Classic Poem

Deare fammish nott what you your self gave food;
Destroy nott what your glory is to save;
Kill nott that soule to which you spiritt gave;
In pitty, nott disdaine your triumph stood;

An easy thing itt is to shed the blood
Of one, who att your will, yeelds to the grave;
Butt more you may true worthe by mercy crave
When you preserve, nott spoyle, butt nurrish good;

Your sight is all the food I doe desire;
Then sacrifies mee nott in hidden fire,
Or stop the breath which did your prayses move:

Think butt how easy t'is a sight to give;
Nay ev'n deserte; since by itt I doe live,
I butt Camaelion-like would live, and love.