Classic Poem

Weep balm and myrrh, you sweet Arabian trees,
With purest gems perfume and pearl your rine;
Shed on your honey drops, you busy bees.
I, barren plant, must weep unpleasant brine.
Hornets I hive, salt drops their labour plies
Sucked out of sin and shed by show'ring eyes.

With easy loss sharp wrecks did he eschew
That sindonless aside did naked slip:
Once naked Grace no outward garment knew;
Rich are his robes, whom sin did never strip,
I that in vaunts displayed Pride's fairest flags
Disrobed of Grace, am wrapped in Adam's rags.

Sleep, death's ally, oblivion of tears,
Silence of Passions, balm of angry sore,
Suspense of loves, security of fears,
Wrath's lenitive, heart's ease, storm's calmest shore,
Sense's and soul's reprieval from all cumbers,
Benumbing sense of ill with quiet slumbers.

Lazar at Pity's gate I ulcered lie
Craving the refuse crumbs of children's plate;
My sores I lay in view to Mercy's eye,
My rags bear witness of my poor estate:
The worms of Conscience that within me swarm,
Prove that my plaints are less than is my harm.