Classic Poem

Thrice precious purse, by daintie Hand ywrought,
Of Beauties First Borne, Favours rightfull Heire,
Not for a world of wealth, purchast or bought,
But freely given (for Love) by ALBA faire:
 Given to me, unworthie of the same,
 As one not meriting so great a Gaine.

Tis not the richnes hereof, though tis much,
Nor rarenes of the worke surpassing skill,
That I account of, though that it be such,
As every eye, with masement it doth fill:
 But cause t'was made by that Alconquering Hand,
 Whose becke, even Loves own self doth countermand.

Dan Fortunatus Bagge, which Histories
Affirme, endles to be for golden store,
And that it helde of Quoyne Infinities,
To this my purse is needy, base and poore,
 Golde in the inside (onely) of his purse was seene,
 But mine, hath (alwaies) Golde without and in.

Pure gold tis wrought with, yet her Haires more bright,
Saft is the Silke, more saft her snowie skinne,
Orient the Perle, yet are her teeth more white,
The Cullers rare; her cheekes the prise, tho winne:
 Ah precious Purse, where what I doe beholde,
 Are Cullours rare, fine Perle, saft Silke, pure Golde.