Classic Poem

Such Achmat is, the Turks great Emperour,
Third sonne to Mahomet , whose youthly spring
But now with blossom'd cheek begins to flowre;
Out of his face you well may read a King:
Which who will throughly view, will eas'ly finde
A perfect Index to his haughty minde.

Within his breast, as in a palace, lie
Wakefull ambition leagu'd with hastie pride;
Fiercenesse alli'd with Turkish Majestie;
Rests hate, in which his father living dy'd:
Deep in his heart such Turkish vertue lies,
And thus looks through the window of his eyes.

His pleasure (farre from pleasure) is to see
His navie spread her wings unto the winde:
In stead of gold, arms fill his treasurie,
Which (numberlesse) fill not his greedie minde.
The sad Hungarian fears his tried might;
And waning Persia trembles at his sight.

His greener youth, most with the heathen spent,
Gives Christian Princes justest cause to fear
His riper age, whose childhood thus is bent.
A thousand trophies will he shortly rear,
Unlesse that God, who gave him first this rage,
Binde his proud head in humble vassalage.