Classic Poem

I

A T what a wilde malitious rate,
Blinde, cruell Deitie,
Do thy keen arrows flie!
Sure th' art not God of Love, but hate;
Bold, Tyrant child, that canst endure
To fix a wound admits no cure.

II

An happines can wait upon
Strangers, that distant are,
As North, and Southern star:
But wee, though born under one zone,
Who in one root, one cradle lay,
In love must be lesse blest than they.

III

Ah! that's the cause, why wee must run,
Like streams sprung from one sours,
Each in a various cours,
The fiction Incest so to shun:
When better that wee mixt it were,
Than other rivers ravisht her.

But I'l pursue her, till our flouds agree,
Alpheus I, and Arethusa shee.