Classic Poem

Philoclea and Pamela sweete,
By chance in one greate house did meete;
And, meeteinge, did soe ioyne in hart,
That th' one from th' other could not part:
And whoe, indeed, not made of stones,
Would seperate such lovely ones?
The one is beautifull and faire
As lillies and white roses are,
And sweete as, after gentle showers,
The breath is of some thousand flowers:

For due proportion, such an ayre
Circles the other, not soe faire,
Which soe her brownness beautifies,
That itt inchaunts the wisest eyes
Haue you not seene, on some great day,
Two goodly horses, white and baye,
Which were so beautious in their pride,
You knowe not which to choose or ride?
Such are those two; you scarce cann tell
Which is the daintier bonni-bell;
And they are such as, by my troth,
I had ben dead in loue with both,
And might haue sadly said, " Good-night,
Discretion and good fortune quite";
But that young Cupid, my old master,
Presented mee a soveraign plaister:
Mopsa, even Mopsa, pretty mouse,
Best peice of wainscott in the house;
Whose saffron teeth and lipps of leekes,
Whose curall nose and parchment cheekes,
Whose pastboard forehead, eyes of fferett,
Brest of browne paper, neck of carrett,
And other parts not evident
For which Dame Nature should be shent,
Are spells and charmes of greate renowne,
Concupiscence to coniure downe.

Howe oft haue I been refte of sence,
By gazing on their excellence,
Till, meeteinge Mopsa in my way,
And looking on her face of clay,
I soone was cur'd, and made as sound
As though I never had a wound?
And when, in tables of my hart,
Love writt such thinges as bred my smartt,
My Mopsa, with her face of clout,
Would in an instant wipe them out.
And when their faces made me sicke,
Mopsa would come, with hers of bricke,
A little heated in the fire,
And breake the necke of my desire.
Nowe from their face I turne my eyes,
But, cruel panthers, they surprize
Me with their breath, that incense sweete,
Which only for the godds is meete;
And ioyntly from them doth respire,
Like both the Indies sett on fire:
Which so ore-comes man's ravisht sence,
That soules to followe itt flie hence;
Nor such like smell you, as you range
By the Stockes or old or Newe Exchange.
Then stood I still as any stocke,
Till Mopsa, with her puddle docke, —
Her compound, or electuary,
Made of olde linge or caviarie,
Blote herringe, cheese, or voyded phisicke,
Being sometime troubld with the tytsicke, —
Did coughe and fetch a sighe soe deepe
As did her very bottome sweepe,
Whereby to all shee did imparte
Howe love lay rancklinge at her harte;
Which when I smelt, desire was slaine.
And they breathd forth purfumes in vayne.
Their angell voice surprizd me nowe,
But Mopsa's shrill " too whitt too whoo,"
Descendinge through her holby nose,
Did that distemper soone compose;
And therefore, O you virtuous owle,
The wise Minerva's only fowle,
What at thy shrine shall I devise
To offer upp for sacrafice?
Hange Esculapius and Apollo,
Hange Ovid with his precepts shallowe;
With patience who will nowe indure
Yo slowe and yo vncertaine cure,
Seeing Mopsa's found for man and beast
To be the sure probatum est?
O you Loue's chiefest medicine,
True water to dame Venus' wine,
Best cordiall, soundest antidote
To conquer loue and cutt his throate;
Be but my second, and stand by,
And I their beauties both defye,
And all ells of those fairey races
That weare infection in their faces;
For Ile come safe out of the feild
With thy face thy Medusa's sheild.