Classic Poem

Blisse court thee sweetest soule, and fall soe thicke
That it outvie our pore Arithmatick.
Mongst all those ioyes which from the holy shrine
As you return'd, the virgins gave, lett mine
I pray have entertainement, for they come
To sing in your Epithalamium.
O prove soe happy in thy nuptiall,
That when beleaguerd slow-faith virgins shall
Cruelly deliberate, and refuse
The rights of Hymen, all our youth may use
This rare stratagem, tell them but a story
Of thy blest bridall's fortune, and their glory,
Which must soe hale them, that they straight will be
All wives in hope to be as blest as thee.
Heaven send a sweetefac't heire, a chopping boy
To make thee sport at home, o what joy
'Twould be to view both your portraictures done
Soe rarely to the life and that in one
Soe small a peice, then if the worke be showne
This would commend you most, it is your owne.
Pardon I can't expresse the thousand blisse
I wish you but the summe of all is this.
Ile pray thou may soe happy be
As thy best honour'd bedman is in thee.
Except but heaven, and he that more will speake
I say, need's his expression must be weake.