Classic Poem

Sonnet. IIII.

Fooles be they that inueigh gainst Mahomet,
who's but a morrall of loues Monarchie:
by a dull Adamant, as straw by Iet,
he in an yron chest was drawne on hie.
In midst of Mecas temple roofe, some say,
he now hangs, without touch or stay at all;
That Mahomet is shee to whom I pray.
(may nere man pray so vneffectuall.)
Mine eyes, loues strange exhaling Adamants,
vnwares to my harts temples height haue raught
the yron Idoll that compassion wants,
who my oft teares and trauels sets at naught
Iron hath beene trans-formd to gold by arte,
Her face, lymmes, flesh, and all gold, saue her hart.