Classic Poem

And is he gone, whom these armes held but now?
Their hope, their vow?
Did ever greife, and joy in one poore heart
Soe soone change part?
Hee's gone. the fair'st flower, that e're bosome drest,
My soules sweet rest.
My wombes chast pride is gone, my heav'en-borne boy;
And where is joy?
Hee's gone. and his lov'd steppes to wait upon,
My joy is gone.
My joyes, and hee are gone; my greife, and I
Alone must ly.
Hee's gone. not leaving with me, till he come,
One smile at home.
Oh come then. bring thy mother her lost joy:
Oh come, sweet boy.
Make hast, and come, or e're my griefe, and I
Make hast, and dy.
Peace, heart! the heavens are angry. all their sphaeres
Rivall thy teares.
I was mistaken. some faire sphaere, or other
Was thy blest mother.
What, but the fairest heaven, could owne the birth
Of soe faire earth?
Yet sure thou did'st lodge heere. this wombe of mine
Was once call'd thine.
Oft have these armes thy cradle envied,
Beguil'd thy bed.
Oft to thy easy eares hath this shrill tongue
Trembled, and sung.
Oft have I wrapt thy slumbers in soft aires,
And stroak't thy cares.
Oft hath this hand those silken casements kept,
While their sunnes slept.
Oft have my hungry kisses made thine eyes
Too early rise.
Oft have I spoild my kisses daintiest diet,
To spare thy quiet.
Oft from this breast to thine my love-tost heart
Hath leapt, to part.
Oft my lost soule have I bin glad to seeke
On thy soft cheeke.
Oft have these armes (alas!) show'd to these eyes
Their now lost joyes.
Dawne then to me, thou morne of mine owne day,
And lett heaven stay.
Oh, would'st thou heere still fixe thy faire abode,
My bosome God:
What hinders, but my bosome still might be
Thy heaven to thee?