Classic Poem

Weearie of Rest, thus resting in the Clift
Of this faire Cliffe (thine Alablaster chinne.)
She now begins hir selfe aloft to lift,
But ends hir course, soone as shee doth beginne:
For hauing scal'd, the neighb'ring hill, thy Lipp,
There soundly sleepes she, drunke with Cherry-wine;
From it (being moist, and slippie) she doth slipp,
To thy faire Teeth, which whitest white refine
From whence (awakt by thy words siluer sound)
She steales through the sweete Rose-banks of thy face;
Where shee is caught, and at their pleasure bound,
Til thine Eye-beames the Bond breake through their grace:
To which cleare Sunnes (thus drawne,) therein she spies
Loues heau'n: and still there, drownd in blisse, she lies!