Classic Poem

My God! If 'tis Thy great decree
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breathe this are;
My heart obeys, joy'd to retreate
From the false favours of the great
And treachery of the faire.

When Thou shalt please this soule t' enthrone
Above impure corruption,
What should I grieve or feare
To think this breathlesse body must
Become a loathsome heape of dust
And ne'er again appeare?

For in the fire when ore is tryed,
And by that torment purified,
Doe we deplore the losse?
And when Thou shalt my soule refine,
That it thereby may purer shine,
Shall I grieve for the drosse?