Classic Poem

1.

Great Monarch, whose feard hands the thunder fling,
And whose quick eyes, all darknesse vanquishing,
Pierce in a moment earths remotest parts,
The night of futures, and abysse of hearts;
My breast, the closest thoughts which there reside,
From thy alseeing knowledge cannot hide;
The number of my steps before thee lies,
And my intents (ere mine) before thy eyes.
Thou knowest me, when my selfe I cannot know,
And without errour seest what is not so.

2.

Speech, that light garment, which our thoughts attires,
The image of our wishes and desires,
Daughter of aire, from soule to soule which flies,
And in her mothers bosome melting dies:
By higher flight appeares before thee, long
Before she birth receiveth from my tongue,
Before she from my lips had learnt to frame
Those accents, which my heart did first enflame,
And this invisible body flying hence,
Assumes, by which she is betraid to sence.

3.

The past and future still with thee abide,
The present, which from us like streames doth slide,
With a firme constant foot before thee staies,
To thee nought young is, nought opprest with daies;
Man (as if that bright fire thine eye reflects,
Consum'd of mortall objects the defects,
And chang'd the changing lawes of his fraile breath)
A heap of scattered dust, a masse of earth,
A work almost below mortalitie,
Immortall in thy knowledge is like thee.

4.

But if thy angers dreadful storm break forth,
The Orient, or the West, the South, or North,
Can no profound Abysse or Azile lend,
Whose depth may hide, or strength my life defend;
Though swifter then the morning I could fly,
Thy thunder, which that speed doth far outvy,
Out stripping me, my flight would soon restrain:
Though I could dive into th'unsounded Main,
Which nightly quencheth the bright light oth'skies,
I should lye open to thy brighter eyes.

5.

Yet I not wonder, if unvaild thou finde
The darkest secrets of my naked minde;
As a learned Artist thou maist well foresee
The motions of that work is fram'd by thee:
Thou first into this dust a soul didst send,
Thy hand my skin did ore my bones extend,
Which greater Masterpiece, whilst I admire,
I fall down lost, in seeking to rise higher:
And finding 'bove my self, my self to be,
Turne to that nothing, from whence rais'd by thee.