Classic Poem

When her deare bosome clips
That litle curre, which faunes to touch her lips,
Or when it is his hap
To lie lapp'd in her lap,
O! it growes noone with mee;
With hotter-pointed beames
My burning planet streames,
What rayes were earst, in lightnings changed bee.
When oft I muse, how I to those extreames
Am brought, I finde no cause, except that shee
In loue's bright zodiacke hauing trac'd each roome,
To fatall Syrius now at last is come.