Classic Poem

Ah happie Handkercher, that keepst the signe,
(As only Monument unto my Fame)
How deare my Love was to sweet ALBA mine,
When (so) to shew my Love she did me blame.
Relique of LOVE I do not envie thee,
Though whom thy Master cannot, thou dost see.

Only let me intreat this Favour small,
When in her chamber all alone by chance,
Open her pretie Casket for some work she shall,
And hap her eye on thee unwares to glance:
Ah, then the colour of her face but marke,
And thou by that shalt know her inward hart.

If she shall blush, and grieve, thee so to view,
And wistly cast on thee a piteous eye,
It is a signe her love continues true,
And that her faith she doth not falsifie.
Ah, then (a fresh) (her faith more firme to move)
Bleed thou againe, for to revive her Love.

But if she (seeing thee) no account doth make,
Flinging thee here and there without regard:
Know then expired is my loving Date,
My Hope deceiv'd, my Fortune over hard.
Yet if she doth but sighing say to thee,
(Saftly) (Farewell deare SERVANT) happie mee.