Classic Poem

Nature, Creations law, is judg'd by sense,
Not by the Tyrant conscience.
Then our commission gives us leave to doe
What youth and pleasure prompts us to:
For we must question else heavens great decree,
And taxe it with a Treachery;
If things made sweet to tempt our appetite
Should with a guilt staine the delight.
Higher powers rule us, our selves can nothing doe;
Who made us love, made 't lawfull too.
It was not love, but love transform'd to vice
Ravish'd by envious Avarice,
Made women first impropriate; all were free.
Inclosures mans Inventions be.
I'th' golden age no action could be found
For trespasse on my neighbours ground:
Twas just with any Fayre to mixe our blood;
The best is most diffusive good.
She that confines her beams to one mans sight,
Is a darke Lanthorne to a glorious Light.
Say, does the Virgin-spring lesse chast appear
Cause many thirsts are quenched there?
Or have you not with the same odours met
When more have smelt your violet?
The Phenix is not angry at her nest,
Cause her perfumes make others blest:
Though Incense to th'eternall Gods be meant
Yet mortalls Rivall in the sent.
Man is the Lord of creatures, yet we see
That all his vassals loves are free:
The severe wedlocks fetters doe not bind
The Pard's inflam'd, and amorous mind;
But that he may be like a Bridegroome led
Even to the Royall Lyons bed.
The birds may for a yeare their loves confine,
But make new choyce each Valentine .
If our affections then more servile be
Then are our slaves, where's mans soveraignty?
Why then by pleasing more, should you lesse please
And spare the sweets being more sweet then these?
If the fresh Trunke have sap enough to give
That each insertive branch may live;
The Gardner grafts not only Apples there,
But addes the Warden and the Peare,
The Peach, and Apricock together grow,
The Cherry, and the Damson too.
Till he hath made by skilfull husbandry
An intire Orchard of one Tree.
So least our Paradise perfection want,
We may as well inoculate as plant.
What's Conscience but a Beldams midnight theme?
Or nodding nurses idle dreame?
So feign'd, as are the Goblins, Elves, and Fairies
To watch their Orchards, and their Dairies.
For who can tell when first her reigne begun?
I'th state of innocence was none:
And since large Conscience (as the proverb shewes)
In the same sense with bad one goes,
The lesse the better then, whence this will fall,
'Tis to be perfect to have none at all.
Suppose it be a vertue rich, and pure,
'Tis not for Spring, or Summer sure,
Nor yet for Autumne; Love must have his prime,
His warmer heats, and harvest time.
Till we have flourish'd, growne, and reap'd our wishes,
What Conscience dares oppose our kisses?
But when times colder hand leads us neare home,
Then let that winter-vertue come:
Frost is till then prodigious; we may doe
What youth and pleasure prompts us to.