Classic Poem

These plaintive Verse, the Postes of my desire,
Which haste for succour to her slow regard,
Beare not report of any slender fire,
Forging a griefe to winne a fames reward.
Nor are my passions limnd for outward hew,
For that no colours can depaint my sorrowes:
Delia her selfe, and all the world may view
Best in my face, where cares hath tild deepe forrowes.
No Bayes I seeke to decke my mourning brow,
O cleer-eyde Rector of the holy Hill:
My humble accents beare the Olive bough,
Of intercession but to move her will.
These lines I use, t'unburthen mine owne hart;
My love affects no fame, nor steemes of Art.