Classic Poem

Now Phebus is gone downe to sleepe
In could embraces of the Deepe,
And Night's Pavillion in the sky,
(Crownd with a starry Canopy)
Erected stands, whence the pale Moone
Steales out to her Endimion;
Over the Meads, and o're the Floods,
Through the Ridings of the woods,
Th' enamour'd Huntresse scowrs the ways,
And through night's veil her hornes desplays.
I have a Bower for my Love,
Hid in the Center of a Grove
Of aged oakes, close from the sight
Of all the prying eyes of Night.
The polisht walls of Marble bee
Pillastre'd round with porphyry,
Casements of crystall to transmitt
Night's sweets to thee, and thyne to itt,
Fine Silver Locks to Ebon Doores,
Rich Gilded Roofes, and Cedar Floores,
With all the objects may expresse
A pleasing Solitarinesse.
Within my Love shall find each Roome,
Clad from the pretty Silke-wormes Loome
Vessells of the true Antick mold,
Cups cutt in Amber, Myrrhe and Gold;
Quilts blone with Roses, Beds with downe,
More whyte than Atlas Aged Crown,
Carpetts where flowers woven grow,
Only thy sweeter stepps to strew,
Such as may Emulation bringe,
To the wrought Mantle of the Springe.
There Silver Lamps shall sylent shine,
Supplyd by oyles of Jessamine,
And Mists of Odours shall arise
To ayre thy little Parradise.
I have such fruits too, for thy tast,
As teeming Autumne never grast,
Apples, as rownd, as thyne own eyes;
Or, as thy sister Beauties prize,
Smooth, as thy snowy skin and sleeke
And ruddy as the Mornings Cheeke,
Grapes, that the Tyrian purple weare,
The spritely Matrons of the yeare,
Such, as Lyaeus never bare
About his drowsy browes, soe fayre,
Soe plump, soe large, soe ripe, soe good,
So full of flavour, and of blood.
There's Water in a grot hard by,
To quench thy thirst, when thou are dry,
Sweete, as the Milke of sand-redd Cow,
Brighter than Cynthia's silver bow,
Cold, as the goddesse self ere was,
And clearer than thy Looking-Glass.
But oh! the Summe of all delight
For which the day submitts to Night,
Is that my Phillis thou wilt find,
When wee are in embraces twin'd.
Pleasures that soe have tempted Jove.
To all his Masquerades of Love;
For them the Prince his purple waves,
And stripps him Naked as his Slaves.
'Tis they that teach humanity
The thing wee Love, the reson why:
Before wee live; but nere till then,
Are females women; or Males Men:
This is the way, and this the Trade,
That does perfect what Nature made,
Then goe; but first thy Beauties skreene,
Lest they that revel on the Lawns,
The Nimphes, the Satyrs, and the Fawns,
Adore thee for Nights Horned Queene.