Classic Poem

Madam, had all antiquity been lost,
All history sealed up, and fables crossed;
That we had left us, nor by time, nor place,
Least mention of a nymph, a muse, a grace,
But even their names were to be made anew,
Who could not but create them all, from you?
He, that but saw you wear the wheaten hat,
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that:
And, dressed in shepherd's 'tire, who would not say:
You were the bright Oenone, Flora, or May?
If dancing, all would cry the Idalian queen,
Were leading forth the graces on the green:
And armed to the chase, so bare her bow
Diana alone, so hit, and hunted so.
There's none so dull, that for your stile would ask,
That saw you put on Pallas' plumed casque:
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sat, and yet no peacock by.
So are you Nature's index, and restore,
In yourself, all treasure lost of th'age before.