Classic Poem

My best of Friends! what needes a Chaine to ty
One by your meritt bound a Votary?
Think You I have some plott upon my Peace,
I would this Bondage chaunge for a Release?
Since 'twas my fate your Prisoner to be,
Heav'n knowes I nothing feare but Liberty.
Yet you doe well, that study to prevent
After so rich a stock of favour spent
On one so worthlesse, least my memory
Should let so deare an Obligation dy
Without Record. This made my pretious Freind
Hir Token, as an Antidote to send
Against forgetfull poysons. That as they
Who Vespers late, and early Mattins say
Upon their Beades; so on this linked skoare
In Golden Numbers I might reckon o're
Your Vertues and my debt, which does surmount
The triviall Lawes of popular Account.
For that within this Emblematick Knott
Your Beauteous Mind, and my owne Fate is wrott.
The Sparkling Constellation which combines
The Lock, is your Deare self, whose worth outshines
Most of your Sexe: so solid and so cleare
You like a perfect Diamond appeare,
Casting from your Example fuller Light
Then those dimme Sparkes which glaze the brow of Night;
And gladding all your friends, as doth the ray
Of that East starr which wakes the cheerfull Day.
But the black Mapp of Death and Discontent
Behind that Adamantine Firmament,
That lucklesse figure which like Calvary
Stands strew'd and Coppy'd out in Skulls, is I:
Whose Life your Absence clowdes, and makes my time
Move blindfold in the dark Ecliptick Line.
Then wonder not, if my removed Sun
So lowe within the Westerne Tropick run,
My Eyes no day in this Horizon see,
Since, where You are not, all is Night to mee.
Lastly the Anchor which enfast'ned lyes
Upon a paire of Deaths, sadly applyes
That Monument of Rest, which harbour must
Our Shipwrack't Fortunes in a Road of Dust.
So then, how late so 'ere my joylesse Life
Be tired out in this Affection's strife;
Though my Tempestuous Phant'sy, like the Sky,
Travaile with Stormes, and through my watry Ey
Sorrowe's high going waves spring many a Leak;
Though Sighes blow loud, till my Heart's Cordage break;
Though Faith, and all my Wishes prove untrue,
Yet Death shall fixe and anchor mee with You.
Tis some poore Comfort, that this Mortall scope
Will Period, though never Crowne, my Hope.