Classic Poem

Poore wasted Hart that wandrest not astray,
Although thy PEARLE her orient colour change:
Thou, which in thy first Faith unstaind dost stay,
Although she from her plighted vow doth range:
Ah, where are now thy cheerfull daies of Hope?
Thy Lives line, Love, what wretched hand hath broke?

Alas, poore soule, how badly art thou usde,
For thy much loving (loving over long?)
Causeles without desert to be refusde,
And for thy right to be repaid with wrong?
(Fond) do betimes from Fancies Fort retire,
Reason retaine, and banish rash Desire.

What meanst thou careles thus to seek thy Care?
Call home thy Wits, give ore although with losse:
Els like one blindfold art thou caught in snare,
And wilt too late returne by weeping crosse.
Seest not that shut is Loves sweet passage plaine,
That opens wide the path of proud Disdaine?

If so, why shouldst thou beg (in vaine) for grace?
Rather demaund thy pasport and away:
Better at first give ore in midst of Race,
Then lose in th'end, though longer time thou stay.
Then if she'le not admit thee as a frend,
Let her thee manumit (as Free) to wend.