Classic Poem

And now was Paris come
From his high towres, who made no stay when once he had put on
His richest armour, but flew forth; the flints he trod upon
Sparkled with luster of his armes; his long-ebd spirits now flowd
The higher for their lower ebbe. And as a faire Steed, proud
With ful-given mangers, long tied up and now (his head-stall broke)
He breakes from stable, runnes the field and with an ample stroke
Measures the center, neighs and lifts aloft his wanton head,
About his shoulders shakes his Crest, and where he hath bene fed
Or in some calme floud washt or (stung with his high plight) he flies
Amongst his femals, strength puts forth, his beautie beautifies,
And like Life's mirror beares his gate--so Paris from the towre
Of loftie Pergamus came forth . . .