Classic Poem

Triumphant Queen of scorne, how ill doth sit
In all that sweetnesse such injurious wit?
Unjust and cruell, what can be your prize,
To make one heart a double sacrifise?
Where such ingenious rigour you do show
To breake his heart, you breake your image too;
And by a tiranny that's strange and new,
You murther him because he worships you
No pride can raise you, or can make him start,
Since love and honour do inrich his heart
Be wise and good, least when fate will be just,
She should o'rethrow those gloryes in the dust,
Rifle your beautyes, and you thus forlorne
Make a cheape victim to another's scorne;
And in those fetters which you do upbraid,
Your selfe a wretched Captive may be made
Redeem the poison'd age, let it be seen
There's no such freedome as to serve a Queen
But you I see are lately Roundhead growne,
And whom you vanquish you insult upon.