Classic Poem

R A re soule, that now sits crowned in that Quire
Of endlesse joy, fill'd with celestiall fire;
Pardon my teares, that in their passion would
Recall thee from thy kingdome, if they could:
Pardon ô pardon my distracted zeale;
Which, if condemn'd by reason, must appeale
To thee, whose now lamented death, whose end
Confirm'd the deare affections of a friend;
Permit me then to offer at thy herse
These fruitlesse teares, which it they prove too fierce
O pardon, you that know the price of friends;
For teares are just that nature recommends.