Classic Poem

Misdeeming eye! that stoopest to the lure
Of mortall worthes, not worth so worthy love;
All beautye's base, all graces are impure,
That do thy erring thoughtes from God remove.
Sparkes to the fire, the beames yeld to the sunne,
All grace to God, from Whome all graces runne.

If picture move, more should the paterne please;
No shadow can with shadowed thinge compare,
And fayrest shapes, whereon our loves do ceaze,
But sely signes of God's high beautyes are.
Go, sterving sense, feede thou on earthly maste;
Trewe love, in heaven seeke thou thy sweete repast.

Gleane not in barrayne soyle these offall-eares,
Sith reape thou mayst whole harvests of delighte;
Base joyes with greifes, bad hopes do end in feares,
Lewd love with losse, evill peace with dedly fighte:
God's love alone doth end with endlesse ease,
Whose joyes in hope, whose hope concludes in peace.

Lett not the luringe trayne of phansies trapp,
Or gracious features, proofes of Nature's skill,
Lull Reason's force asleepe in Error's lapp,
Or drawe thy witt to bent of wanton will.
The fayrest floures have not the sweetest smell;
A seeminge heaven proves oft a damninge hell.

Selfe-pleasing soules, that play with beautye's bayt,
In shyning shroud may swallowe fatall hooke;
Where eager sight on semblant faire doth waite,
A locke it proves, that first was but a looke:
The fishe with ease into the nett doth glyde,
But to gett out the waie is not so wide.

So long the fly doth dally with the flame,
Untill his singed winges do force his fall;
So long the eye doth followe phancie's game,
Till love hath left the hart in heavy thrall.
Soone may the mynde be cast in Cupide's gaile,
But hard it is imprisoned thoughtes to bayle.

O loath that love whose finall ayme is luste,
Moth of the mind, eclipse of reason's lighte;
The grave of grace, the mole of Nature's rust,
The wrack of witt, the wronge of every right.
In summe, an evill whose harmes no tongue can tell;
In which to live is death, to die is hell.