Classic Poem

That scourge of life, and death's extreame disgrace,
The smoke of hell, — that monster called Paine:
Long sham'd to be accurst in euery place
By them who of his rude resort complaine;
Like crafty wretch, by time and trauell tought,
His vgly euill in others' good to hide,
Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought
As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide,
And so by priuiledge of sacred seate
(A seate where beauty shines and vertue raignes),
He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great,
Within her beames wrapping his cruell staines
Ah, saucy Paine, let not thy errour last;
More louing eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.