Classic Poem

The Gods to shew they ioy not in offences,
Nor plague of humane Nature doe desire,
When they haue made their rods and whipt our senses,
They throw the rods themselues into the fire.

Then Cupid , thou whom Man hath made a God,
Be like thy fellow Gods in weight and fashion,
And now my faults are punish'd, burne the rod
In fires blowne with many-headed passion.

Thy rod is Worth , in Myra's beauty plac'd,
Which like a Sunne hath power to burne another,
And though it selfe can no affections taste,
To be in all men else affections mother:
Therefore if thou wilt proue thy selfe a God,
In thy sweet fires, let me burne this faire rod.