Classic Poem

Those snary locks are those same nets (my Deere)
Where-with my libertie thou didst surprize:
Love was the flame that fired me so neere;
The Dart transpearsing were those Christall eyes.
Strong is the net and fervent is the flame;
Deepe is the wounde, my sighes doe well report:
Yet doe I love, adore, and praise the same
That holds, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.
And list not seeke to breake, to quench, to heale,
The bonde, the flame, the wound that festreth so,
By knife, by liquor, or by salve to deale;
So much I please to perrish in my woe.
Yet least long travailes be above my strength,
Good Delia , lose, quench, heale me now at length.