Classic Poem

Your pardon Lady; by my troth I err,
I thought each face a painted Sepulcher,
That wore but beauty on't; I did suppose,
That outward beauty had been ominous.
And that t'had been so opposite to wit,
As it nere wisdome met, nor vertue it.
Your face confutes me, and I do begin
To know my errour, and repent my sin
For on those Rosie cheeks I plainly see
And read my former thoughts deformity
I could believe Hyperbolies, and think
That praise too low that flowes from pen and ink;
That you're all Angel; when I look on you,
I'm forc'd to think the Rampant'st fictions true.
Nay I dare swear (though once I did abhor it)
That Men love Women, and have reason for it
The Lapidaries now shall learn to set
Their Diamonds in gold, and not in Jet.
The Proverb's crost, for now a man may find
A beauteous face th'Index of such a mind
How I could praise you, and your worth display,
But that my ravish'd pen is forc'd to stay;
And when I think t'express your purer fashion,
My expressions turn to stupid Admiration
Natures perfection! She by forming thee
Proves she has now infallibility.
You're an Enchiridion, whom Heav'n did print,
To copy by, with no errata in't.
You're my Urania , nay within you be
The Muses met in their Tertrinity
Else how could I turn Poet, and retain,
My banish'd Muse into my thoughts again!
See what your wit, see what your beauty can;
T'make a Poet's more then t'make a Man;
I've wit b'infusion, nay I've beauty too,
I think I'm comely if you think me so
Add to your vertues love, and you may be
A wife for Jove , pray let that Jove be me.