Classic Poem

Is there a Sanctity in Love begun
That every woman veils, and turns Lay-Nun?
Alas your Guilt appears still through the Dress;
You do not so much Cover as Confess:
To me 'tis a Memoriall, I begin
Forthwith to think on Venus and the Gin,
Discovering in these Veyls, so subt'ly set,
At least her upper parts caught in the Net.
Tell me who taught you to give so much light
As may entice, not satisfie the Sight,
Betraying what may cause us to admire,
And kindle only, but not quench desire?
Among your other subtilties, 'tis one
That you see all, and yet are seen of none;
'Tis the Dark-Lanthorn to the face; O then
May we not think there's Treason against Men?
Whiles thus you only do expose the Lips,
'Tis but a fair and wantonner Eclipse.
Mean't how you will, At once to shew, and hide,
At best is but the Modesty of Pride;
Either Unveil you then, or veil quite o'r.
Beauty deserves not so much; Foulness more.
 But I prophane, like one whose strange desires
Bring to Loves Altar foul and drossie Fires:
Sink O those Words t'your Cradles; for I know,
Mixt as you are, your Birth came from below:
My Fancy's now all hallow'd, and I find
Pure Vestals in my Thoughts, Priests in my Mind.
 So Love appear'd, when, breaking out his way
From the dark Chaos, he first shed the Day;
Newly awak'd out of the Bud so shews
The half seen, half hid, glory of the Rose,
As you do through your Veyls; And I may swear,
Viewing you so, that Beauty doth Bud there.
So Truth lay under Fables, that the Eye
Might Reverence the Mystery, not descry;
Light being so proportion'd, that no more
Was seen, but what Cause 'em to adore:
Thus is your Dress so Ord'red, so Contriv'd,
As 'tis but only Poetry Reviv'd.
Such doubtfull Light had Sacred Groves, where Rods
And Twigs, at last did shoot up into Gods;
Where then a Shade darkneth the Beautuous Face,
May not I pay a Reverence to the place?
So under-water glimmering Stars appear,
As those (but nearer Stars) your Eyes do here.
So Deities darkned sit, that we may find
A better way to see them in our Mind.
No bold Ixton then be here allow'd,
Where Juno dares her self be in the Cloud.
Methinks the first Age comes again, and we
See a Retrivall of Simplicity,
Thus looks the Country Virgin, whose brown hue
Hoods her, and makes her shew even veil'd as you.
Blest Mean, that Checks our Hope, and spurs our Fear,
Whiles all doth not lye hid, nor all appear:
O fear ye no Assaults from Bolder men;
When they assaile be this your Armour then.
A Silken Helmet may defend those Parts,
Where softer Kisses are the only Darts.