Classic Poem

No man may mount upon a golden stair,
Guido my master, to Love's palace-sill:
No key of gold will fit the lock that 's there,
Nor heart there enter without pure goodwill.
Not if he miss one courteous duty, dare
A lover hope he should his love fulfil;
But to his lady must make meek repair,
Reaping with husbandry her favours still.
And thou but know'st of Love (I think) his name:
Youth holds thy reason in extremities:
Only on thine own face thou turn'st thine eyes;
Fairer than Absalom's account'st the same;
And think'st, as rosy moths are drawn by flame,
To draw the women from their balconies.