Classic Poem

Go catch the Phaenix , and then bring
A quill drawn for me from his wing.
Give me a Maiden-beautie's Bloud ,
A pure, rich Crimson , without mudd:
In whose sweet Blushes that may live,
Which a dull verse can never give.
Now for an untouch'd, spottles white ,
For blackest things on paper write;
Etesia at thine own Expence
Give me the Robes of innocence
Could we but see a Spring to run
Pure Milk , as sometimes Springs have done,
And in the Snow-white streams it sheds
Carnations wash their bloudy heads.
While ev'ry Eddy that came down
Did (as thou do'st,) both smile and frown .
Such objects and so fresh would be
But dull Resemblances of thee.
Thou art the dark worlds Morning-star,
Seen only, and seen but from far;
Where like Astronomers we gaze
Upon the glories of thy face,
But no acquaintance more can have,
Though all our lives we watch and Crave.
Thou art a world thy self alone,
Yea three great worlds refin'd to one.
Which shews all those, and in thine Eyes
The shining East , and Paradise .
Thy Soul (a Spark of the first Fire ,)
Is like the Sun , the worlds desire;
And with a nobler influence
Works upon all, that claim to sense;
But in Summers hath no fever ,
And in frosts is chearful ever.
As Flowr's , besides their curious dress
Rich odours have, and Sweetnesses
Which tacitely infuse desire
And ev'n oblige us to admire:
Such and so full of innocence
Are all the Charms , thou do'st dispence;
And like fair Nature , without Arts
At once they seize, and please our hearts.
O thou art such, that I could be
A lover to Idolatry!
I could, and should from heav'n stray,
But that thy life shews mine the way,
And leave a while the Diety ,
To serve his Image here in thee.