Classic Poem

Each inmost peece in me is thine:
While yet I in my mother dwelt,
All that me cladd
From thee I hadd.
Thou in my frame hast strangly delt:
Needes in my praise thy workes must shine
So inly them my thoughts have felt.

Thou, how my back was beam-wise laid,
And raftring of my ribbs, dost know:
Know'st ev'ry point
Of bone and joynt,
How to this whole these partes did grow,
In brave embrod'ry faire araid,
Though wrought in shopp doth dark and low.

Nay fashionless, ere forme I tooke,
Thy all and more beholding ey
My shapelesse shape
Could not escape:
All these tyme fram'd successively
Ere one had beeing, in the booke
Of thy foresight, enrol'd did ly.

My God, how I these studies prize,
That doe thy hidden workings show!
Whose summ is such,
Noe suume soe much:
Nay summ'd as sand they summlesse grow.
I lye to sleepe, from sleepe I rise,
Yet still in thought with thee I goe.