Classic Poem

When Cleomira disbelieves
Her shepherd, when he swears he lives
Or dies i' th' smiles or frowns she gives,

The echo mourns him to the plain,
And pity moves in ev'ry swain,
And makes the nymphs partake his pain.

But pity and the fair ones prove,
When Cleomira hates his love,
Like strange embraces to a dove.

For Cleomira's hate can turn
Fresh youth and beauty to an urn:
Death sure than it's much easier borne!

But Cleomira's love can bless,
And turn t' a grove a wilderness,
A dungeon to a pleasant place.

Without it, Pleasure's self will show
The ghost of sorrow haunting you
In all the blissful things you do:

And with it, Nature's self may fall,
Old Night and Death frail men appal,
Without dismaying you at all.