Classic Poem

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF SIR THOMAS OVERBURY ,

Expecting him to correct it.

I.

As the soul, stripp'd of mortal clay,
Grows all divinely fair;
And boundless roves the Milky Way,
And views sweet prospects there;

II.

This hero, clogg'd with drossy lines,
By thee new vigour tries;
As thy correcting hand refines,
Bright scenes around him rise.

III.

Thy touch brings the wish'd stone to pass
So sought, so long foretold;
It turns polluted lead or brass
At once to purest gold.