Classic Poem

The soull under the distempers of its body releives it self, by eyeing its future glory, and freedome.

How doth this mouldring tent of clay
retard the soull, whilst here
In its progresive, holy way
by breaches that apear.

But when to heaven, it shall get
It then shall freely soare
The body, then shall be a let
unto the soull no more.

No pained head, or akeing hart
Shall indispose thee then
To sing his praise, or act thy part
among the sons of men.

No malencholy, in thee there
Shall any more apear
To steall away, thy chousest fare
and soull delighting chear.

No painfull hectic, cold, or heat
Shall when there, take ther turns
And in the body, make their seat
love only, sweetly burns.

In heaven, the body shall be
A clog to'th soull no more
But it shall be, agile, and free
ready, with it to soare.

Then cease my soull, for to complain
of distempers unkinnd
When thy body, returns again
each dust, shall be calcyn'd.