Classic Poem

The Sun when he enamels day,
No other Colour doth display.
Lillies asham'd thou should'st out-vie,
Themselves from white to yellow die.
Thy arms are wax, nay honey too,
Colour and sweetnesse hath from you.
But when thy neck doth but appear,
I think I view an Indie there.
Can passion reason then befool,
Where such an Emp'ress beareth rule?
Thy yellow breasts are hills of fire
To heat, not snow to quench desire.
Ransack Peru , and Tagus shore,
And then vie treasure: thou'lt be poor.
Let wretches delve for yellow Ore,
A golden skin I ask, no more.

Sure Jove descending in a yellow shower
To rival me, thus gilt my Danai over.