Classic Poem

My sweet Parthenophe, within thy face
My passions Calender may plaine be red:
The golden number told vpon thine hed,
The sunne dayes (which in carde I holy place
And which diuinely blesse me with their grace)
Thy chearefull smiles which can recall the dedde:
My working dayes, thy frownes from fauours fledde,
Which set a worke the furies in my brest
These dayes are six to one more then the rest:
My leape yeare is (oh when is that leape yeare)
When all my cares I ouerleape, and feast
With her fruition whom I hould most deare.
And if some Calenders the truth tell mee,
Once in fewe yeares, that happie leape shall bee.