Classic Poem

If Love be nothing but an idle name,
A vain device of foolish Poets' skill:
A feigned fire, devoid of smoke and flame;
Then what is that which me tormenteth still?
If such a thing as love indeed there be,
What kind of thing, or which, or where is he?

If it be good, how causeth it such pain?
How doth it breed such grief within my breast?
If nought, how chance the grief that I sustain
Doth seem so sweet amidst my great unrest?
For sure, methinks it is a wondrous thing,
That so great pain should so great pleasure bring.

If with my will amidst these flames I fry,
Whence come these tears? how chance I thus complain?
If force perforce I bear this misery,
What help these tears that cannot ease my pain?
How can this fancy bear such sway in me,
But if myself consent that so it be?

And if myself consent that so it be,
Unjust I am thus to complain and cry,
To look that other men should succour me,
Since by my fault I feel such misery.
Who will not help himself, when well he can,
Deserves small help of any other man.

Thus am I tost upon the troublous seas,
By sundry winds, whose blasts blow sundry ways:
And ev'ry blast still driving where it please,
Brings hope and fear to end my ling'ring days;
The steersman gone, sail, helm, and tackle lost,
How can I hope to gain the wished coast?

Wisdom and folly is the luckless freight,
My ship therewith ballast unequally:
Wisdom too light, folly of too great weight,
My bark and I through them in jeopardy:
Thus, in the midst of this perplexity,
I wish for death, and yet am loth to die.