Classic Poem

Loued I am, and yet complaine of Loue;
As louing not, accus'd in loue I dye.
When pittie most I craue, I cruell proue;
Still seeking loue, loue found, as much I flie
Burnt in my selfe, I muse at others' fire;
What I call wrong, I do the same, and more;
Bar'd of my will, I haue beyond desire;
I waile for want, and yet am chokt with store.
This is thy worke, thou God for euer blind,
Though thousands old, a Boy entit'led still:
Thus children do the silly birds they find,
With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.
Yet thus much loue, O Loue, I craue of thee:
Let me be lou'd, or els not loued be.