Classic Poem

XIX.
Kinde in unkindnesse, when will you relent
And cease with faint love true love to torment?
Still entertain'd, excluded still I stand,
Her glove stil holde, but cannot touch the hand.

In her faire hand my hopes and comforts rest:
O might my fortunes with that hand be blest,
No envious breaths then my deserts could shake,
For they are good whom such true love doth make.

O let not beautie so forget her birth
That it should fruitles home returne to earth:
Love is the fruite of beautie, then love one;
Not your sweete selfe, for such selfe love is none.

Love one that onely lives in loving you,
Whose wrong'd deserts would you with pity view:
This strange distast which your affections swaies
Would relish love, and you find better daies.

Thus till my happie sight your beautie viewes,
Whose sweet remembrance stil my hope renewes,
Let these poore lines sollicite love for mee,
And place my joyes where my desires would bee.