Classic Poem

Disconsolate and sad,
So little hope of remedy I find,
That when my matchless Mistress were inclin'd
To pity me, 'twould scarcely make me glad,
The discomposing of so fair a Mind
B'ing that which would to my Afflictions add.

For when she should repent,
This Act of Charity had made her part
With such a precious Jewel as her Heart,
Might she not grieve that e'r she did relent?
And then were it not fit I felt the smart
Until I grew the greater Penitent.

Nor were't a good excuse,
When she pleas'd to call for her Heart again,
To tell her of my suffering and pain,
Since that I should her Clemency abuse,
While she did see what wrong she did sustain,
In giving what she justly might refuse.

Vex'd thus with me at last,
When from her kind restraint she now were gone,
And I left to the Manacles alone,
Should I not on another Rock be cast?
Since they who have not yet content, do mone
Far less then they whose hope thereof is past.

Besides I would deserve,
And not live poorly on the alms of Love,
Or claim a favour did not singly move
From my regard: If she her joys reserve
Unto some other, she at length should prove,
Rather then beg her pity I would sterve.

Let her then be serene,
Alike exempt from pity and from hate:
Let her still keep her dignity and state;
Yet from her glories something I shall glean,
For when she doth them every where dilate,
A beam or two to me must intervene.

And this shall me sustain,
For though due merit I cannot express,
Yet she shall know none ever lov'd for less,
Or easier reward: Let her remain
Still Great and Good, and from her happiness
My chief contentment I will entertain.