Classic Poem

Lice complain not if I fly,
Since fate forbids a Sympathy.
Could Infant spring and winter meet,
I'de covet Lices winding sheet;
And wed a monument with thee,
A parchment cloth'd Anatomie.
Whom ev'n but touch'd would ashes turn;
Nor cures your snow, if love ere burn;
Nor suppositions cold sweats free,
Where each touch prompts an Agonie.
Importunate love dry oakes oreflies,
To wanton in Euphormia's eyes;
But thine affrighted in are fled,
To seek where he lies buried:
Whom Stibium thence can never raise;
Maz'd art dispairs at times decaies.