Classic Poem

Love flows not from my liver but her living,
From whence all stings to perfect love are darted
All power, and thought of prideful lust depriving
Her life so pure and she so spotless hearted.
In whom sits beauty with so firm a brow,
That age, nor care, nor torment can contract it;
Heaven's glories shinning there, do stuff allow,
And virtue's constant graces do compact it.
Her mind--the beam of God--draws in the fires
Of her chaste eyes, from all earth's tempting fuel;
Which upward lifts the looks of her desires,
And makes each precious thought in her a jewel.
And as huge fires compressed more proudly flame,
So her close beauties further blaze her fame.