Classic Poem

O be not griev'd that these my papers should
Bewray unto the world how faire thou art,
Or that my wits have shewed the best they could,
(The chastest flame that ever warmed hart).
Thinke not (sweet Delia ) this shall be thy shame
My Muse should sound thy praise with mournefull warble:
How many live, the glory of whose name
Shall rest in Ise, when thine is grav'd in Marble.
Thou maist in after ages live esteem'd,
Unburied in these lines reserv'd in purenes;
These shall intombe those eyes that have redeem'd
Mee from the vulgar, thee from all obscurenes
Although my carefull accents never moov'd thee,
Yet count it no disgrace that I have lov'd thee.