Classic Poem

O FT have I lov'd, but ne'er aright,
Till th' other day I saw a sight
That shot me through and through with conq'ring light.

A Beauty of so rare a frame
As does all other Beauties shame,
And renders Poetry to praise it lame.

Poor sotted Poets, cease to praise
Your Laura's, Cynthia's, Lydia's ,
Fondly ador'd in your mistaken days.

Tell me no more of golden hair,
Of all ill colours the worst wear,
And renders beauty terrible as fair.

Almanna 's curls are black as night,
Thorough whose sable rings a white,
Whiter than whiteness, strikes the wounded sight.

Tell me no more of arched brows,
Nor henceforth call them Cupid 's Bows,
Which common praise to common form allows.

Hers, shining, smooth, and black as Jet,
Short, thick, and even without fret,
Exceed all Simile and counterfeit.

Study no more for Eulogies,
For English gray, or French blew eyes,
Which never yet but of a Fool made prize.

Almanna 's eyes are such as none
Could ever dare to gaze upon,
But in a trice he found his heart was gone.

Those lights the coldest bloud can thaw,
And hearts by their attraction draw,
As warm chaf'd Jet licks up a trembling straw.

No more for cheeks make senseless Posies
Of Lillies white, and Damask Roses,
Which more of fancy than of truth discloses.

In hers Complexion's mixed so,
That white and red together grow,
Like Lovers bloud sprinkled on Virgin Snow.

Cease, cease of Coral Lips to prate,
Of Rubies, and I can't tell what,
Those Epithets are all grown state and flat.

Almanna 's rosie lips are such,
To praise them is for wit too much,
Till first inspir'd by their most blessed touch.

No more hang teeth upon a string,
And ropes of Pearl for Grinders bring,
Your Treasure is too poor an Offering.

Comparisons doe hers no right,
Ivory's yellow in their sight,
Which are than all things but themselves more white.

No more of Odours go in quest
As far as the remotest East,
Thence to perfume a Ladies rotten Chest.

Her breath, much sweeter than the Spring
With all its join'd perfumes can bring,
Gives life and happy life to ev'ry thing.

Tell me no more of Swan-white breasts,
Which you call little Cupid 's nests,
In those you praise fit for such wanton guests

Almanna 's ten times whiter are
Than those of the supremest fair,
But yet, alas! no Loves inhabit there.

Oh! set your wits no more o' th' laste,
To praise a Nymph's contorted Waste,
By such admirers fit to be embrac'd;

Here is a shape, and such a one,
As regulates Proportion,
And but to see is half Fruition.

Tell me no more Poetick lies,
Of hard, cold, crusted, marble thighs,
Hopeless and fond impossibilities;

Hers, by the rule of Symmetry,
Although unseen, we know must be
Above the poor report of Poetry.

Tell me no more of Legs and Feet,
Where Grace and Elegancy meet,
But leave your lying, and come here to see't;

Here's shape, invention that disgraces,
And when she moves the charming Graces
Both number, figure and adjust her paces:

But to this shape there is a mind
From flesh and bloud so well refin'd,
As renders her the Glory of her Kind.

On the World's Centre never yet
Were Form and Vertue so well met,
Nor priceless Diamond so neatly set.

Beauty, but Beauty is alone,
But fair Almanna 's such a one
As Earth may glory in, and Heav'n may own.

Almanna is the onely she
Deserves the gen'ral Eulogy,
The praise of all the rest is Poetry.