Classic Poem

When Pirrha made hir miracle of stones,
The baser sort of flintie molde she fram'd,
Whose course compact concealed all at once,
All what in nature could imperfect be,
So but imperfect perfect, was the shape,
And minde euen with the mettall did agree.

The finer formes of Diamonds she made,
A peereles substance matchles for the molde,
Whence grew such shapes that heauen his pure for sook,
To frame a minde agreeing to the forme.

This by my proofe, I finde for certaine true,
For why my mistres matchles in hir shape,
For bodie farre exceeds my base report,
For minde, no minde can craue more rare supplies,
And last I spie the Saphirs in hir eies,