Classic Poem

A friend, though a stranger to the Author.

When I by chance do reade thy dulcet Verse,
I cannot (though a stranger, yet thy friend,
Thy passions be so pleasing, and so pierce)
But give thee Due, and them (of right) commend.
So cunningly thy Verse doth joyne with Art,
Thy griefes makes yerne the hardest Readers hart.

If thou dost write, thou others dost enflame,
Thy stile is pure (well nie Celestiall)
Like to the Sunne sparkling his beames amaine,
Or like the Fire, whose heate doth soone appale.
To heare thy selfe (not others) sing, I long,
Sweet Bird thy Notes are sweete, sweet is thy Song.

Sing then sweet Bird with Ruddie Breast thy fill ,
For I do love, affect and honor thee.
Thou Sweet, I Constant, so continuing still,
A Cignet thou, and Ile a Lover bee:
So shall no love be like the love of mine,
No stile compare with stile so rare of thine.

Then be not mute, when thou maist gently move;
Keep not (alwaies) thy sorrowes to thy selfe;
Still mone not privatly like turtle Dove;
Content of Mind's worth all: seeke thine owne Health.
Thinke All things have their course; the time may come,
Though now obscurde, yet bright may shine thy Sunne.