Classic Poem

These plaintive verse, the Posts of my desire,
Which haste for succour to her slowe regard,
Beare not report of any slender fire,
Forging a griefe to winne a fame's reward.
Nor are my passions lymned for outward hewe,
For that no colours can depaint my sorrows:
Delia her selfe, and all the world, may view
Best in my face, where cares hath till'd deepe furrows.
No Bayes I seeke to deck my mourning brow,
O cleer-eyde Rector of the holy Hill:
My humble accents beare the Olive bough
Of intercession to a tyrant's will.
These lines I use, t'unburthen mine owne hart;
My love affects no fame, nor steemes of art.