Classic Poem

You pure and holy fire
Which kindly now will not aspire
To hot performance of your Nature, turne
Crosse to your selfe and never burne
These Reliques of a blessed hand,
Joynd with mutuall holy band
Of love and deare desire.

Blame me not dearest lines,
That with loves flames your blacknesse twines,
My heart more mourning doth for you expresse,
But griefe for sorrow is no lesse.
Deepest groanes can cover, not change woe,
Hearts the tombe, keepes in the showe,
Which worth from ill refines.

Alas yet as you burne,
My pitie smarts, and groanes to turne
Your paines away, and yet you must consume
Content in me, must beare no plume,
Dust-like Dispaire may with me live,
Yet shall your memory out-drive
These paines wherein I mourne.

You reliques of pure love
To sacred keepe with me remoove,
Purg'd by this fire from harme, and jealous feare,
To live with me both chast and cleare:
The true preserveresse of pure truths,
Who to your grave gives a youth
In faith to live and moove.

Famous bodys still in flames,
Did anciently preserve their names,
Unto this funerall nobly you are come,
Honour giving you this tombe.
Teares and my love performe your rights,
To which constancie beares lights
To burne, and keepe from blame.