Classic Poem

Some gallant sprites, whose waies none yet dare trace,
To show the world the wonders of their wit,
Did (as their tossed fancies thought most fit)
Forme rare ideas of a diuine face.
Yet neuer art to that true worth attain'd,
Which Nature, now growne prodigall, imparts
To one deare one, whose sacred seuerall parts
Are more admir'd then all that poets fain'd.
Those bordring climes that boast of beautie's shrine,
If once thy sight enrich'd their soiles (my loue)
Then all with one consent behou'd t' approue,
That Calidon doth beauties best confine.
But ah, the heau'n on this my ruine sounds,
The more her worth, the deeper are my wounds.