Classic Poem

Marvel I do not, though thou doest not see
My griefes, and martires, which I still sustaine,
For thou the Mole of love doest seeme to me;
But if a Mole, th'art onely to my paine.
How comes it then that seeing thou art blinde,
Thou me consumst, as if thou hadst thy sight?
Why, as thy nature by instinct doth bind
Stayest not below? packe hence, and leave this light,
Either those eies stil shut, not me to grieve.
Or under ground, in darkenes alwayes live.