Classic Poem

'Tis to be thought upon,
 Whether i'th'bud and prime of blooming Youth
 (When each small fybre of the Soul shoots forth,
 Warm'd by that Vernall Sun, which then invites it)
 I shall my self, and future life give up,
 Immur'd, a sacrifice to Avarice
 And Opinion: For if it be not such,
 What can my being thus a cold Recluse
 Be to th'advantage of my Parents souls?
 My Charity shall be my own, not theirs;
 Nor can my Vigils or abstemious frost,
 Or cool or expiate, the smallest fume
 Of their intemperate heat; but it will on,
 Not minding me, or my pale Orisons.
 Nay, had they mued up thus themselves, I had
 No being had at all, to argue this.
 Why then being come into the world by Providence,
 May not I take that turn the gods have given me,
 Without (as soon as entred, like a thing
 Imperfect made) to be turn'd out again,
 As quite unworthy those great bounteous favors,
 Heaven and free Nature had design'd me to?

Oh but the Benefits,
 To avoid the thraldom of imperious Love,
 The hazards of contempt, and calumny,
 The heats and Hecticks both of Fear, and Love,
 The qualms, and throws of Married life, the frets
 And cumbers, humming 'bout the Heards of families:
 To ride secure out of the reach of Fortune,
 O're-looking all those rouling tides of Fate,
 Which worldlings still are hurried with; and then
 To be wrapt up in Innocence, a Privado
 Dear, and familiar to the Deity,
 Is surely a condition to be catcht at,
 With all th'expansions both of mind, and body.
 But then again to weigh the Cancelling
 Of what I'm born to, tugging all my life
 Against the Tyde; still streining up the hill:
 The Plains and pleasant Vallies ever hidden.
 What is it lesse then the bold undertaking
 Of a perpetual war with Nature? which how well
 I can come off with, is to me unknown.
 Though, being in, I must go on, whatever
 Stops I meet: Vows lock us up for ever,
 Without their leaving of a key to loose us.
 Must I not then, in spight of all Reluctance,
 Wade on, however the deep Current drives me?
 But does not Nature in her general course,
 Design all Creatures to their fixed end?
 Did the wise God of Nature give me Sex
 Onely to cast it off? were all our flames
 Rais'd, to be kept but in perpetual smother?
 Must we have fire still glowing under us,
 Onely that we with constant Lading may
 Keep our selves cool, and check our boyling fervor?
 Our Passions, our Affections and Desires,
 We are injoyn'd to regulate, not deposite quite.
 Why were their Objects lent us, set before
 Our open eyes, and we forbid to view them?
 Our joyes, our hopes, the feathers of the soul,
 Were never meant us to become our torment.
 I cannot think so meanly of the Deity,
 That it should fill our sails with pregnant gales,
 And yet forbid us touch those pleasing Coasts,
 That thereby we are driven to. Vile disguise
 Is Impotency's child, and noble Nature scorns,
 (Looking streight on) but once to glance aside
 In all the Elements. What one creature is there
 That is not acted by the flames of Love?
 The Mole, that wears no window for the Sun,
 Finds yet a light that leads to genial Love.
 Those birds, that yearly sleep a Winters death,
 Each Spring to mighty Love resuscitate.
 The fish that freezeth under floors of Ice,
 In his set season thaws and Kippers love.
 Who taught cold worms from their dark holes to meet,
 And in an amorous close to glue themselves
 Till Natures work be done? If Love be fire,
 As 'tis the blaze of life, it then must have
 Fuel to feed on. All spiritual is
 Too fine for flesh to live by; and too grosse
 Is food corporeal all: As man is mixt,
 So his affections object must. Love temper'd right
 Is chaste as cold Virginity. And since
 He merits more, that means unbound to pay,
 Than he that is ty'd up to strict Conditions:
 I'le rather chuse to keep my self in that
 Estate my wise Creator did appoint me,
 Then to mistrust his Grace, and out of fear
 Lock up in forced chains my free-born Soul.