Classic Poem

A Sonnet

Madam tis true, your beauties move
my heart to a respect.
too litle to be paid with love,
too great for your neglect:

I neither love, nor yet am free,
for though the flame I finde
be not Intense in the degree,
tis of the purest kinde:

It little wants of love but paine,
your beauties take my sence,
And least you should that prize disdaine
my thoughts feele th' Influence;

Tis not a passions first accesse
ready to multiplye
but like Loves calmest state it is
possessd with victory:

It is like love to truth reduced,
all the false valews gone,
which were created and induced
by fond Imagination:

Tis either fancy or tis fate
to love you more than I,
I love you at your beauties rate,
lesse were an Iniury:

Like unstampd gold I weigh each grace,
so that you may Collect
th' Intrinsique valew of your face
safely from my respect:

And this respect could merit love,
were not so faire a sight
payment enough, for who dares move
reward for his delight?