Classic Poem

Thou joy'st, fond boy, to be by many loved,
To have thy beauty of most dames approved.
For this dost thou thy native worth disguise
And play'st the Sycophant t' observe their eyes.
Thy glasse thou councel'st more t' adorne thy skin,
That first should schoole thee to be fayre within.

'Tis childish to be caught with Pearle, or Amber,
And woman-like too much to cloy the chamber;
Youths should the Field affect, heate their rough Steedes,
Their hardned nerves to fit for better deedes.
Is't not more joy strong Holds to force with swords,
Then womens weakenesse take with lookes or words?

Men that doe noble things all purchase glory:
One man for one brave Act hath prov'd a story:
But if that one tenne thousand Dames o'ercame,
Who would record it, if not to his shame?
'Tis farre more conquest with one to live true
Then every houre to triumph Lord of new.