Classic Poem

This Edward in the Aprill of his age,
Whil'st yet the Crowne sate on his fathers head,
My Jove with me, his Ganimed , his page,
Frolick as May, a lustie life we led:
He might commaund, he was my Soveraigns sonne,
And what I saide, by him was ever done.

My words as lawes, Autentique he alloude,
Mine yea, by him was never crost with no,
All my conceite as currant he avowde,
And as my shadowe still he served so,
My hand the racket, he the tennis ball,
My voyces echo, answering every call.

My youth the glasse where he his youth beheld,
Roses his lipps, my breath sweete Nectar showers,
For in my face was natures fayrest field,
Richly adornd with Beauties rarest flowers.
My breast his pillow, where he laide his head,
Mine eyes his booke, my bosome was his bed.

My smiles were life, and Heaven unto his sight,
All his delight concluding my desier,
From my sweete sunne, he borrowed all his light,
And as a flie play'd with my beauties fier,
His love-sick lippes at every kissing qualme,
Cling to my lippes, to cure their griefe with balme.

Like as the wanton Yvie with his twyne,
Whenas the Oake his rootlesse bodie warmes,
The straightest saplings strictly doth combyne,
Clipping the woodes with his lacivious armes:
Such our imbraces when our sporte begins,
Lapt in our armes, like Ledas lovely Twins.

Or as Love-nursing Venus when she sportes,
With cherry-lipt Adonis in the shade,
Figuring her passions in a thousand sortes,
With sighes, and teares, or what else might perswade,
Her deere, her sweete, her joy, her life, her love,
Kissing his browe, his cheeke, his hand, his glove.

My bewtie was the Load-starre of his thought,
My lookes the Pilot to his wandring eye,
By me his sences all a sleepe were brought,
When with sweete love I sang his lullaby.
Nature had taught my tongue her perfect time,
Which in his eare stroake duely as a chyme.

With sweetest speech, thus could I syranize,
Which as strong Philters youthes desire could move,
And with such method could I rhetorize,
My musik plaied the measures to his love:
In his faire brest, such was my soules impression,
As to his eyes, my thoughts made intercession.

Thus like an Eagle seated in the sunne,
But yet a Phenix in my soveraigns eye,
We act with shame, our revels are begunne,
The wise could judge of our Catastrophe :
But we proceede to play our wanton prize,
Our mournfull Chorus was a world of eyes.

The table now of all delight is layd,
Serv'd with what banquets bewtie could devise,
The Sirens singe, and false Calypso playd,
Our feast is grac'd with youthes sweete comaedies,
Our looks with smiles, are sooth'd of every eye,
Carrousing love in boules of Ivorie.

This Edward in the April of his age,
Whil'st yet the Crowne sate on his fathers head,
My Jove with me, his Ganimed , his page,
Frolick as May, a lustie life we led:
He might commaund, he was my Soveraigns sonne,
And what I saide, by him was ever done.

My words as lawes, Autentique he alloude,
Mine yea, by him was never crost with no,
All my conceite as currant he avowde,
And as my shadowe still he served so,
My hand the racket, he the tennis ball,
My voyces echo, answering every call.

My youth the glasse where he his youth beheld,
Roses his lipps, my breath sweete Nectar showers,
For in my face was natures fayrest field,
Richly adornd with Beauties rarest flowers.
My breast his pillow, where he laide his head,
Mine eyes his booke, my bosome was his bed.

My smiles were life, and Heaven unto his sight,
All his delight concluding my desier,
From my sweete sunne, he borrowed all his light,
And as a flie play'd with my beauties fier,
His love-sick lippes at every kissing qualme,
Cling to my lippes, to cure their griefe with balme.

Like as the wanton Yvie with his twyne,
Whenas the Oake his rootlesse bodie warmes,
The straightest saplings strictly doth combyne,
Clipping the woodes with his lacivious armes:
Such our imbraces when our sporte begins,
Lapt in our armes, like Ledas lovely Twins.

Or as Love-nursing Venus when she sportes,
With cherry-lipt Adonis in the shade,
Figuring her passions in a thousand sortes,
With sighes, and teares, or what else might perswade,
Her deere, her sweete, her joy, her life, her love
Kissing his browe, his cheeke, his hand, his glove.

My bewtie was the Load-starre of his thought,
My lookes the Pilot to his wandring eye,
By me his sences all a sleepe were brought,
When with sweete love I sang his lullaby.
Nature had taught my tongue her perfect time,
Which in his eare stroake duely as a chyme.

With sweetest speech, thus could I syranize,
Which as strong Philters youthes desire could move,
And with such method could I rhetorize,
My musik plaied the measures to his love:
In his faire brest, such was my soules impression,
As to his eyes, my thoughts made intercession.

Thus like an Eagle seated in the sunne,
But yet a Phenix in my soveraigns eye,
We act with shame, our revels are begunne,
The wise could judge of our Catastrophe:
But we proceede to play our wanton prize,
Our mournfull Chorus was a world of eyes.

The table now of all delight is layd,
Serv'd with what banquets bewtie could devise,
The Sirens singe, and false Calypso playd,
Our feast is grac'd with youthes sweete comoedies,
Our looks with smiles, are sooth'd of every eye,
Carrousing love in boules of Ivorie.