Classic Poem

Rich Statue, double-faced,
With Marble Temples graced,
To rayse thy God-head hyer,
In flames where Altars shining,
Before thy Priests divining,
Doe od'rous Fumes expire.

Great J ANUS , I thy pleasure,
With all the Thespian Treasure,
Doe seriously pursue;
To th' passed yeere returning,
As though the old adjourning,
Yet bringing in the new.

Thy ancient Vigils yeerely,
I have observed cleerely,
Thy Feasts yet smoaking bee;
Since all thy store abroad is,
Give something to my Goddesse,
As hath been us'd by thee.

Give her th' Eoan brightnesse,
Wing'd with that subtill lightnesse,
That doth trans-pierce the Ayre;
The Roses of the Morning
The rising Heav'n adorning,
To mesh with flames of Hayre.

Those ceaselesse Sounds, above all,
Made by those Orbes that move all,
And ever swelling there,
Wrap'd up in Numbers flowing,
Them actually bestowing,
For Jewels at her Eare.

O Rapture great and holy,
Doe thou transport me wholly,
So well her for me to vary,
That I aloft may beare her,
Whereas I will insphere her
In Regions high and starry.

And in my choise Composures,
The soft and easie Closures,
So amorously shall meet;
That ev'ry lively Ceasure
Shall tread a perfect Measure,
Set on so equall feet.

That Spray to fame so fertle,
The Lover-crowning Mirtle,
In Wreaths of mixed Bowes,
Within whose shades are dwelling
Those Beauties most excelling,
Inthron'd upon her Browes.

Those Paralels so even,
Drawne on the face of Heaven,
That curious Art supposes,
Direct those Gems, whose cleerenesse
Farre off amaze by neerenesse,
Each Globe such fire incloses.

Her Bosome full of Blisses,
By nature made for Kisses,
So pure and wond'rous cleere,
Whereas a thousand Graces
Behold their lovely Faces,
As they are bathing there.

O, thou selfe-little blindnesse,
The kindnesse of unkindnesse,
Yet one of those divine;
Thy Brands to me were lever,
Thy Fascia, and thy Quiver,
And thou this Quill of mine.

This Heart so freshly bleeding,
Upon it owne selfe feeding,
Whose wounds still dropping be;
O Love, thy selfe confounding,
Her coldnesse so abounding,
And yet such heat in me.

Yet if I be inspired,
Ile leave thee so admired,
To all that shall succeed,
That were they more then many,
'Mongst all, there is not any,
That Time so oft shall reed.

Nor Adamant ingraved,
That hath been choisely'st saved,
I DEA'S Name out-weares;
So large a Dower as this is,
The greatest often misses,
The Diadem that beares.