Classic Poem

SAT. VII.

Great is the folly of a feeble braine,
Ore-ruld with loue, and tyrannous disdaine:
For loue, how-euer in the basest brest
It breeds high thoughts that feede the fancy best,
Yet is he blinde, and leades poore fooles awrie,
While they hang gazing on their mistres-eie.
The loue-sicke Poet, whose importune prayer
Repulsed is with resolute dispayre,
Hopeth to conquer his disdainfull dame,
With publique plaints of his conceiued flame.
Then poures he forth in patched Sonettings
His loue, his lust, and loathsome flatterings:
As tho the staring world hangd on his sleeue,
When once he smiles, to laugh: and when he sighs, to grieue.
Careth the world, thou loue, thou liue, or die?
Careth the world how fayre thy fayre one bee?
Fond wit-old, that would'st lode thy wit-lesse head
With timely hornes, before thy Bridall bed.
Then can he terme his durtie ill-fac'd bride
Lady and Queene, and virgin deifide:
Be shee all sootie-blacke, or bery-browne,
Shees white as morrows milk, or flaks new blowne.
And tho she be some dunghill drudge at home,
Yet can he her resigne some refuse roome
Amids the well-knowne stars: or if not there,
Sure will he Saint her in his Calendere.