Classic Poem

When Phoebus is ascendent in the morne,
With the old Archer, or cold Capricorne,
The world remaines forlorne:

The Birds, are then as silent as the Trees,
Devested of their sommer liveryes,
And clad in mossy freeze.

So when thy Spirit (Lord) is from mee fled,
I am a body without heart, or head,
Even but a masse of lead.

But when this blessed breath doth mee inspire,
I loathe the center, as a lumpe of mire,
And mount like active fire.

Then I ascende with wings of zealous heate,
Throweing my self before thy mercy seate,
Fraught with devotion great.

And ravish'd to this heavenly height, I can
Neclect the frownes, of supercilious Man,
Count richesse drosse, and branne:

Pleasure but dyrte: Honour a foolish fire:
And strength a property for Brutes t'admire:
Beauty a fraile attire.

Nor am I cur'd in my desires alone,
But in my feares, not dreadeing any stone,
Which may at mee bee throwne:

For Death I thinke to life a portall is,
And sicknes but a ready way to this,
And woe a seale to blisse.