Classic Poem

Of ceasles thoughts my mind hath fram'd his wings,
Wherewith he soares and climes aboue conceit,
And midst his flight for endles ioy he sings,
To spie those double lampes, whose sweete receit
Must be the heauen where as my soule shall rest,
Though by their shine my bodie be deprest.

Hir eies shrowd pitie, pietie, and pure,
Hir face shields Roses, Lillies, and delight,
Hir hand hath powre, to conquere and allure,
Hir hart, holds honor, loue, remorce, and right,
Hir minde is fraught, with wisdome, faith, and loue,
All what is hirs, is borrowed from aboue

Then mount my minde, and feare nOfuture fall,
Exceed conceit, for she exceeds conceit:
Burne louely lamps, to whom my lookes are thrall,
My soule shall glorie in so sweete receit,
Tho in your flames my corse to cinders wend,
Yet am I proud to gaine a Phœnix end.