Classic Poem

O more, and more, this was so well,
As praise wants halfe his voyce to tell,
Againe your selves compose,
And now put all the aptnesse on,
Of figure, that proportion,
or colour can disclose.
That if those silent Arts were lost,
Designe, and picture, they might boast,
from you a newer ground,
Instructed by the heightning sence
Of dignitie and reverence,
in their true motions found.
Begin, begin; for looke, the faire
Do longing, listen to what ayre
you forme your second touch;
That they may vent their murmuring hymnes,
Just to the tune you move your limbs,
and wish their owne were such.
Make haste, make hast, for this
The laborinth of beautie is.
The second Dance
That ended. Dedalus