Classic Poem

On the First Table

The Graces in their glory never gave
A rich or greater good to womankind,
That more impales their honors with the palm
Of high renown, than matchless constancy.
Beauty is vain, accounted but a flower,
Whose painted hue fades with the summer sun;
Wit oft hath wreck by self-conceit of pride;
Riches are trash that fortune boasteth on.
Constant in love who tries a woman's mind,
Wealth, beauty, wit, and all in her doth find.

On the Second Table

The fairest gem, oft blemish'd with a crack,
Loseth his beauty and his virtue too;
The fairest flower, nipp'd with the winter's frost,
In snow seems worser than the basest weed;
Virtues are oft far over-stain'd with faults.
Were she as fair as Phoebe in her sphere,
Or brighter than the paramour of Mars,
Wiser than Pallas, daughter unto Jove,
Of greater majesty than Juno was,
More chaste than Vesta, goddess of the maids,
Of greater faith than fair Lucretia;
Be she a blab, and tattles what she hears,
Want to be secret gives far greater stains,
Than virtue's glory which in her remains.