Classic Poem

As the weake Child, that from the Mothers wing,
Is taught the Lutes delicious fingering,
At ev'ry strings soft touch, is mov'd with feare,
Noting his Masters curious list'ning Eare;
Whose trembling Hand, at ev'ry straine bewrayes,
In what doubt he his new-set Lesson playes:
As this poore Child, so sit I to indite,
At ev'ry word still quaking as I write.
Would I had led an humble Shepheards life,
Nor knowne the Name of Shores admired Wife,
And liv'd with them, in Countrey fields that range,
Nor seene the golden Cheape, nor glitt'ring Change.
Here, like a Comet gaz'd at in the Skies,
Subject to all Tongues, object to all Eyes:
Oft have I heard my Beautie prays'd of many,
But never yet so much admir'd of any;
A Princes Eagle-Eye to find out that,
Which common Men doe seldome wonder at,
Makes me to thinke Affection flatters Sight,
Or in the Object something exquisite.
 “To housed Beautie seldome stoop's Report,
“Fame must attend on that, which lives in Court.
What Swan of bright A POLLO'S Brood doth sing,
To vulgar Love, in Courtly Soneting?
Or what immortall Poets sugred Pen
Attends the glory of a Citizen?
Oft have I wondred, what should blind your Eye,
Or what so farre seduced Majestie,
That having choise of Beauties so divine,
Amongst the most, to chuse this least of mine?
More glorious Sunnes adorne faire Londons pride,
Then all rich Englands Continent beside;
That who t'account their Multitudes, would wish,
Might number Rumney's Flowers, or Isis Fish.
Who doth frequent our Temples, Walkes, and Streets,
Noting the sundry Beauties that he meets,
Thinkes not, that Nature left the wide World poore,
And made this place the Chequer of her store;
As Heav'n and Earth had lately falne at Jarres,
And growne to vying Wonders, dropping Starres:
That if but some one Beautie should incite
Some sacred Muse, some ravish'd Spirit to write,
Here might he fetch the true Promethian fire,
That after-Ages should his Lines admire;
Gathering the Honey from the choisest Flow'rs,
Scorning the wither'd Weeds in Countrey Bow'rs.
Here in this Garden (onely) springs the Rose,
In ev'ry common Hedge the Bramble growes:
Nor are we so turn'd Neapolitan ,
That might incite some foule-mouth'd Mantuan ,
To all the World to lay out our defects,
And have just cause to rayle upon our Sex;
To pranke old Wrinckles up in new Attyre,
To alter Natures course, prove Time a lyer,
To abuse Fate, and Heav'ns just doome reverse,
On Beauties Grave to set a Crimson Hearse;
With a deceitfull Foile to lay a ground,
To make a Glasse to seeme a Diamond:
Nor cannot, without hazzard of our Name,
In Fashion follow the Venetian Dame;
Nor the fantasticke French to imitate,
Attyr'd halfe Spanish , halfe Italionate ;
With Waste, nor Curle, Body nor Brow adorne,
That is in Florence or in Genoa borne.
 But with vaine Boasts how witlesse fond am I,
Thus to draw on mine owne Indignitie?
And what though married when I was but yong,
Before I knew what did to Love belong;
Yet he which now's possessed of the roome,
Crop'd Beauties flower when it was in the bloome,
And goes away inriched with the store,
Whilst others gleane, where he hath reap'd before:
And he dares sweare, that I am true and just,
And shall I then deceive his honest trust?
Or what strange hope should make you to assaile,
Where the strong'st Batt'rie never could prevaile?
Belike you thinke, that I repuls'd the rest,
To leave a King the conquest of my Brest,
And have thus long preserv'd my selfe from all,
To have a Monarch glory in my fall;
Yet rather let me die the vildest death,
Then live to draw that sinne-polluted breath.
But our kind Hearts, Mens Teares cannot abide,
And we least angry oft, when most we chide.
Too well know Men what our Creation made us,
And Nature too well taught them to invade us:
They know but too well, how, what, when, and where,
To write, to speake, to sue, and to forbeare,
By signes, by sighes, by motions, and by teares,
When Vowes should serve, when Oathes, when Smiles, when
What one Delight our Humors most doth move,
Onely in that you make us nourish Love.
If any naturall Blemish blot our Face,
You doe protest, it gives our Beautie grace;
And what Attyre we most are us'd to weare,
That, of all other, excellent'st, you sweare:
And if we walke, or sit, or stand, or lie,
It must resemble some one Deitie;
And what you know we take delight to heare,
That are you ever sounding in our eare;
And yet so shamelesse, when you tempt us thus,
To lay the fault on Beautie and on us.
Romes wanton O VID did those Rules impart,
O, that your Nature should be help'd with Art!
 Who would have thought, a King that cares to raigne,
Inforc'd by Love, so Poet-like should faine?
To say, that Beautie, Times sterne rage to shunne,
In my Cheekes (Lillies) hid her from the Sunne;
And when she meant to triumph in her May,
Made that her East, and here she broke her Day:
And that faire Summer still is in my sight,
And but where I am, all the World is Night;
As though the fair'st ere since the World began,
To me, a Sunne-burnt base Egyptian .
 But yet I know more then I meane to tell,
(O would to God you knew it not too well!)
That Women oft their most admirers rayse,
Though publiquely not flatt'ring their owne prayse.
Our churlish Husbands, which our Youth injoy'd,
Who with our Dainties have their stomacks cloy'd,
Doe loath, our smooth Hands with their Lips to feele,
T'inrich our Favours, by our Beds to kneele,
At our Command to wait, to send, to goe,
As ev'ry Houre our amorous servants doe;
Which makes, a stolne Kisse often we bestow,
In earnest of a greater good we owe:
When he all day torments us with a Frowne,
Yet sports with V ENUS in a Bed of Downe;
Whose rude imbracement but too ill beseemes
Her span-broad Waste, her white and daintie Limmes;
And yet still preaching abstinence of Meat,
When he himselfe of ev'ry Dish will eat.
 Blame you our Husbands then, if they denie
Our publique Walking, our loose Libertie?
If with exception still they us debarre
The Circuit of the publique Theater;
To heare the Poet in a Comick straine,
Able t'infect with his lascivious Scene;
And the young wanton Wits, when they applaud
The slie perswasion of some subtill Bawd;
Or passionate Tragedian, in his rage
Acting a Love-sick Passion on the Stage:
When though abroad restraining us to rome,
They very hardly keepe us safe at home;
And oft are touch'd with feare and inward griefe,
Knowing rich Prizes soonest tempt a Thiefe?
 What Sports have we, whereon our Minds to set?
Our Dogge, our Parrat, or our Marmuzet;
Or once a weeke to walke into the field.
Small is the pleasure that these Toyes do yeeld,
But to this griefe a medicine you apply,
To cure restraint with that sweet Libertie;
And Soveraigntie (O that bewitching thing)
Yet made more great, by promise of a King;
And more, that Honour which doth most intice
The holi'st Nunne, and she that's ne're so nice.
Thus still we strive, yet overcome at length,
For men want mercie, and poore women strength:
Yet grant, that we could meaner men resist,
When Kings once come, they conquer as they list.
Thou art the cause, S HORE pleaseth not my sight,
That his embraces give me no delight;
Thou art the cause I to my selfe am strange,
Thy comming is my Full, thy Set my Change.
Long Winter nights be minutes, if thou heere,
Short minutes, if thou absent, be a yeere.
And thus by strength thou art become my fate,
And mak'st me love even in the mid'st of hate.