Classic Poem

Teach me to love? Go, teach thyself more wit:
I chief professor am of it.
Teach craft to Scots and thrift to Jews;
Teach boldness to the stews;
In tyrants' courts teach supple flattery;
Teach Jesuits, that have travelled far, to lie;
Teach fire to burn and winds to blow;
Teach restless fountains how to flow;
Teach the dull earth, fixed, to abide;
Teach womankind inconstancy and pride;
See if your diligence here will useful prove:
But, prithee, teach not me to love.

The god of love, if such a thing there be,
May learn to love from me.
He who does boast that he has bin
In every heart since Adam's sin,
I'll lay my life, nay mistress on't (that's more)
I'll teach him things he never knew before.
I'll teach him a receipt to make
Words that weep and tears that spark;
I'll teach him sighs like those in death,
At which the souls go out too with the breath:
Still the soul stays, yet still does from me run,
As light and heat does with the sun.

'Tis I who love's Columbus am; 'tis I
Who must new worlds in it descry:
Rich worlds that yield of treasure more
Than all that has been known before.
And yet like his, I fear, my fate must be
To find them out for others, not for me.
Me times to come, I know it, shall
Love's last and greatest prophet call.
But, ah, what's that if she refuse
To hear the wholesome doctrines of my muse?
If to my share the prophet's fate must come,
Hereafter fame, here martyrdom.