Classic Poem

( Ponticus ) cause thou ne're doth swive,
But some by-lusts contentment give,
And thy more conscious hands supply
The service of thy venery:
Dost think that this is no offence?
(Believe it) it's damned excellence
Is of so foule and high a weight
Thou can'st not reach it in conceipt.
Horace but once did doe the feat
That he three glorious twins might get,
Mars and chast Ilia once did joyn
That Rome 's great founders they might coyn.
All had been loss'd, had either's list
Spent his foule pleasure in his fist.
When thus then thou shalt tempted be
Think that Dame nature cryes to thee,
That which thy fingers doe destroy
O Ponticus it is a Boy.