Classic Poem

To the Right Honourable the Countesse of C.

Madam,
 Should the cold Muscovit , whose furre and stove
 Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,
 But view the wonder of your presence, he
 Would scorne his winters sharpest injury:
 And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse
 To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.
 As a dull Poet even he would say,
 Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day
 Till that bright minute; that he now admires
 No more why the coy Spring so soone retires
 From their unhappy clyme; It doth pursue
 The Sun, and he derives his light from you.
 Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea
 Is set at freedome, while the yce away
 Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire
 Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are
 Reduc't to order; how to them you bring
 The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.
 Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want
 Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint
 Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.
 But I here pay my vowes to the devine
 Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were
 Not hid in a faire cloud, but might appeare
 In its full lustre, would make Nature live
 In a state equall to her primitive.
 But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye
 Cannot the splendor of your soule descry
 In true perfection, by a glimmering light,
 Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright
 The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind
 Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.
 How hastily doth Nature build up man
 To leave him so imperfect? For he can
 See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule
 So farre his sight he nere discern'd a soule.
 For had yours beene the object of his eye;
 It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.

To the Right Honourable the Countesse of C.

Madam,
 Should the cold Muscovit , whose furre and stove
 Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,
 But view the wonder of your presence, he
 Would scorne his winters sharpest injury:
 And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse
 To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.
 As a dull Poet even he would say,
 Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day
 Till that bright minute; that he now admires
 No more why the coy Spring so soone retires
 From their unhappy clyme; It doth pursue
 The Sun, and he derives his light from you.
 Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea
 Is set at freedome, while the yce away
 Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire
 Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are
 Reduc't to order; how to them you bring
 The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.
 Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want
 Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint
 Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.
 But I here pay my vowes to the devine
 Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were
 Not hid in a faire cloud, but might appeare
 In its full lustre, would make Nature live
 In a state equall to her primitive.
 But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye
 Cannot the splendor of your soule descry
 In true perfection, by a glimmering light,
 Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright
 The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind
 Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.
 How hastily doth Nature build up man
 To leave him so imperfect? For he can
 See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule
 So farre his sight he nere discern'd a soule.
 For had yours beene the object of his eye;
 It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.