Classic Poem

Sir Hudibras courts the Lady

Quoth he, My faith as adamantine
As chains of destiny I'll maintain;
True as Apollo ever spoke,
Or oracle from heart of oak.
And if you'll give my flame but vent,
Now in close hugger-mugger pent,
And shine upon me but benignly
With that one, and that other pigsney,
The sun and day shall sooner part
Than love, or you, shake off my heart;
The sun that shall no more dispense
His own, but your bright influence.
I'll carve your name on barks of trees,
With true-love-knots, and flourishes,
That shall infuse eternal spring
And everlasting flourishing;
Drink ev'ry letter on't, in stum;
And make it brisk champagne become.
Where'er you tread your foot shall set
The primrose and the violet;
All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders,
Shall borrow from your breath their odours;
Nature her charter shall renew,
And take all lives of things from you;
The world depend upon your eye,
And when you frown upon it, die:
Only our loves shall still survive,
New worlds and natures to outlive,
And, like to heralds' moons, remain
All crescents, without change or wane.

Hold, hold, quoth she, no more of this;
Sir Knight, you take your aim amiss;
For you will find it a hard chapter
To catch me with poetic rapture,
In which your mastery of art
Doth shew itself, and not your heart:
Nor will you raise in mine combustion
By dint of high heroic fustian.
She that with poetry is won
Is but a desk to write upon;
And what men say of her they mean
No more, than that on which they lean.