Classic Poem

Earst stately Iuno in a great disdaine,
Her beautie by one's iudgement but iniur'd,
T' auenge on a whole nation oft procur'd,
And for one's fault saw many thousands slaine:
But she whom I would to the world preferre,
Although I spend my sp'rit to praise her name,
She in a rage, as if I sought her shame,
Thirsts for my bloud and saith I wrong her farre.
Thus ruthlesse tyrants that are bent to kill,
Of all occasions procreate a cause:
How can she hate me now (this makes me pause)
When yet I cannot but commend her still?
For this her fault comes of a modest mind,
Where fond ambition made the goddesse blind.