Classic Poem

Heare me, a Martyr for religious Love,
Thou Faire Tormentor, (Motive of my paine)
All Racks and Tortors gainst my patience prove,
And when th'hast done, begin afresh againe.
Wearie shalt thou be of tormenting me,
Before I grieved at these plagues will be.

Too deare I prise thy beautie to repent,
Or wish I had not such sower stormes endur'd:
Though I thy hard hart finde nere to relent,
Custome and time, to woes have me inur'd.
What ill so great but I would willing take,
And beare the brunt assur'd of thy sweet sake.

The sweet remembrance of thy sight of yore,
Th'only companion is of my deare life,
Thy presence was, which absent I adore,
My paradise and place of joy most rife.
So I alone am not, though None's with mee,
And was in Heaven, when I thy face did see.

But this thou thinkst not of, this is least part
Now of thy minde, nor hast thou hereof care:
This never comes God knowes into thy hart,
But as heat's joynd with fire, and breath with aire:
So crueltie in Womens stomacks dwels,
Which with Disdaine (as Furie) alwaies swels.