Classic Poem

Rich is your garden with your severall plants,
In which, your vertues soule findes truest haunts,
Charity lively flourishing doth grow,
Hanging forth boughes to shadow poore below,
And droppeth thence sweet Nectar of reliefe,
Refreshing those in misery and griefe:
Doubtlesse, your garden , though it be but new,

No rich plants want in any soyle that grew.
Vertue hath planted it a garden great,
Growing with severall sorts of fruit repleat:
Enter the garden then of your bright soule,
No garden , ne're so rich , can it controule,
True Paradiseit seemeth to inrole.