Classic Poem

Deare to my Soule (for Deare I may thee call,)
Since thou farre dearer then my selfe I holde,
When wilt thou rid me of this loathed thrall,
In which I am through Fancies bandes enrold?
When wilt thou keepe thy promise unto mee?
Whereof no deedes, but words I yet can see.

Why (doubtfull still) doest thou my joyes prolong?
And drivste me of, in dalliance without cause?
Me and thy selfe, why doest thou double wrong?
To keepe thy word, why, so long doest thou pause?
Thus for to lose thy golden Time, tis sin,
Which once being past, againe, thou canst not win.

Matters of state we use to politize,
Procrastinating for advantage great,
LOVE, lingring hates, and lothes to temporize,
Delaie's too colde, for his orewarmed heate:
Ah, doe not drive me of thus (still) in vaine,
Still for to lose tis much, once let me gaine.

Dearer to me then th'apple of mine eyes,
Let word and deede, but once for all agree,
Not any can in face thee equalize,
If but a little more thou kinde wouldst be.
Then with allusive Sightes, feede not me still,
But graunt (at last) for to performe my will.