Classic Poem

Thou canst not die whilst any zeale abound
In feeling harts, that can conceive these lynes:
Though thou a Laura hast no Petrarch found,
In base attyre yet cleerely Beauty shines
And I (though borne within a colder clime)
Doe feele mine inward heat as great, (I knowe it):
Hee never had more faith, although more rime;
I love as well, though he could better show it
But I may add one feather to thy fame,
To helpe her flight throughout the fairest Ile;
And if my pen could more enlarge thy name,
Then shouldst thou live in an immortall stile.
For though that Laura better limned bee,
Suffice, thou shalt be lov'd as well as shee.