Classic Poem

Sir,
When you view these cheker'd lines and see,
How (bate the colour) like your face they be,
You'll think this sheet to be your looking glass,
And all these spots, the Eccoes of your face
Wherein Disease and Love their field have pight,
To try which is more lovely Red, or White
Like our late Souldiers, who more rage did show,
Unto the place that fed them, then their foe
Sickness, loves Rivall, envying the place,
Where Cupid chose to pitch his tents, your face,
Went to write foul, but Cupid made it prove,
Spite of his spite, the alphabet of love.
So as they strove, love serv'd him in his trim,
For as that set on you, this set on him
And love that conquers all things, soon made known,
To him a burning, greater then his own.
Accurst disease! durst thou come, crawling hither
To separate, whom Heaven had joyn'd together?
Had'st thou no time to vent thy rage, but this,
When swelling hopes did dawn towards their bliss?
I'th' interregnum 'twixt desires and joyes.
The cursed Vigil of blest holy dayes!
What pitty 'tis that face where love has been,
So oft, so proud to play so sweetly in,
By thy dire hand should be ore-turned thus,
As to be made a Campus Martius ,
Wherein the angry York and Lancaster ,
New-vampe and do retrive their musty stir?
As if the Red rose and the white would be,
Where ere they met, still at Antipathy;
A face that was as clear as day, as bright,
Should bud with stars like an enamell'd night;
Your sickness meant to turn Astronomer,
Your face the Heaven, and every spot a Star.
Or else would write an Almanack, and raise,
By those red Letters, nought but holy-dayes.
Were it your Butlers face, a Man would think,
They had but been new boylings of the drink;
Or had his nose been such, one would have swore,
'Twere red with anger, 'cause he'd drink no more
Or had your keeper such, hee'ld sell it all
For harts-horn to make hafts of knives withall
Or if your Cooks were such, how it would fit,
To grate your ginger, or nutmegs with it?
But why on your face? what was his design?
Was it to break the Hymeneal twine,
That was half twisted? Tush! hee's much mistook,
Your love was past the criss-cross of a look;
And your affections are of riper age,
Then now to gaze on beauties title page.
Or barely dwell upon the face, those toyes
Are Oceand in the hopes of future joyes.
Then blush no more, but let your Mistress know,
They're but Love-letters written on your brow,
Etch'd by th' engravers hand, there she may see,
That beautie's subject to mortality
How frail a thing it is, how vain t'adore it,
What fools are they that love or marry for it;
And that this sickness which hath curb'd you, is
But the sad prologue to your future bliss.
An Ember-week or Lent, which alwayes falls,
As fasting-eves before your festivals.
'I will make you prize your joy the more when't comes,
Usher'd along by tedious Martyrdomes.
How acceptable is a plenteous boul,
When 'tis carowsed by a thirsty soul!
So have I seen the winter strip the trees,
To fit them for their vernal Liveries!
And cloth th'old Earth in gray, nip every thing,
Before it rowles it self into the spring.
So has black night begot a gray-ey'd day,
So Sol does rout conspiring clouds with Ray;
As through this sickness does your joyes come on,
And gulfe your hopes in firm fruition.
When your red-rose clubs with your Ladies white,
And as the Ancient flowers did unite,
Your happiness will swell, and you will prove
The Gemini of joy, as now of Love
These things I guess not by your face, I find
Your front is not the Index of your mind.
Yet by your Physnomy, thus much is ment,
You are not spotles though you're innocent
Sir if these verses go a halting pace,
They stumble in the vallies of your face.