Classic Poem

I.

Strephone, in vaine thou bring thy rimes and songs,
Deckt with grave Pindar's old and withered flow'rs;
In vaine thou count'st the faire Europa's wrongs,
And her whom Jove deceiv'd in golden show'rs.
Thou hast slept never under mirtles' shed,
Or if that passion hath thy soule opprest,
It is but for some Grecian mistris dead.
Of such old sighs thou dost discharge thy brest,
How can true love with fables hold a place?
Thou who with fables dost set forth thy love,
Thy love a pretty fable needs must prove,
Thou suest for grace, in scorne more to disgrace:
I cannot thinke thou wert charm'd by my looks,
O no, thou learn'dst thy love in lovers' books.

II.

No more with candid words infect mine eares,
Tell me no more how that ye pine in anguish,
When sound ye sleep; no more say that ye languish,
No more in sweet despite say you spend teares.
Who hath such hollow eyes as not to see
How those that are haire-brain'd boast of Apollo,
And bold give out the Muses do them follow,
Though in love's library yet no lover's he?
If we poore soules least favour but them shew,
That straight in wanton lines abroad is blazed,
Their name doth soare on our fame's overthrow,
Mark'd is our lightnesse whilst their wits are praised:
In silent thoughts who can no secret cover,
He may, say we, but not well, be a lover,

III.

Ye who with curious numbers, sweetest art,
Frame Dedall nets our beauty to surprize,
Telling strange castles builded in the skies,
And tales of Cupid's bow, and Cupid's dart;
Well howsoever ye act your fained smart,
Molesting quiet eares with tragick cries,
When you accuse our chastitie's best part,
Nam'd cruelty, ye seem not halfe too wise;
Yea, ye yourselves it deem most worthy praise,
Beautie's best guard, that dragon which doth keep
Hesperian fruit, the spur in you does raise
That Delian wit that otherwaies may sleep:
To cruell nymphs your lines do fame afford,
Of many pittifull not one poore word.

IV.

If it be love to wake out all the night,
And watchfull eyes drive out in dewie moanes,
And when the sun brings to the world his light,
To waste the day in teares and bitter groanes;
If it be love to dim weake reason's beame
With clouds of strange desire, and make the mind
In hellish agonies a heav'n to dreame,
Still seeking comforts where but griefes we find;
If it be love to staine with wanton thought
A spotlesse chastity, and make it try
More furious flames than his whose cunning wrought
That brazen bull where he intomb'd did fry;
Then sure is love the causer of such woes,
Be ye our lovers, or our mortall foes.

V.

And would you then shake off love's golden chain,
With which it is best freedome to be bound;
And cruell do ye seek to heale the wound
Of love, which hath such sweet and pleasant paine?
All that is subject unto nature's raigne
In skies above, or on this lower round,
When it is long and far sought, end hath found,
Doth in decadens fall and slack remaine:
Behold the moon how gay her face doth grow
Till she kisse all the sun, then doth decay;
See how the seas tumultuously do flow
Till they embrace lov'd bankes, then post away:
So is't with love; unlesse you love me still,
O do not thinke I'le yeeld unto your will.