Classic Poem

Song

O Whither will you lead the Fair,
And spicy Daughter of the Morne?
Those Manacles of her soft Haire,
Princes, though free, would faine have worn.

What is her crime? what has she done?
Did she, by breaking Beauty stay,
Or from his Course mislead the Sun;
So robb'd your Harvest of a Day?

Or did her voyce, divinely clear!
(Since lately in your Forrest bred)
Make all the Trees dance after her,
And so your Woods disforrested?

Run, Run! Pursue this Gothick Rout,
Who rudely Love in bondage keep;
Sure all old Lovers have the Goute,
The young are overwatcht and sleep.