Classic Poem

Soare upp, my soule, unto thy reste,
Cast off this loathsome loade;
Long is the date of thy exile,
Too long thy straite aboade.

Grase not on worldly withered weede,
It fitteth not thy taste;
The floures of everlastinge Springe
Do growe for thy repaste.

Their leaves are stayn'd in bewtye's dye,
And blasèd with their beames,
Their stalkes enameld with delight,
And lymm'd with glorious gleames.

Life-giving juce of livinge love
Their sugred veynes doth fill,
And watered with eternall shoures
They nectared dropps distill.

These floures do spring from fertile soyle,
Though from unmánur'd feilde;
Most glittering goulde in lewe of glebe,
These fragrant flowers, doth yelde.

Whose soveraigne sent surpassing sense
So ravisheth the mynde,
That worldly weedes needes must he loath
That can these floweres finde.