Classic Poem

Go the pure Spirit, to thee alone addrest
Is this ioynt worke, by double intrist thine;
Thine by his owne, and what is done of mine
Inspir'd by thee, thy secret powre imprest.
My Muse with thine, it selfe dar'd to combine
As mortall staffe with that which is diuine:
Let thy faire beames giue luster to the rest.

That Israels King may daygne his owne transform'd
In substance no, but superficiall tire:
And English guis'd in some sort may aspire
To better grace thee what the vulgar form'd:
His sacred Tones, age after age admire
Nations grow great in pride, and pure desire
So to excell in holy rites perform'd.

O had that soule which honour brought to rest
To soone not leaft, and reaft the world of all
What man could shew, which we perfection call;
This precious peece had sorted with the best.
But ah! wide festred wounds that neuer shall
Nor must be clos'd, vnto fresh bleeding fall:
Ah memory, what needs this new arrist.

Yet blessed griefe, that sweetnes can impart
Since thou art blest. Wrongly do I complaine;
What euer weights my heauy thoughts sustaine
Deere feeles my soule for thee. I know my part,
Nor be my weaknes to thy rites a staine;
Rites to aright, life bloud would not refraine:
Assist me then, that life what thine did part.

Time may bring forth, what time hath yet supprest,
In whom, thy losse hath layd to vtter wast
The wracke of time, vntimely all defac't,
Remayning as the tombe of life disceast:
VVhere, in my heart the highest roome thou hast;
There, truly there, thy earthly being is plac't:
Triumph of death, in life how more then blest.

Behold! O that thou were now to behold,
This finisht long perfections part begun;
The rest but peic'd, as leaft by thee vndone;
Pardon blest soule, presumption ouerbold:
If loue and zeale hath to this error run
Tis zealous loue, loue that hath neuer dun,
Nor can enough, though iustly here contrould.

But since it hath no other scope to go,
Nor other purpose but to honour thee,
That thine may shine, where all the graces be;
And that my thoughts (like smallest streames that flow,
Pay to their sea, their tributary fee)
Do striue, yet haue no meanes to quit nor free,
That mighty debt of infinits I owe.

To thy great worth which time to times inroule
VVonder of men, sole borne, soule of thy kind
Compleat in all, but heauenly was thy mind,
For wisdome, goodnes, sweetnes, fairest soule:
To good to wish, to faire for earth, refin'd
For Heauen, where all true glory rests confin'd:
And where but there no life without controule.

O when from this accompt, this cast-vp somme,
This reckning made the Audit of my woe,
Some time of rase my swelling passions know,
How work my thoughts, my sense, is striken dombe
That would the more then words could euer shew;
Which all fall short. Who knew thee best do know
There liues no wit that may thy prayer become.

And rest faire monuments of thy faire fame,
Though not complete. Nor can we reach, in thought,
What on that goodly peece, time would haue wrought.
Had diuers so spar'd that life (but life) to frame
The rest: alas such losse the world hath nought
Can equall it, nor O more grieuance brought,
Yet what remaines must euer crowne thy name.

Receiue these Hims, these obsequies receiue,
(If any marke of thy secret spirit thou beare)
Made only thine, and no name els must weare.
I can no more deare soule, I take my leaue,
My sorrow striues to mount the highest Sphere.