Classic Poem

If any could my deare Rosania hate,
They onely should her character relate
Truth shines so bright here, that an enemy
Would be a better Oratour than I
Love stiffles Language, and I must confesse,
I had said more, if I had loved lesse
Yet the most criticall who that face see,
Will ne're suspect me of partiallity
Others by time and by degrees perswade,
But her first look doth every heart invade.
She hath a face so eminently bright,
Would make a Lover of an Anchorite.
A face where conquest mixt with modesty
Are both compleated in Divinity.
Not her least glance but sets all hearts on fire,
And checks them if they should too much aspire
Such is the magique of her looks, the same
Beame doth both kindle and refine our flame
If she doth smile, no Painter e're would take
Another rule, when he would mercy make
And to her splendour heaven hath allow'd,
That not a posture can her beauty cloud:
For if she frown, none but would fancy then
Justice descended here to punish men.
Her common looks I know not how to call
Any one grace, they are compos'd of all.
And if we mortalls could the doctrin reach,
Her eys have Language, and her looks doe teach
Such is her whole frame, heaven does afford
Her not to be desir'd, but still ador'd
But as in Pallaces the utmost, worst
Roomes entertain our wonder at the first;
But once within the presence chamber doore,
We doe despise what e're we saw before:
So when you with her mind acquaintance get,
You I hardly think upon the Cabinnet.
Her soule! that ray shot from the Deity,
Doth still preserve its native purity;
Which Earth can neither threaten, nor allure,
Nor by false Joys defile it, or obscure
Such innocence within her Brest doth dwell,
Angells themselves doe onely parallell
And should her whole sex to dissembling fall,
Here's one integrity redeems them all:
Transparent, cleare, and will no words admit,
And all comparisons but slubber it.
More gentle soft then is an evening showre:
And in that sweetness there is couch'd a power,
Which scorning pride, doth think it very hard
If modesty should need so meane a guard
Her honour is protected by her eys,
As the old flaming sword kept paradise.
Such constancy, such temper, truth and law,
Guides all her actions, that the world may draw
From her one Soule the noblest president
Of the most safe, wise, vertuous government.
She courts retirement, is her self alone,
Above a Theatre, and beyond a Throne.
So rich a Soule, none can say properly
She hath, but is each noble quality
And as the highest element is cleare
From all the tempests which disturb the aire:
So shee above the world and its rude noise,
Within a storme a quiet calme enjoys.
She scorns the sullen triffles of the time,
But things transcendent do her thoughts sublime;
Unlike those gallants which take far lesse care
To have their souls, then make their bodys faire,
Who (sick with too much Leisure) time do passe
With these Two books, pride, and a looking Glasse:
Plot to surprize men's hearts, their pow'r to try,
And call that Love, which is dull vanity.
But she, although the greatest murtherer,
(For every glance commits a massacre)
Yet glory's not that slaves her pow'r confess,
But wishes that her monarchy were less.
And if she Love, it is not thrown away,
As many doe, onely to spend the day;
But here is serious, and enough alone
To make all Love become religion.
But to her friendships she so faithfull is,
That tis her onely blot and prejudice:
For envy's self could never errour see
Within that soule, bating her Love to me
Now, as I must confess, the name of friend
To her that all the world doth comprehend,
Is a most wild ambition; so for me
To draw her picture is flat Lunacy
O! I must think the rest; for who can write
Or into words confine what's infinite?