Classic Poem

The cruell warres that Nature long did move,
By force to plucke good vertue from her throne,
Appeasd in peace, to shewe the fruits of love,
Of precious mould, kynde faults to worke anon,
And having shapt this seemely dame of clay,
For vertues helpe she sent her straight away.

When vertue viewd dame Natures worthy skill,
With great delight she kist this ladies face,
And then (to shewe that Nature wisht her will)
She posted to her treasure house of grace,
Her golden shewes, where she, good ladie, spoyles
To decke this dame: thus was she both their toyles.

And with these gifts into the world she came,
Whereas she doth in worthy credite rest;
Yea, sure her life so beautifieth her name,
As envie graunts (who sildome sayes the best)
Her wit, her weedes, her words, her workes and all
So modest are, as slaunder yealdes her thrall.