Classic Poem

Thus, many tales Ulysses told his wife,
At most but painting; yet most like the life:
Of which, her heart such sense took through hir eares,
It made her weepe, as she would turne to teares.
And as from off the Mountaines melts the snow,
Which Zephyres breath congeald; but was made flow
By hollow Eurus , which so fast poures downe,
That with their Torrent, flouds have over-flowne:
So downe her faire cheekes, her kinde tears did glide;
Her mist Lord mourning, set so neere her side.
Ulysses much was mov'd to see her mourne,
Whose eies yet stood as dry, as Iron, or Horne,
In his untroubl'd lids; which, in his craft
Of bridling passion, he from issue saf't.