Classic Poem

These plaintiue 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, how cares haue tild deepe sorrowes.
No Bayes I seeke to decke my mourning brow,
O cleere-eyde Rector of the holy Hill:
My humble accents beare the Oliue bough,
Of intercession but to moue her will.
These lines I vse, t'vnburthen mine owne hart;
My loue affects no fame, nor steemes of Art.