Classic Poem

1

Nay fie, Platonicks , still adoring,
 The fond Chymaeras of your brain?
Still on that empty nothing poring?
 And only follow what you faigne?
Live in your humour, 'tis a curse
So bad, 'twere pity wish a worse
We'l banish such conceits as those,
Since he that has enjoyment, knows
More bliss then Plato could suppose.

2

Cashiered woers, whose low merit
 Could ne're arrive at nuptial bliss,
Turn schismaticks in love, whose spirit
 Would have none hit 'cause they do miss
But those reproaches that they vent
Do only blaze their discontent;
Condemn'd mens words no truth can show,
And Hunters when they prove too slow
Cry Hares are dry meat , let 'um go

3

Th'inamour'd youth, whose flaming brest
 Makes Goddesses and Angels all,
In's contemplation finds no rest,
 For all his joyes are scepticall
At his fruition flings away
His Cloris and his Welladay
And gladly joynes to fill our Quire,
Who to such happinesse aspire
As all must envy or admire