Classic Poem

After Auroraes blush the sunne arose,
And spread his beames:
With whose cleare gleames
My pricklesse rose-bud vaild his purple leaues,
In whose sweet fouldes, morning did pearles inclose,
Where sunne his beames in Orblike circle weaues,
And them t'inrich stoule those,
Natures bewtie, Phoebus vertue, loues incense:
Whose fauour, sappe, and sauour my sence reaues.
My muse hath these for theames,
They to my muse, my muse to them defence,
Phoebus (sometimes) loues oracles sendes thence.
Thus by my sunne a rose,
(Though a sweet rose pricklesse)
Prickles arose, deare prickle!
Which me diseaseth much, though I be sicklesse,
Nought me of ioy bereaues,
Saue fauour, sappe, and sauour all be fickle.
Blush not for shame, that thy sunne spreades his beames
My soule in sunder cleaues:
After Auroraes blush, the sunne arose.