Classic Poem

Soules joy, bend not those morning starres from me,
Where Vertue is made strong by Beauties might,
Where Love is chastnesse, Paine doth learne delight,
And Humblenesse growes one with Majestie.
What ever may ensue, o let me be
Copartner of the riches of that sight:
Let not mine eyes be hel-driv'n from that light:
O looke, o shine, o let me die and see.
For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,
That through my heart their beamie darts be gone:
Whose curelesse wounds even now most freshly bleed:
Yet since my death-wound is already got,
Deare Killer, spare not thy sweet cruell shot:
A kind of grace it is to slay with speed.