Classic Poem

Sweet soule, which in the Aprill of thy yeares
So to enrich the heauen mad'st poore this round,
And now with golden rayes of glorie crown'd
Most blest abid'st aboue the spheare of spheares;
If heauenly lawes, alas! haue not thee bound
From looking to this globe that all vpbeares,
If rueth and pittie there aboue bee found,
O daigne to lend a looke vnto those teares.
Doe not disdaine, deare ghost, this sacrifice,
And though I raise not pillars to thy praise,
Mine offerings take; let this for mee suffice,
My heart a liuing piramide I raise;
And whilst kings' tombes with lawrels flourish greene,
Thine shall with mirtles and these flowrs bee seene.