Classic Poem

Lady, your art, or wit could nere devise
To shame me more, then in this night's surprise.
Why I am quite unready, and my eye
Now winking like my candle, doth deny
To guide my hand, if it had ought to write;
Nor can I make my drowsie sense indite
Which by your verses' musick (as a spell
Sent from the Sybillean Oracle)
Is charm'd and bound in wonder and delight
Faster then all the leaden chains of night.
What pity is it then you should so ill
Employ the bounty of your flowing quill,
As to expend on him your bedward thought
Who can acknowledge that large love in nought
But this lean wish: That Fate soon send you those
Who may requite your rhimes with midnight prose?
Mean time, may all delights and pleasing Theams
Like Masquers revell in your Maiden dreams.
Whil'st dull to write, and to do more unmeet,
I (as the Night invites me) fall asleep.