Classic Poem

Like the Violet which alone
Prospers in some happy shade:
My Castara lives unknowne,
To no looser eye betray'd,
?For shee's to her selfe untrue,
?Who delights ith' publicke view.
Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enricht with borrowed grace.
Her high birth no pride imparts,
For she blushes in her place.
?Folly boasts a glorious blood,
?She is noblest being good.
Cautious she knew never yet
What a wanton courtship meant:
Not speaks loud to boast her wit,
In her silence eloquent.
?Of her selfe survey she takes,
?But 'tweene men no difference makes.
She obeyes with speedy will
Her grave Parents wise commands.
And so innocent, that ill,
She nor acts, nor understands.
?Womens feete runne still astray,
?If once to ill they know the way.
She sailes by that rocke, the Court,
Where oft honour splits her mast:
And retir'dnesse thinks the port,
Where her fame may anchor cast.
?Vertue safely cannot sit,
?Where vice is enthron'd for wit.
She holds that dayes pleasure best,
Where sinne waits not on delight,
Without maske, or ball, or feast,
Sweetly spends a winters night.
?O're that darknesse, whence 'tis thrust,
?Prayer and sleepe oft govern lust.
She her throne makes reason climbe,
While wild passions captive lie.
And each article of time,
Her pure thoughts to heaven flie:
?All her vowes religious be,
?And her love she vowes to me.