Classic Poem

Paris usurped roome resigne in lady Pleasures court:
Thy mungrell choice in such a flurte deserves a foule report,
Whose kytish trickes in gadding moode with every checke to stray,
God knowes, I want both art and witt, in coulers fresh to wray.

Sufficeth yet thy mart to mare, shee bitt at every baite,
Wher one good turne in toile thou reapst thy passage was not straight;
Why wronge I thus poore Hellen now? shee was to good for thee,
Whom fate did cast from Priams court a sheepeherd poore to bee.

Whereas in Ida mount thou wraydst thy willful will, ywisse,
Which wealth and wisedome didst refuse to bathe in wanton blisse,
Yet sure thy blisse was brude with bale, thy selfe will judge the same.
What! blush not, man, to blase a truth; in faith it is no shame.

Thy jelous thought supprest thy joy, thy foes increast thy feare,
Thy love in armes, loude larums wilde embracements to forbeare;
Thy kinsmen slaine, thou reft of love and life in little time,
What peevish pride then moves thy thought, dame Pleasures mount to clime?

Avaunt, avaunt! give place to him whom fortune still doth guide,
Whose choice doth passe, without her plague, faire Hellen in her pride,
Within whose hart doth pittie rule, in whom dame bountie dwells,
To whom faire Venus yeelds her ball, her beautie so excels.

Her constant love, longe wisht, I wonne: she mov'de no goddis yre,
She shed no bloud, she slue no friend, shee sat no towne on fire:
Her modest life exiles mistrust, and jelousie doth chace.
In faith, I feare no lowde alarmes when I my love embrace.

And yet I dare with Paris joyne, if Paris scorne her praise:
I enter now the listes of love, my ladyes fame to raise;
And proudely there my gauntlet throwes a quarrell streight to snatch,
With him yet dare maintaine she lives which may faire L[a]ymos match.

Let lingring lovers reft of rest, whom scorne hath left in lash,
Let careless suters try their force to praise their painted trash;
Let happie wightes, which bath in blisse, my sharpe incounter prove,
Whom Venus, with aspect of grace, hath linckt to yeelding love.

And let them eake, through passing joy which stands in pleasures grace,
Bestow their force, if that they dare, my fortunes to deface;
Who bathes in waves of wished blisse, with brave delight who maskes,
Who findes amends for every misse, who hath but what hee askes.