Classic Poem

Lampe of Heauen's christall hall that brings the hours,
Eye-dazaler, who makes the vglie night
At thine approach flie to her slumbrie bowrs,
And fills the world with wonder and delight;
Life of all lifes, death-giuer by thy flight
To southerne pole from these sixe signes of ours,
Goldsmith of all the starres, with siluer bright
Who moone enamells, Apelles of the flowrs;
Ah! from those watrie plaines thy golden head
Raise vp, and bring the so long lingring morne;
A graue, nay, hell, I finde become this bed,
This bed so grieuously where I am torne;
But, woe is me! though thou now brought the day,
Day shall but serue more sorrowe to display.