Classic Poem

As some great Conquerour, who knows no bounds,
But hunting honour in a thousand wounds,
Pursues his rage, and thinks that triumph cheap
That's but attended with the common heap,
Till his more happy fortune doth afford
Some royall Captive that deserv'd his sword
(And onely now is of his Laurell proud,
Thinking his dangerous valour well bestow'd,)
But then retreats, and spending hate no more,
Thinks mercy now what courage was before:
As cowardize in fight, so equally
He doth abhorre a bloody Victory
So (Madam) though perhaps you were allow'd
To be severe unto the yielding croud,
That were subdu'd ere you an object knew
Worthy your conquest and your mercy too;
But now 'tis gain'd, your Victory's compleat,
Onely your clemency should be as great
None will dispute the power of your eys,
That understand Philaster is their prize.
Hope not your glory can have new access,
For all your future trophys will go less:
But with this homage be you satsify'd,
From him that conquers all the world beside;
Nor let your rigour now the Triumph blot,
And loose the honour which your beauty got
Be Just and kind to your own peace and fame,
In being so to him, for they're the same,
And live and dy at once; if you would be
Nobly transmitted to posterity,
Take heed least in the Story they peruse
A murder which no language can excuse,
But wisely spare the trouble of one frown,
Give him his happiness, and know your own.
Thus shall you be as honour's self esteem'd,
Who have one sex obleig'd, your own redeem'd.
Thus the religion due unto your shrine.
Shall be as Universall, as divine:
And that devotion shall this blessing gaine,
Which Law and reason doe attempt in vain:
The world shall Joyne, maintaining but one strife,
Who shall most thank you for Philaster's Life.