Classic Poem

Come, brave soldjers, come, and see
Mighty love's Artillery.
This was the conquering dart; and loe
There shines his quiver, there his bow.
These the passive weapons are,
That made great Love a man of warre.
The quiver, that he bore, did bide
Soe neare, it prov'd his very side.
In it there sate but one sole dart,
A peircing one, his peirced heart.
His weapons were nor steele, nor brasse:
The weapon, that he wore, he was.
For bow his unbent hand did serve,
Well strung with many a broken nerve.
Strange the quiver, bow, and dart!
A bloody side, and hand, and heart!
But now the feild is wonne: and they
(The dust of Warre cleane wip'd away)
The weapons now of triumph be,
That were before of Victorie.