Classic Poem

I'le to my Saint as votaries to a shrine,
Where sighs are gales for Heav'n, each word divine.
I will not say that swans hatch in your brest,
For innocence there doth keep a whiter nest.
Or how that blushing roses drooping die,
Bequeathing you more sweet their fragrancy:
The odours of your virtues are Perfume
Heav'n lends from th' fading rose you none assume.
Or say Auroras rosie Cheek is dy'd
With blushes thus to be by you outvy'd.
Could th' morning blush, sure it would rather be,
The weaknesse of your sex to vye with thee?
Or that an envious palenesse Cynthia dies,
'Cause lustre is confined to your eyes.
Could what we fondly phancy Moon look pale?
You constant guilt and change might th' look intail
Or that the twinkling Ministers of fire,
Spangling Heav'ns Canopy, at your sight retire.
If stars retreat 'tis they erraticks are,
In honors sphere you are a fixed star;
Should I the earth as I have Heav'n re'd ore,
'Twould be Eugenia but to love thee more.