Classic Poem

I

Pish ! 'tis an idle fond excuse,
And injur'd love by this abuse
Is deaf to any longer truce.

II

My zeal to lust you still impute,
And, when I justifie my suit,
You tell mee: ' tis forbidden fruit .

III

What though your face be apple-round,
And with a rosy colour crown'd?
Yet, Sweet, it is no apple found.

IV

Nor have you ought resembling more
That fatall fruit, the tree once bore,
But that indeed your heart's a core.

V

'Tis true, the blisse, that I would tast,
Is somthing lower than the wast,
And in your gardens centre plac't.

VI

A tree of life too, I confesse,
Though but arbuscular in dresse,
Yet not forbidden nerethelesse.

VII

It is a tempting golden tree,
Which all men must desire, that see,
Though it concern'd eternitie.

VIII

Then, since those blessings are thine own,
Not subject to contrition,
Thou Fairest, Sweetest, graunt mee one.

IX

Thy Dragon wrapt in drowsinesse,
Nere thinks, whose bed thy beauties blesse,
Nor dreams of his Hesperides.