Classic Poem

Love thou art absolute, sole Lord
Of life and death — To prove the word,
Wee need to goe to none of all
Those thy old souldiers, stout and tall
Ripe and full growne, that could reach downe,
With strong armes their triumphant crowne:
Such as could with lusty breath,
Speake lowd unto the face of death
Their great Lords glorious name, to none
Of those whose large breasts built a throne
For love their Lord, glorious and great,
Weell see him take a private seat,
And make his mansion in the milde
And milky soule of a soft childe.

Scarce had shee learnt to lisp a name
Of Martyr, yet shee thinkes it shame
Life should so long play with that breath,
Which spent can buy so brave a death.