Classic Poem

Upon a hunting match defeated by wett weather wher I was to have met my Lord Ros, Servant to Ms. Mary Fair-Fax to whom I dedicate this advice

Alij Lepores sequantur, Ego Lepores.

Before we hunt, what weather is't
Some Silver drops or Scottish mist?
Poor Wat in form may couch her ears
This Season bannishes her fears
Yet if the Poets ere say true
Thou mayst be blest with Goulden Dew
Fair mayd o'th'North; and in thy lap
Partake thy fill of Danaes hap:
Meet with thy Jhon, and Him Embrace
'Twil far out strip all other chase:
Noe sullen weather can deny
The youthfull God's dexterety
But as He meets with Crosses store
His fier brand will flame much more
As sometimes Contraries appeer
To trebble Force when placed neer
Venuses Mate the Lame God's heat
Would soon goe out wer't not for wet
And Love let loose abroad takes could
When kept within dores Brisk and Bowld
He Skips from eye to lip and nose
Then takes a tast stil as he goes
Of evry Feature evry part
Til by his subtil Magick art
Enchanted Nature yeilds and's won
To strike up into Union
Then be the weather what it will
Tempesteous Rayne, or what's as ill
Could rigid Frost to Hunters Game
With fertile Dew you'l be the same
For wher Affections Mutuall are
Ther'l reigne noe Could, nor weeping Star.