Classic Poem

The Heavens did mourne: The windes did grinne:
These vapours blacke,
Their rise did make,
From the vast Ocean of our sinne:
For from our crimes,
Proceedes th'ill weather of the times.

No humide Planets mett together,
In a moist signe:
No wat'ry Trine,
Hath bene the cause of our ill weather:
Planets below,
Have made the higher cloudes to flow.

Plenty from these was wont to droppe,
But now they lowre,
As if their power,
Intended famine, not a croppe:
Thus our excesse,
Our blessings turnes to our distresse.

The noyse of Musicke, and of laughter,
In our feasts heard,
Were omens fear'd:
For mischiefes needes must follow after;
Sinne the way leades,
And in her footsteps vengeance treades

The Heavens are our Remembrancers,
And plainly showe,
What wee should doe,
By their uncessant floods of teares:
But wee are flint,
And from their Item's, take no hint.

(Oh Thou) who from th'obdurate stone,
Mads't waters rush,
And fountaines gush,
A greater miracle worke on
Hearts, that may vaunt,
For hardnes, with the Adamant.