Classic Poem

I chanc'd sweet Lesbia's voice to heare,
O that the pleasure of the eare
Contented had the appetite;
But I must satisfy the sight;
Where such a face I chanc'd to see
From which good Lord deliver me.
Is't not prophane if I should tell
I thought her one of those that fell
With Lucifers Apostate traine
Yet did her Angels voice retaine?
A cherubin her notes descry'd,
A Divell every where beside.
Aske the dark woods, and they'le confesse
None did such Harmony expresse
In all their bowres from May to June,
Yet ne're was face so out of tune.
Her Virginall teeth false time did keep,
Her wrinkled forhead went too deep.
Lower then Gammut sunke her eyes,
'Bove Ela though her nose did rise.
I'le trust Musitians now that tell
Best musique doth in discords dwell.
Her ayres entic'd the gentle quire
Of Birds to come, who all admire,
And would with pleasure longer stay,
But that her looks frights them away.
Which for a good Priapus goes
And well may serve to scarre the crowes.
Her voice might tempt th'immortall race,
But let her only shew her face,
And soone shee might extinguish thus
The lusting of an Incubus .
So have I seene a lute ore worne,
Old and rotten, patcht and torne,
So ravish with a sound, and bring
A close so sweet to every string,
As would strike wonder in our eares,
And work an envy in the Spheares.
Say monster strange, what maist thou be?
Whence shall I fetch thy Pedigree?
What but a Panther could beget
A beast so foule, a breath so sweet?
Or thou of Syrens issue art,
If they be fish the upper part.
Or else blind Homer was not mad
Then when he sung Ulysses had
So strange a guift from Æolus ,
Who odour-breathing Zephyrus
In severall bottles did inclose,
For certain thou art one of those.
Thy lookes, where other women place
Their chiefest Pride, is thy disgrace.
The tongue, a part which us'd to be
Worst in thy Sexe, is best in thee.
Were I but now to choose my deare
Not by my eye, but by my eare,
Here would I dote; how shall I wooe
Thy voice, and not thy body too?
Then all the brood I get of thee,
Would Nightingalls, and Cygnets be:
Cygnets betimes their throats to trye,
Born with more Musique then they dye.
Say Lesbia , say, what God will blesse
Our Loves with so much happinesse?
Some women are all tongue, but
Why art not thou my Lesbia so!
Thy looks doe speak thee witch; one spell
To make thee but invisible,
Or dye; resigne thy selfe to death,
And I will catch thy latest breath;
But that the nose will scarce I feare
Finde it so sweet, as did the eare.
Or if thou wouldst not have me coy
As was the selfe-inamour'd Boy,
Turne only Voice, an Eccho prove,
Here, here, by heav'n, I fixe my Love:
If not, you Gods, to ease my mind,
Or make her dumbe, or strike me blind;
For griefe, and anger in me rise
Whil'st shee hath tongue, or I have eyes.