Classic Poem

Religious relics of that ruinous place,
Which some time gloried in the glore of saints,
Now hath no glore but one, whereof it vaunts,
That one saint's beauty makes it heav'n of grace —
In balmy fields, which fards her flow'ry face
With sweet perfumes of corns, of trees, of plants,
While Neptune swells with pride, when there he haunts,
And laughs for joy such beauty to embrace;
Bear me record, that while I passed by,
I did my duteous homage to your dame;
How thrice I sigh'd, thrice on her name did cry,
Thrice kiss'd the ground for honour of the same;
Then left those lines to tell her, on a tree,
That she made them to live, and me to die.