GOE, glorious saint ! I knew 'twas not a shrine
Of flesh could lodge so pure a soule as thine;
I saw it labour (in a holy scorne
Of living dust and ashes) to be swome
A heavenly quirister : it sigh'd and groan'd
To be dissolv'd from mortall, and enthron'd
Among his fellow-angels, there to sing
Perpetuall anthems to his heavenly King :
He was a stranger to his house of clay;
Scarce own'd it, but that necessary stay
Miscall'd it his ; and onely zeale did make
Him love the building for the builder's sake.

More verses by Francis Quarles