Classic Poem

When Janus' keys unlock the gates above,
And throw more age on our sublunar lands,
I sacrifice with flowers of fervent love
These hecatombs of kisses to thy hands;
Their worth is small, but thy deserts are such,
They'll pass in worth if once thy shrine they touch.

Laugh but on them, and then they will compare
With all the harvest of th' Arabian field,
With all the pride of that perfumed air
Which winged troops of musked zephyrs yield,
When with their breath th' embalm th' Elysian plain,
And make the flowers reflect those scents again.

Yea they will be more sweet in their conceit
Than Venus' kisses spent on Adon's wounds;
Than those wherewith pale Cynthia did entreat
The lovely shepherd of the Latian bounds;
And than those which Jove's ambrosian mouth
Prodigaliz'd upon the Trojan youth.

I know they cannot such acceptance find,
If rigor censure their uncourtly frame,
But thou art courteous, and wilt call to mind
Th' excuse which shields both me and them from blame;
My muse was but a novice unto this,
And, being virgin, scarce well taught to kiss.