Classic Poem

What Travellers of matchlesse Venice say,
Is true of thee, admir'd Venetia;
Hee that ner'e saw thee, wants beliefe to reach
Halfe those perfections, thy first sight would teach.
Imagination can noe shape create
Airy enough thy forme to imitate;
Nor bedds of Roses, Damask, red, and white,
Render like thee a sweetnes to the sight.
Thou wer't eye-Musike, and no single part,
But beauties concert; Not one onely dart,
But loves whole quiver; no provinciall face,
But universall; Best in every place.
Thow wert not borne, as other women be,
To need the help of heightning Poesie,
But to make Poets. Hee, that could present
Thee like thy glasse, were superexcellent.
Witnesse that Pen which, prompted by thy parts
Of minde and bodie, caught as many heartes
With every line, as thou with every looke;
Which wee conceive was both his baite and hooke.
His Stile before, though it were perfect steele,
Strong, smooth, and sharp, and so could make us feele
His love or anger, Witneses agree,
Could not attract, till it was toucht by thee.
Magneticke then, Hee was for heighth of style
Suppos'd in heaven; And so he was, the while
He sate and drewe thy beauties by the life,
Visible Angell, both as maide and wife.
In which estate thou did'st so little stay,
Thy noone and morning made but halfe a day;
Or halfe a yeare, or halfe of such an age
As thy complexion sweetly did presage,
An houre before those cheerfull beames were sett,
Made all men loosers, to paye Natures debt;
And him the greatest, that had most to doe,
Thy friend, companion, and copartner too,
Whose head since hanging on his pensive brest
Makes him looke just like one had bin possest
Of the whole world, and now hath lost it all.
Doctors to Cordialls, freinds to counsel fall.
He that all med'cines can exactly make,
And freely give them, wanting power to take,
Sitts and such Doses howerly doth dispense,
A man unlearn'd may rise a Doctor thence.
I that delight most in unusuall waies,
Seeke to asswage his sorrowe with thy praise,
Which if at first it swell him up with greife,
At last may drawe, and minister releife;
Or at the least, attempting it, expresse
For an old debt a freindly thanckfulnesse.
I am no Herald! So ye can expect
From me no Crests or Scutcheons, that reflect
With brave Memorialls on her great Allyes;
Out of my reach that tree would quickly rise.
I onely stryve to doe her Fame som Right,
And walke her Mourner, in this Black and Whight.