Classic Poem

You who are earth, and cannot rise
  Above your sence,
Boasting the envyed wealth which lyes
Bright in your Mistris lips or eyes,
Betray a pittyed eloquence.

That which doth joyne our soules, so light
  And quicke doth move.
That like the Eagle in his flight,
It doth transcend all humane sight,
Lost in the element of Love.

You Poets reach not this, who sing
  The praise of dust
But kneaded, when by theft you bring
The rose and Lilly from the Spring
T'adorne the wrinckled face of lust.

When we speake Love, nor art, nor wit
  We glosse upon:
Our soules engender, and beget
Ideas , which you counterfeit
In your dull propagation.

While Time seven ages shall disperse,
  Wee'le talke of Love,
And when our tongues hold no commerse
Our thoughts shall mutually converse.
And yet the blood no rebell prove.

And though we be of severall kind
  Fit for offence:
Yet are we so by Love refin'd,
From impure drosse we are all mind.
Death could not more have conquer'd sence.

How suddenly those flames expire
  Which scorch our clay?
Prometheus -like when we steale fire
From heaven 'tis endlesse and intire
It may know age, but not decay.