Classic Poem

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty Girle!
To purifie the Ayre;
Thy Teares to Thrid instead of Pearle,
On Bracelets of thy Hair.

The Trumpet makes the Eccho hoarse
And wakes the louder Drum;
Expence of grief gains no remorse,
When sorrow should be dumb.

For I must go where lazy Peace,
Will hide her drouzy head;
And, for the sport of Kings, encrease
The number of the Dead.

But first I'le chide thy cruel theft:
Can I in War delight,
Who being of my heart bereft,
Can have no heart to fight?

Thou knowst the Sacred Laws of old,
Ordain'd a Thief should pay,
To quit him of his Theft, seavenfold
What he had stoln away.

Thy payment shall but double be;
O then with speed resign
My own seduced Heart to me,
Accompani'd with thine.