Classic Poem

Fain would I learn of thee, thou murd'ring eye,
Whether thy glance be fire, or else a dart:
For with thy look in flames thou mak'st me fry,
And with the same thou strik'st me to the heart:
Pierced with thy looks I burn in fire,
And yet those looks I still desire.

The fly, that buzzeth round about the flame,
Knows not, poor soul, she gets her death thereby;
I see my death, and seeing, seek the same,
And seeking, find, and finding, choose to die,
That when thy looks my life have slain,
Thy looks may give me life again.

Turn then to me those sparkling eyes of thine,
And with their fiery glances pierce my heart;
Quench not my light, lest I in darkness pine;
Strike deep and spare not, pleasant is the smart:
So by thy looks my life be spilt,
Kill me as often as thou wilt.