Classic Poem

An Answer

Euterpe, nor the Muses (her sweet Mates)
Pernassus drops infuse into my Braine :
My table is not furnisht with rare Cates,
(Daintie Conceits) which come from Poets vaine:
No sacred Furie me inspires t'endite,
But what first comes in braine (straight) that I write.

Thy Lawrel greene that thou hast lov'd so long ,
Doth florish still, nor fatall Cypresse tis ;
To feare too much, thy selfe thou much dost wrong,
And over-much to grieve, thou dost amisse.
No Sunne but falls as well as it doth rise,
And who (in Love) lives without Contraries?

Though ALBA'S gone, yet she'le againe returne ,
Then write, that she may know thou dost her minde:
What Ladies promise , HONOR will performe ,
Nor thinke that Beautie alwaies is unkinde:
ALBA is milde ; MERCIE will Mercie show ,
No River ebs, but it againe must flow.

I am at best and in my youthfull prime,
My lovely Cynthias Favour I enjoy :
Yet think not but my Day is darkt sometime:
As I do taste of Blisse, so feele I noy:
Thus chirps one ROBIN REDBREST to another ,
Ah do not thy rare Gifts through sorrow smother.