Classic Poem

F EICH me an Occulist for the Sunne
And bid some Posthume blow the Moone,
For since my Mrs eyes appear'd
Those illustrious twins are blear'd.
The Chrystall Orbe that Rowls aboue
Doubles its heaven in my love;
Where each reflexion that 's espy'd
Returnes the body glorifyed.
How poore is Jove, whoe Nectar sipps,
While I drinke healthes vpon her lippes;
Those Ruddy grapes which, plump with blisse,
Bleede at the wine-presse of a Kisse.
Heere Virgins of the Vestall Quire
Her lip Enshrine; the immortall fire,
The lovely warmth that it bequeathes,
Kindling the incense which shee breathes.
To which then shall I first apply?
Hot service both in lip and eye.
And if her lookes can scortch a suter,
Tis ordiall tryall to salute her.