"My Heart Why Dost Thou Throb So In My Breast?"

My heart, why dost thou throb so in my breast?
What, dost thou ail? What causeth thy unrest?
Dost thou not know that, as the flames ascend,
So man in sorrow doth begin and end?
The sprightly lark, how cheerfully she sings,
Until the hawk her little neck off wrings;
Yet thou to sigh and sob dost never cease
Because thy sorrows with thy years increase.
The milk-white lamb that on the altar lies
Yields himself up a quiet sacrifice;
But thou wouldst have the course of nature turn
Rather than in affliction’s furnace burn.
The phoenix doth assume her funeral pyre,
And in those flagrant odors doth expire;
But thou, my soul, unwilling art to die,
And in thy grave obliviated lie,
Although it would thy drossy part calcine
Away, and infinitely refine
Thy flesh, that it more gloriously may shine.