Classic Poem

In praise of a little mole like scab, that like a rude scab chanced to take my fancies soueraigne by the hand

S O pure's the fountaine of her pretious blood
As if it (through the veynes that it conuay)
Meetes ought that (like her) is not passing good;
It thrusts it out, which in the skin doth stay
Yet while it stayes, — a scab, O call it not,
(Sith it is but her deere blouds cheaper part)
Nay call it not so much as mole, or spot,
But Beauties shadow done by Nature's art
Or if not so (though so it seemes to sence)
Call it Perfections bvt; wherein she shootes
Her angers shafts against the pestelence,
To pull infection from her by the rootes:
Or if not so, call it Dianaes stand,
Wherein shee stood to strike the deere (her hand).