Classic Poem

Noe more unto my thoughts appeare,
Att least appeare lesse fayre,
For crazy tempers justly feare
The goodnesse of the ayre;

Whilst your pure Image hath a place 5
In my impurer Mynde,
Your very shaddow is the glasse
Where my defects I finde.

Shall I not fly that brighter light
Which makes my fyres looke pale, 10
And put that vertue out of sight
Which makes myne none att all?

No, no, your picture doeth impart
Such valew I not wish
The native worth to any heart 15
That 's unadorn'd with this.

Though poorer in desert I make
My selfe whilst I admyre,
The fuell which from hope I take
I give to my desire. 20

If this flame lighted from your Eyes
The subject doe calcine,
A Heart may bee your sacrifice
Too weake to bee your shrine.