Classic Poem

Come Time the anchor-hold of my desire,
My last Resort whereto my hopes appeale,
Cause once the date of her disdaine t'expire:
Make her the sentence of her wrath repeale.
Rob her faire Brow, breake in on Beauty, steale
Powre from those eyes, which pitty cannot spare:
Deale with those dainty cheekes as she doth deale
With this poore heart consumed with dispaire.
This heart made now the prospectiue of care,
By louing her, the cruelst Faire that liues,
The cruelst Fayre that sees I pine for her,
And neuer mercy to thy merit giues.
Let her not still triumph ouer the prize
Of mine affections taken by her eies.