Classic Poem

Leave Caelia, leave the woods to chase,
'Tis not a sport, nor yet a place
For one that has so sweet a face.

Nets in thy hand, Nets in thy brow,
In every limb a snare, and thou
Dost lavish them thou car'st not how.

Fond Girle these wild haunts are not best
To hunt: nor is a Savage beast
A fit prey for so sweet a breast.

O do but cast thine eyes behind,
I'll carry thee where thou shalt find
A tame heart of a better kind.

One that hath set soft snares for thee,
Snares where if once thou fettered be,
Thou'lt never covet to be free.

The Dews of April , the Winds of May
That flow'rs the Meads, and glads the Day
Are not more soft, more sweet than they.

And when thou chancest for to kill,
Thou needst not fear no other ill
Than Turtles suffer when they Bill.