Classic Poem

Wo. Fond aged man, why doe you on me gaze,
Knowing my answer? resolution take;
Follow not fondly in an unusd Maze
As if impossibilities to shake.
For know I hate you still, and your poore love
Can mee as soone as Rocks to pitie move.

Man. Alas my dearest soule, too long I knew
I lov'd in vaine, your scorne I felt likewise,
Your hate I saw; yet must I still pursue
Your fairest sight, though you doe me despise;
For love is blind, and though I aged be,
I can nor part from it, nor it from me.

Wo. What blame dost thou deserve, if thou wilt still
Follow my hate, who will not breath to change,
And strive to gaine as if from scorne, or ill
Loving disdaine as Juels rich, and strang:
Or canst thou vainely hope thy wailing cries
Can move a pitty? no let this suffice.

Man. Pitie, alas I nere could looke to see
So much good hap; yet Deere be not too cruell,
Though you thus young hate aged love in me,
My love hath youth, or you shall see loves fuell
Deserving your reward, then not denie,
Let me now see those eyes kind, or I die.

Wo. These eyes of mine thou never shalt behold,
If clouds of true disdaine may dim desire,
They shall as blacke be as thy faults are bold,
Demanding what's unfit; a poore old fire
Wasted like Triumphs, sparcles onely live,
And troubled rise from embers which outlive.

Man. I doe confesse a boldnesse tis in me
Ought to resist, if your sweet selfe command;
Yet blind me needs you must, for if I see,
Mine eyes must rest on you, and gazing stand:
Heaven not forbids the bacest worme her way,
Hide that deare beauty, I must needs decay.

Wo. My beauty I will hide, mine eyes put out,
Rather then be perplexed with thy sight,
A mischiefe certaine worse is, then a doubt,
Such is thy sight, thy absence my delight;
Yet mine the ill, since now with thee I stay.
Tyred with all misfortune cannot stray.

Man. Thy beautie hide? O no, still cruell live
To me most haplesse; dim not that bright light
Which to this Earth all lights and beauties give.
Let me not cause for ever darkest night,
No, no, blessed be those eyes and fairest face,
Lights of my soule, and guides to all true grace.

My sweet commanderesse shall I yet obay
And leave you here alas unguarded? shall
I not then for sorrow ever stray
From quiet peace, or hope, and with curst thrall
Sit downe and end? yet if you say I must
Here will I bide in banishment accurst:
While you passe on be cruell, happy still
That none else triumph may upon mine ill.