Classic Poem

O that I were where bides mine ALBA faire,
Whose person to possesse is pleasure such,
As drives away all melancholy Care,
Which doth the Hart through Griefs impression touch:
 Whose lovely Locks All do more curious deeme,
 When they most careles to be dressed seeme.

Her sweet Lookes most alluring be, when they
Most chaste do seeme in modest glancing show:
Her words, the more they vertuously do way,
The more (in count) for amorous they go:
 Her dressings such, as when neglected most,
 She's thought as then to have bestowd most cost.

Sweet Fortune, when I meet my lovely Treasure,
Dash my Delights with some small light disgrace,
Lest I (enjoying sweetnes bove all measure)
Surfet without recure on that faire face.
 Her wonted coynesse let her use a while,
 My fierce Desire by Diet to beguile.

Lest with the fulnes of my joyes, abate
The sweetnes, and I perish straight before
I do possesse them, at too deare a rate.
But soft (Fond Icarus ) how high wilt soare?
 Thou dreamst I think, or foulie dost mistake,
 I dreame indeed, Ah might I never wake.