Classic Poem

LOVE hath me bound once more to make the way,
From whence my Hart hath never yet declinde:
And doubts least He, from rightest paths should stray,
Because so weake and crased I him finde:
And marveile none, he wants his wonted sight,
How can he journie then but Sauns delight.

The sillie Wretch lookes up, yet nought can see;
As who should say, my Helpe comes from Above:
Yet grieves his service is not tooke boun gree,
Since tis refinde from Thought of purest Love.
My Minde doth burne in frost, but not in fire,
Through uncouth passion barde from his Desire.

My Hart is like a Widower that's disdainde;
My soule a Figure of a MALCONTENT,
To see that LOVE thus vildly should be stainde,
Not to requite, where nought but Love is ment.
But I doe see no pitie is in spite,
Where Malice raignes, Desert is banisht quite.

My Soule upon my Hart for this doth plaine,
My Hart (againe) my Fancie doth accuse:
My Fancie saith, mine Eyes were too too blame,
Their over-boldnes wrought this great Abuse.
Alas poore Eyes, too dearly doe you pay,
When for one Fault your Light is tooke away.