Classic Poem

An Answer.

Bound by Desert, (thy Merits, but not mine)
A Stranger thou, how shall I make amends?
That of thy friendship, such assured signe
(To me scant knowne) such loving Verses sends?
 Thanks give I; that's a yonger Brother's reward,
 Nought els I have, my Fortune is so hard.

My worthles lines th'hast red, (as thou dost write)
But (partiall thou) too much the same dost praise,
To sing still kindly thou dost me invite,
My Glorie (but indeed my Shame) to blaze.
 Alas I cannot; dead is that sweet Fire,
 Which did enflame in me such chast Desire.

Then boldly sang I, when those lovely Eyes
Were guides to me: but now that they are gone,
Now that my Sunne shines not in cheerfull wise,
Nor my Fire heates me, I will weep and mone.
  I, weep , ( saith Cruell ALBA) weep thy fill ,
 For never more I see, or love thee will.

But thou that constant art in thy vowde Love,
And (as Belov'd) thy Ladies love dost gaine
With thy sweet Stile, and my sad Plaints to move,
Each Readers harts seeke thou in amorous vaine;
 In secret still Ile sorrow like the Dove,
 And when my Sunne shall shine, then will I move.