Classic Poem

Where is that Learned Wretch that knows
What are those Darts the Veyl'd God throws?
O let him tell me ere I dye
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the Sparrows Plumes, or Doves,
Wing them for various Loves;
And whether Gold, or Lead,
Quicken, or dull the Head:
I will annoint and keep them warm,
And make the Weapons heale the Harm.

Fond that I am to aske! who ere
Did yet see thought? or Silence hear?
Safe from the search of humane Eye
These Arrows (as their waies are) flie:
The Flights of Angels part
Not Aire with so much Art;
And snows on Streams, we may
Say, Louder fall than they.
So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the Shaft nor Cure.

A sudden fire of Blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty Red;
A Glance's Lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subt'le taking smile
From Passion, or from Guile;
The Spirit, Life, and Grace
Of motion, Limbs, and Face;
These Misconceits entitles Darts,
And Tears the bleedings of our hearts.

But as the Feathers in the Wing,
Unblemish'd are and no Wounds bring,
And harmless Twigs no Bloodshed know,
Till Art doth fit them for the Bow;
So Lights of flowing Graces
Sparkling in severall places,
Only adorn the Parts.
Till we that make them Darts;
Themselves are only Twigs and Quils:
We give them Shape, and force for Ills.

Beautie's our Grief, but in the Ore,
We Mint, and Stamp, and then adore;
Like Heathen we the Image Crown,
And undiscreetly then fall down:
Those Graces all were meant
Our Joy, not Discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those Lights to Fires.
Thus Natures Healing Herbs we take,
And out of Cures do Poysons make.