Classic Poem

When first my minde call'd it self in to think,
There fell a strife not easie for to end;
Which name should first crown the white papers brink,
An awing father, or an equall friend:
Fortune gives choice of either to my minde;
Both bonds to tie the soul, it never move;
That of commanding, this of easie love.

The lines of love, which from a fathers heart
Are draw'n down to the sonne; and from the sonne
Ascend to th' father, draw'n from every part,
Each other cut, and from the first transition
Still further wander with more wide partition:
But friends, like parallels, runne a level race,
In just proportion, and most even space.

Then since a double choice, double affection
Hath plac't it self in my twice-loving breast;
No title then can adde to this perfection,
Nor better that, which is alreadie best:
So naming one, I must implie the rest;
The same a father, and a friend; or rather,
Both one; a father-friend, and a friend-father.

No marvel then the difference of the place
Makes in my minde at all no difference:
For love is not produc'd or penn'd in space,
Having i' th' soul his onely residence.
Love's fire is thought; and thought is never thence,
Where it feels want: then where a love is deare,
The minde in farthest distance is most neare.

Me Kent holds fast with thousand sweet embraces;
(There mought I die with thee, there with thee live!)
All in the shades, the Nymphs and naked Graces
Fresh joyes and still-succeeding pleasures give;
So much we sport, we have no time to grieve:
Here do we sit, and laugh white-headed caring;
And know no sorrow simple pleasures marring.

A crown of wood-nymphs spread i' th' grassie plain
Sit round about, no niggards of their faces;
Nor do they cloud their fair with black disdain;
All to my self will they impart their graces:
Ah! not such joyes finde I in other places:
To them I often pipe, and often sing,
Sweet notes to sweeter voices tempering.

And now but late I sang the Hymen toyes
Of two fair lovers, (fairer were there never)
That in one bed coupled their spousall joyes;
Fortune and Nature being scant to neither:
What other dare not wish, was full in either.
Thrice happie bed, thrice happie lovers firing,
Where present blessings have out-stript desiring!

And when me list to sadder tunes apply me,
Pasilia's dirge, and Eupathus complaining;
And often while my pipe lies idle by me,
Read Fusca's deep disdain, and Thirsil's plaining;
Yet in that face is no room for disdaining;
Where cheerfull kindnesse smiles in either eye,
And beauty still kisses humilitie.

Then do not marvel Kentish strong delights
Stealing the time, do here so long detain me:
Not powerfull Circe with her Hecate rites,
Nor pleasing Lotos thus could entertain me,
As Kentish powerfull pleasures here enchain me.
Mean time, the Nymphs that in our Brenchly use,
Kindly salute your busy Cambridge Muse.