent of the flood
With in hir orbe admitt of mortall brood?
Whether the 12 Signes serve the Sun for state?
Or elce confine him to the Zodiaque?
And force him retrograde to bee the nurse
(whoe circularly glides his oblique course)
Of ALMA MATER , or unfreeze the womb
of madam Tellus? which elce proves a tombe,
whether the starrs be Knobbs uppon the spheres?
Or shredds compos'd of Phoebus goulden hayres?
Or whether th'Ayre be as a cloudy sive?
the starrs be holes through which the good soules drive?
whether that Saturne that the six out topps
sit ever eatinge of the bratts of Opps?
Whose Jealousye is like a sea of Gall
vnto his owne proves periodicall?
But as a glideinge star whoe falls to earth
Or lovers thoughts, soe soules ascend theyr birth,
which makes mee thinke, that thyne had noe one notion,
of those true elements, by whose true motion,
All things have life, and death, but if thyne eyne,
should fix a while uppon the Christalline,
Thy hungrye eye, that never could before,
see, but by fayth, and faythfully adore,
should stay, to mark the threefould Hierarchye,
differinge in state, not in foelicitye
How they in order, 'bout Jehova move,
In severall offices, but with one love,
And from his hand, doe hand in hand come downe,
till the last hand, doe heads of mortalls crowne.
Fayne would I know from some that have beene there?
what state or shape coelestiall bodyes beare?
For man, to heaven, hath throwne a waxen ball,
In which hee thinks h'hath gott, true formes of all,
And, from the forge howse, of his fantasie,
hee creates new, and spins out destinye.
And thus theise prowd wormes, wrapped in lothsome rags,
shutt heavens Idea upp, in letherne baggs.
Now since in heaven are many Ladyes more,
that blinde devotion busyley implore,
Good Lady, freind, or rather lovely Dame,
if yow, be gone from out this clayie frame,
tell what yow know, whether th'saynts adoration?
will stoope, to thinke on dusty procreation,
And if they will not, they are fooles (perdye)
that pray to them, and robb the Trinitye,
The Angells joy in our good conversation,
Yet see us not, but by reverberation,
And if they could, thow saints as cleere eies have,
if downe yow looke to earth, then to the grave,
Tis but a Landskipp, more, to look to Hell
in viewinge it, what strange thinges may yow tell!
From out that sulphrous, and bitumnous lake,
where Pluto doth his Tilt, and Tournay make,
where the Elizium, and theyr purgatorye
stande, like two suburbs, by a promontarye,
poets, and popleings, are aequippollent,
both makers are, of Gods, of like descent,
poets make blind Gods, whoe with willowes beates them,
popelings makes Hoasts of Gods, and ever eates them.
But let them both, poets, and popelings, passe
whoe deales too much with eyther, is an Asse
Charon conduct them, as they have devised.
the Fall of Angels, must not bee disguised,
As 'tis not tirrany, but louinge pittye
that Kings, build prisons, in a populous cittye
Soe, the next way, to fright us back to good,
is to discusse the paynes, of Stigian flood.
In Eve's distained nature, wee are base,
And whipps perswade us more, then love, or grace,
Soe, that if heaven, should take a way this rodd,
God would hate us, and wee should not love God,
For as affliction, in a full fedd state,
like vinegar, in sawces, doe awake
dull Appetites, and makes men feed the better,
soe when a Lythargye, or longnes doth fetter,
the onely way, to rouse againe our witts,
is, when the surgions cheifest toole is whips.
Brasse hath a couseninge face and lookes like gould
but where the touchstone comes it cannot hold.
That Sonne of ours, doth best deserve our rent,
that doth with patience beare, our chastisement,
each Titmouse, can salute the lusty springe,
and weare it out, with joyllye reuellinge,
but your pure white, and vestall clothed swan,
sings at hir death, and never sings but than,
O noble minded bird, I envy thee,
for thou hast stolne, this high borne note from mee.
But as the prophett, at his Masters feete
when hee ascended, up the Welkin fleete
Watcht, for his cloake, soe every bird, and beast,
When princely Adam, tumbled from the nest,
catcht, from his knoweinge soule, some qualitie,
and humbly kept it, to reedifye,
theyr quondam Kinge, and now, man goes to schoole,
to every pismire, that proclaymes him foole,
But stay my wanderinge thoughts, alas where made I?
In speaking to a dead, a senceless Lady.
Yow Incke, and paper, be hir passeinge bell,
The Sexton to hir knell, be Anne Southwell.