Classic Poem

There is no Lover hee or shee,
That ever was or can be false.
Tis passion or symplycitie
Or some Apostacie that calls

Those votaries, those dead folke soe;
For if we goe
To vowes, to prayers, to paines, to all
The penuries Monasticall,
No bare foote man,
Rock Hermitt or Carthusian,
Can in a course of life survive
More strict or more contemplative.

For till that sparke of fyre be out,
As holy men are not allow'd
Among the Saints nor goe aboute
To prove them selves in sufferance proud,
Soe was there never Lover found
But under ground;
And if he tooke the style before,
And name uncanonized wore,
People might say,
This Saint hath nere a holliday,
But like a bold, unbidden Guest,
Intrudes uppon anothers feaste.

What desperate challenger is he,
Before he vanish in his flame,
What ere his paines or patience be,
That dares assume a Martyrs name;
For all the way he goes he's none,
Till he be gone.
'Tis death, not dyeing, that must doe
This right to them and Lovers too,
Which they approve,
That make and marr the Lawes of love.
Yet better cheape can none acquire
This Crowne of thornes, this Robe of fire.

'Tis not a yeare will serve to trye
How weake ones faith is or how strong;
In this austere Societye
Probation lasts a whole life long.
No observation singlie vowd
Is here allow'd.
Two heartes must joyne and then those two
Must both alike beleeve and doe;
But as a twynn,
This colledge takes no fellow in;
At home, abroade, in all affaires,
They live, they dye, they goe, by payres.

And as two Turtells that have pearcht
And interchangd their fervent eyes,
When each in others bosome searcht,
If either Male or Female dyes
And the live Bird survyvith still
To prune and bill,
Not only this that never pynde
Is thought of some forgettfull kynde,
But that's denyde
To be a Turtle true that died;
So fares it here that past all doubt
Th'instinct of Love findes Lovers out.

Hard happ when death cannot assure
What our whole lives have deerely bought,
But we must Relatives procure
To Answer every Loving thought.
'Tis much to dye; 'tis more to fynde
Two of my minde.