Classic Poem

Why presumes thy pride on that, that must so private be
Scarce that it can good be cal'd, though it seemes best to thee,
Best of all that Nature fram'd, or curious eye can see?

Tis thy beauty, foolish Maid, that like a blossome growes,
Which who viewes no more enjoyes then on a bush a Rose;
That by manies handling fades, and thou art one of those.

If to one thou shalt prove true, and all beside reject,
Then art thou but one mans good, which yeelds a poore effect;
For the common'st good by farre deserves the best respect.

But if for this goodnesse thou thy selfe wilt common make,
Thou art then not good at all; so thou canst no way take
But to prove the meanest good, or else all good forsake.

Be not then of beauty proud, but so her colours beare
That they prove not staines to her that them for grace should weare:
So shalt thou to all more fayre then thou wert borne appeare.