Classic Poem

XVII.
If she forsake me, I must die:
Shall I tell her so?
Alas, then strait she will replie,
No, no, no, no, no.
If I disclose my desp'rat state,
She will but make sport thereat,
And more unrelenting grow.

What heart can long such paines abide?
Fie uppon this love.
I would adventure farre and wide,
If it would remove.
But love will still my steppes pursue,
I cannot his wayes eschew:
Thus still helpeles hopes I prove.

I doe my love in lines commend,
But, alas, in vaine;
The costly gifts that I doe send
She returnes againe:
Thus still is my despaire procur'd,
And her malice more assur'd:
Then come, death, and end my paine.