Classic Poem

A Golden Flie one shew'd to me,
Clos'd in a Box of Yvorie:
Where both seem'd proud; the Flie to have
His buriall in an yvory grave:
The yvorie tooke State to hold
A Corps as bright as burnisht gold.
One Fate had both; both equall Grace;
The Buried, and the Burying-place.
Not Virgils Gnat, to whom the Spring
All Flowers sent to'is burying.
Not Marshals Bee, which in a Bead
Of Amber quick was buried.
Nor that fine Worme that do's interre
Her selfe i'th'silken Sepulchre.
Nor my rare Phil, that lately was
With Lillies Tomb'd up in a Glasse;
More honour had, then this same Flie;
Dead, and clos'd up in Yvorie.