Classic Poem

To thee Belona's choisest Champion
Whose woundes , if steept in dew of Castalie ,
(As they deserve) would make thee such an one
As Pagans vs'd for God to glorifie
How oft hast thou thy selfe to wounds expos'd
To let in glory through thy gored sides!
That through thy flesh it might be so dispos'd
As in each part thereof it now abides?
How prodigall hast thou bin of thy bloud?
No more is left then meerely life maintaines:
The fatt Calfe must be kill'd to do thee good
Thy hart to comfort, and to fill thy Vaines .
O tis a glorious prodigalitie
That spends what not? for God & Conterie!