Classic Poem

Lord, in my silence how do I despise
What upon trust
Is stylèd honour, riches, or fair eyes,
But is fair dust!
I surname them gilded clay,
Dear earth, fine grass or hay;
In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
Upon their head.

But when I view abroad both regiments,
The world's and Thine,--
Thine clad with simpleness and sad events;
The other fine,
Full of glory and gay weeds,
Brave language, braver deeds,--
That which was dust before doth quickly rise,
And prick mine eyes.

O, brook not this, lest if what even now
My foot did tread
Affront those joys wherewith Thou didst endow
And long since wed
My poor soul, even sick of love,--
It may a Babel prove,
Commodious to conquer heaven and Thee
Planted in me.