Classic Poem

This twilight of two years, not past nor next,
Some emblem is of me, or I of this,
Who (meteor-like, of stuff and form perplexed,
Whose what, and where, in disputation is,)
If I should call me anything, should miss.

I sum the years, and me, and find me not
Debtor to th' old, nor creditor to the new,
That cannot say, my thanks I have forgot,
Nor trust I this with hopes, and yet scarce true
This bravery is, since these times showed me you.

In recompense I would show future times
What you were, and teach them to urge towards such,
Verse embalms virtue; and tombs, or thrones of rhymes,
Preserve frail transitory fame, as much
As spice doth bodies from corrupt air's touch.

Mine are short-lived; the tincture of your name
Creates in them, but dissipates as fast
New spirits; for, strong agents with the same
Force that doth warm and cherish, us do waste;
Kept hot with strong extracts, no bodies last:

So, my verse built of your just praise, might want
Reason and likelihood, the firmest base,
And made of miracle, now faith is scant,
Will vanish soon, and so possess no place,
And you, and it, too much grace might disgrace.

When all (as truth commands assent) confess
All truth of you, yet they will doubt how I
One corn of one low anthill's dust, and less,
Should name, know, or express a thing so high,
And not an inch, measure infinity.

I cannot tell them, nor myself, nor you,
But leave, lest truth be endangered by my praise,
And turn to God, who knows I think this true,
And useth oft, when such a heart mis-says,
To make it good, for, such a praiser prays.

He will best teach you, how you should lay out
His stock of beauty, learning, favour, blood,
He will perplex security with doubt,
And clear those doubts, hide from you, and show you good,
And so increase your appetite and food;

He will teach you, that good and bad have not
One latitude in cloisters, and in Court,
Indifferent there the greatest space hath got,
Some pity is not good there, some vain disport,
On this side sin, with that place may comport.

Yet he, as he bounds seas, will fix your hours,
Which pleasure, and delight may not ingress,
And though what none else lost, be truliest yours,
He will make you, what you did not, possess,
By using others', not vice, but weakness.

He will make you speak truths, and credibly,
And make you doubt, that others do not so:
He will provide you keys, and locks, to spy,
And 'scape spies, to good ends, and he will show
What you may not acknowledge, what not know.

For your own conscience, he gives innocence,
But for your fame, a discreet wariness,
And though to 'scape, than to revenge offence
Be better, he shows both, and to repress
Joy, when your state swells, sadness when 'tis less.

From need of tears he will defend your soul,
Or make a rebaptizing of one tear;
He cannot, (that 's, he will not) dis-enrol
Your name; and when with active joy we hear
This private gospel, then 'tis our New Year.