Classic Poem

If Hope and Patience did not hold the Hart
From being squiz'd to nought with gripes of griefe
It could not bee, by Nature, nor by Arte,
But Death would hold that Seate of Life in chiefe:
For, in this Life Deathes do so multiplie
(Or Dolors, at the best, farre worse then Deathes)
That wee do liue no longer then wee die,
Who lyuing die, and breathing spend our breathes
So that in patience, only wee possesse
The Soules we haue, which haue the Liues we hold;
And Hope sustaines the Soule in heauynesse:
So patient hope is fraile Lifes strongest Hold.
If both those vertues then in one must ioyne
To make our Soules, and Bodies, ioyne in one
(Els Death, and Dolor, will fraile Life purloyne
Who ioyne to vnioyne that Coniunction.)
Wee must innoke the Heaun's to giue vs Hope
Well arm'd with Patience, sith wee liue thereby
Secur'd in Dolors, which to Death lie ope,
And makes vs liue, when Death and Dolors die.
Then, patient Hope, the Soule of our Lifes Soule,
Arme thou my Soule thereby to gard hir life,
And Passions furie with thy pow'r controule;
So shall I striue in rest, and rest in strife:
For no way looke I, but my sights annoyd
With Troopes of Sorrowes, menacing my wrack;
And, in my spacious Mynd, no place is voyd
For Campes of Cares that seeke my Soule to Sack:
For if I liue, I can but liue in Sinne,
And if I sin (I ioy) I can but grieue,
So when sin ends, my griefs and Cares begin
And cease not til I cease to sin, or liue:
Yet, what I would He knows that knowes my wil
Which [though peruerse] is prest his grace to scrue:
Which Grace ingenders Hope on my Good wil
And makes me patient, sith I ill deserue.
Thus patient Hope, by Grace got on my Wil,
Doth make me wel to liue, in spight of Ill.