Classic Poem

Now, my cunning lady moon,
Can you leave the side so soon
Of the boy you keep so hid?
Midwife Juno sure will say
This is not the proper way
Of your paleness to be rid.
But perhaps it is your grace
To wear sickness in your face,
That there might be wagers laid
Still, by fools, you are a maid.

Come, your changes overthrow
What your look would carry so;
Moon, confess then what you are.
And be wise, and free to use
Pleasures that you now do lose:
Let us satyrs have a share.
Though our forms be rough and rude,
Yet our acts may be endued
With more virtue: everyone
Cannot be Endymion.