Classic Poem

Mark how this polish'd Eastern sheet
Doth with our Northern tincture meet,
For though the paper seem to sink,
Yet it receives and bears the ink;
And on her smooth soft brow these spots
Seem rather ornaments than blots,
Like those you ladies use to place
Mysteriously about your face,
Not only to set off and break
Shadows and eye-beams, but to speak
To the skill'd lover, and relate
Unheard his sad or happy fate.
Nor do their characters delight
As careless works of black and white;
But 'cause you underneath may find
A sense that can inform the mind,
Divine or moral rules impart,
Or raptures of poetic art:
So what at first was only fit
To fold up silks, may wrap up wit.