Classic Poem

Arise, come forth, but never to returne
To the same Center, 'tis the Virgin Urne,
Bury in it those thoughts which did possesse
Thee from thy Cradle, 'till this happinesse;
Which but to think upon will make thy cheek,
Fairer then is the morne you so much seeke
In beauty to outvy; and be the pride
Of all that ever had the name of bride.
Up Maids, and let your nimble fingers be
True instruments of curiosity;
Set not a pin amisse, nor let a pleat
Be folded in her gowne but what's in state;
And when her Ivory Temples you would deck
Forbear your Art, for Nature gives you check.
There in the circuit of her radiant haire
See Cupid fetter'd in a golden snare.
Mark the triumphant Throne wherein the boy
Installed sits to give the Bridegroome Joy.
But when shees drest and that her listning eare,
Is welcom'd by the Bridegroomes being neere,
Look how she stands and how her steadfast eye
Is fix'd on him at's first discovery.
Both being met mark how their souls doe strive
To be in eithers joy contemplative.
Whose kisses raise betwixt them such a fire
That should the Phaenix see, he to expire
Would shun the spicy mountain, and so take
Himselfe between their lips a grave to make.