Classic Poem

Let baseborne Mindes of basest matters treate,
My selfe (with them) to trouble I not list:
The vulgar sort (they know not what) do speake,
Whilst gainst the Truth and Vertue they persist.
 HONOR'S the marke whereat I seeke to aime,
 Shame light on them that think on beastly shame.

So many men, so many Mindes (they say)
Yet at the last Truth alwaies shall prevaile,
Bringing her vowed Foe unto her bay,
Falshood (I meane) for all her masked Vaile.
 No Woman blame I, only I do seeke,
 Swanlike to sing, of my faire Sunne I leeke.

The Beauties which in other Ladies be,
I never had once thought for to disgrace:
Mine ALBA hath enough in store for me,
Thousand of Amours finde I in her face:
 Her would I praise, whose looks have pleasde me ever,
 From whom in hart disjoynd I will be never.

Faine would I make mine infant Pen to swell,
Through fervent zeale to blaze her Deitie,
That he her praise as Oracle might tell,
Raising the same t'the skies bright Canopie:
 That she (since she deserves) might famous bee,
 Beyond the Bounds of Albions utmost Sea.