Classic Poem

What bold hand the Sea engraves,
Whilst its undetermin'd waves
In a Dishes narrow Round
Arts more powerful rage doth bound?
See, by some Promethean Mind
Cytherea there design'd,
Mother of the Deities,
Expos'd naked to our eyes
In all parts, save those alone
Modesty will not have shown,
Which for covering onely have
The thin Mantle of a wave:
On the surface of the Main,
Which a smiling calm layes plain,
She, like frothy Sedges, swims
And displayes her snowy Limbs:
Whilst the foaming billow swells
As her breast its force repells,
And her form striving to hide
Her doth by her Neck divide,
Like a Lilly round beset
By the Purple Violet;
Loves, who Dolphins do bestride,
Ore the silver surges ride,
And with many a wanton smile
Lovers of their hearts beguile;
Whilst the People of the Floud
To her side, like Wantons, scud.