Classic Poem

How long shall I importune thee with Cries,
And presse thee for some Grace (hard flintie Dame?)
How long my sute deplore in pitious wise,
And yet be frustrate of that I complaine?
 Urge me with ought if so thou canst of Ill,
 Do but object, and answer thee I will.

Cite me at LOVES great Audit to appeare,
And if a just account I give not thee
Of all my Life, since Loyall I did sweare
Unto thy Cruell selfe, casheere thou mee:
 But if I true have bin and dealt upright,
 Thou dost me wrong to set by me so light.

More then high time tis for thee to relent,
My sorrowes flowes above their wonted Bound,
And well nie breake my Hart where they art pent,
(For so great Force) a too too slender ground.
 Then me supplant not from my wished rest,
 But do abjure harsh Rigor from thy brest.

Affect me (not inflict on me) fresh woe,
Thy Love, my service merits, not thy Hate,
My loyall Hart to thee, didst thou but know,
Thou wouldst not thus revenge, but rew my state:
 Nor am I over bolde in what I crave,
  Pitie (not Favour ) I desire to have.