Classic Poem

Our Passions are most like to Floods and streames,
The shallow Murmure, but the Deep are Dumb.
So when Affections yeeld Discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are Rich in Words must needs discover
That they are Poore in that which make, a Lover.

Wrong not, deare Empresse of my Heart,
The Merritt of true Passion,
With thinking that Hee feels no Smart,
That sues for no Compassion:
Since, if my Plaints serve not to prove
The Conquest of your Beauty,
They come not from Defect of Love,
But from Excesse of Duety.

For knowing that I sue to serve
A Saint of such Perfection
As all desire, but none deserve,
A place in her Affection:
I rather chuse to want Reliefe
Then venture the Revealing,
When Glory recommends the Greife,
Despaire distrusts the Healing.

Thus those desires that aime too high,
For any mortall Lover,
When Reason cannot make them dye,
Discretion will them Cover.
Yet when discretion doeth bereave
The Plaints that they should utter,
Then your discretion may perceive,
That Silence is a Suitor.

Silence in Love bewraies more Woe,
Then Words, though n'er so Witty,
A Beggar that is dumb, yee know,
Deserveth double Pitty.
Then misconceive not (dearest Heart)
My true, though secret Passion,
Hee smarteth most that hides his smarte,
And sues for no Compassion.