Classic Poem

Go, cruel Maid, restore again
Thy snow and rubied lip,
Thy orbed Suns, thy skye of Vein,
Thy blush and jewell'd Tip.
I dare be sworn no Power Divine
E're meant them for that heart of thine.

I know, when th'Influence of the Pole
Fram'd thy cold heart of Ice,
Thou stol'st these from some kinder soul,
To blind the peoples eyes:
It could not be else thou shouldst thus
Slight one whose love's Idolatrous.

The Chrystal Heaven that spheres about,
Though it be fair to see;
Unlesse it sends his moist Pearls out,
The world would ruin'd be:
So beauty mixt with coy disdain,
Is but Heaven mark'd with murthers stain.

What though thou maist with thine eyes-wink
Check the presuming Sun;
They are but Tyrants that can think
T'have all that may be done.
Gods, Kings and Mistresses, should they
Do all they might, this All would all decay.