Classic Poem

Ah Speake then, shall these Torments I endure,
Of Bloody Thoughts , and nere expressed paine
Never remorse of stubborne thee procure?
And shall they breede (still) my eternall bane?
 Yet grant me, things impossible to wish,
 To feede Conceite , since that no hurt it is.

Then shalt thou see (through this I holde so deare)
Ile longe my life prolong, and Spirits spend,
And to my selfe that Creature none may heare,
Ile softlie call it Love , till life shall end.
 And if what I thus whisper, any urge,
 Ile name it Honor , so my selfe to purge.

May I but this sweete Contemplation holde,
I then shall live of All men most content,
Taking more pleasure in my Thoughts though olde,
Then ere I did in youthly Actions spent.
 Grant me this Grace , (to thee tis matter small)
 And all my Crosses Ile sweete Blessings call.

Ah that tho'wldst daigne, this might be christned Love ,
That Favour (as reward) for it might be,
But I doe feare, I shall thee too much move,
This over boldenes (Dearest) pardon me.
 And let me hope one day some gentle power,
 May turne to Sweete, this my most bitter Sower.