Classic Poem

Those snary locks, are those same nets (my Deere)
Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprize;
Loue was the flame that fired me so neere,
The Dart transpearsing, were those Christall eies.
Strong is the net, and feruent is the flame;
Deepe is the wound my sighes can well report:
Yet do I loue, adore, and prayse the same,
That holds, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.
And list not seeke to breake, to quench, to heale,
The bond, the flame, the wound that festreth so,
By knife, by liquor, or by salue to deale:
So much I please to perish in my woe.
Yet least long trauailes be aboue my strength,
Good D ELIA lose, quench, heale me now at length.