Classic Poem

A Daintie maid, that drawes her double name
From bitter sweetnesse, (with sweet bitternesse)
Did late my skill and faulty verses blame,
And to her loving friend did plain confesse,
That I my former credit foul did shame,
And might no more a poets name professe:
The cause that with my verse she was offended,
For womens levitie I discommended.

Too true you said, that poet I was never,
And I confesse it (fair) if that content ye,
That then I playd the poet lesse then ever;
Not, for of such a verse I now repent me,
(Poets to feigne, and make fine lies endeavour)
But I the truth, truth (ah!) too certain sent ye:
Then that I am no poet I denie not;
For when their lightnesse I condemne, I ly not.

But if my verse had ly'd against my minde,
And praised that which truth cannot approve,
And falsly said, they were as fair as kinde,
As true as sweet, their faith could never move,
But sure is linkt where constant love they finde,
That with sweet braving they vie truth and love;
If thus I write, it cannot be deni'd
But I a poet were, so foul I ly'd.

But give me leave to write as I have found:
Like ruddy apples are their outsides bright,
Whose skin is fair, the core or heart unsound;
Whose cherry-cheek the eye doth much delight,
But inward rottennesse the taste doth wound:
Ah! were the taste so good as is the sight,
To pluck such apples (lost with self same price)
Would back restore us part of paradise.

But truth hath said it, (truth who dare denie?)
Men seldome are, more seldome women sure:
But if (fair-sweet) thy truth and constancie
To better faith thy thoughts and minde procure,
If thy firm truth could give firm truth the lie,
If thy first love will first and last endure;
Thou more then woman art, if time so proves thee,
And he more then a man, that loved loves thee.