Classic Poem

Come, come, what doe I here,
Since he is gone
Each day is grown a dozen year,
And each houre, one;
Come, come!
Cut off the sum,
By these soil'd teares!
(Which only thou
Know'st to be true,)
Dayes are my feares.

Ther's not a wind can stir,
Or beam passe by,
But strait I think (though far,)
Thy hand is nigh;
Come, come!
Strike these lips dumb:
This restles breath
That soiles thy name,
Will ne'r be tame
Until in death.

Perhaps some think a tombe
No house of store,
But a dark, and seal'd up wombe,
Which ne'r breeds more,
Come, come!
Such thoughts benum;
But I would be
With him I weep
A bed, and sleep
To wake in thee.