Classic Poem

Should I forget your name, you well might thinke.
'Twas neither lacke of paper, nor of inke,
Nor time, but want of good discretion,
That caus'd the fault: nor i'st your place alone;
Not the command of your Horse troupe (I meane)
But that more great command, wherewith you reyne
Hot mettald passions, which doth invite
My Muse these few lines for your sake to write
Your want of vice, and your attractive parts,
That force no feares, but bring you loves and hearts
Make me a debtor to your worth: then know you
I pay you this as part of what I owe you.