Classic Poem

Bright Goddesse, (whether Jove thy father be;
Or Jove a father will be made by thee)
Oh crowne these praie'rs (mov'd in a happy hower)
But with one cordiall smile. for (loe) that power
Of Loves all-daring hand, that makes me burne,
Makes me confess't. Oh, doe not thou with scorn,
Great Nymph, o'relooke my lownesse. heav'n you know,
And all their fellow Deities will bow
Ev'en to the naked'st vowes. thou art my fate;
To thee the Parcae have given up of late
My threds of life. if then I shall not live
By thee; by thee yet lett me die. this give,
High beauties soveraigne, that my funerall flames
May draw their first breath from thy starry beames.
The Phaenix selfe shall not more proudly burne,
That fetcheth fresh life from her fruitfull urne.