Classic Poem

O friend, what honour canst thou have of me?
Better my name were never named again:
Vain were the builded hopes, and worse than vain,
Now hope is shattered, is the memory.
Then void thy heart of what remains to thee
Of my importunate presence; make it clear
Of all that was and all that might have been,
Of Love, or thought of love, if thought there be —

But I have that nor thou nor Time can take,
Nor gusty fortune nor the tongues of men,
I have thyself within me, there to make
Sweet music in the chambers of my heart —
Oh, mar not that for thought of me — for then
How could I bear to see thee as thou art!