Classic Poem

palamon:Hail Sovereign Queen of secrets, who hast power
To call the fiercest Tyrant from his rage;
And weep unto a Girl; that hast the might
Even with an eye-glance, to choak Marsis Drum
And turn th' allarm to whispers, that canst make
A Cripple florish with his Crutch, and cure him
Before Apollo; that may'st force the King
To be his subjects vassal, and induce
Stale gravity to [daunce], the pould Batchelor
Whose youth like wanton boys through Bonfires
Have skipt thy flame, at seventy, thou canst catch
And make him to the scorn of his hoarse throat
Abuse young lays of Love; what godlike power
Hast thou not power upon? To Phoebus thou
Add'st flames, hotter than his the heavenly fires
Did scorch his mortal Son, thine him; the huntress
All moist and cold, some say, began to throw
Her Bow away, and sigh: take to thy grace
Me thy vow'd Soldier, who do bear thy yoak
As 'twere a wreath of Roses, yet is heavier
Than Lead it self, stings more than Nettles;
I have never been foul-mouth'd against thy Law,
Ne'er reveal'd secret, for I knew none; would not
Had I ken'd all that were; I never practis'd
Upon mans wife, nor would the Libels read
Of liberal wits: I never at great feasts
Sought to betray a beauty, but have blush'd
At simpring Sirs that did: I have been harsh
To large Confessors, and have hotly ask'd 'em
If they had Mothers, I had one, a woman,
And women 't were they wrong'd. I knew a man
Of eighty winters, this I told them, who
A Lass of fourteen brided, 'twas thy power
To put life into dust, the aged Cramp
Had screw'd his square foot round,
The Gout had knit his fingers into knots,
Torturing Convulsions from his globy eies,
Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life
In him seem'd torture: this Anatomie
Had by his young fair [pheare] a Boy, and I
Believ'd it was his, for she swore it was,
And who would not believe her? brief I am
To those that prate, and have done, no Companion;
To those that boast and have not, a defyer;
To those that would and cannot, a Rejoycer.
Yea him I do not love, that tells close offices
The foulest way, nor names concealments in
The boldest language, such a one I am,
And vow that lover never yet made sigh
Truer than I. Oh then most soft sweet goddess
Give me the victory of this question, which
Is true loves merit, and bless me with a sign
Of thy great pleasure.
Here Musick is heard, Doves are seen to flutter, they fall again upon their faces, then on their knees.
Oh thou that from eleven to ninety reign'st
In mortal bosoms, whose Chase is this world
And we in Herds thy Game; I give thee thanks
For this fair Token, which being laid unto
Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance
They bow.
My body to this business; Let us rise
And bow before the goddess: Time comes on.
Exeunt.