Classic Poem

Those starres, nay, sunnes, which turne
So stately in their spheares,
And daz'ling doe not burne;
The beautie of the morne
Which on those cheekes appeares,
The harmonie which to that voyce is giuen,
Make mee thinke yee are heauen:
If heauen yee bee, O that by pow'rfull charmes
I Atlas were, to holde you in mine armes!