Classic Poem

Perhapps 'twas but Conceit. Erroneous Sense!
Thou art thine owne Distemper and Offence.
Imagine then, that sick unwholsome steame
Was thy Corruption breath'd into a Dreame.
Nor is it straunge, when wee in Charnells dwell,
That all our Thoughts of Earth and Frailty smell.
Man is a Candle, whose unhappy Light
Burnes in the Day, and smothers in the Night.
And as you see the Dying Taper wast,
By such degrees does he to Darknes hast.
Here is the Diff'rence. When our Bodye's Lamps
Blinded by Age, or choak't with mortall Damps,
Now faint and dimme and sickly 'gin to wink,
And in their hollow Socketts lowly sink;
When all our vitall Fires ceasing to burne
Leave nought but Snuff and Ashes in our Urne:
God will restore those Fallen Lights againe,
And kindle Them to an Eternall Flame.