Classic Poem

I.

Love 's so pleasant a Pain,
Such a tickling dear Smart,
That it makes me complain,
When it eases my Heart:
To be more my Joy, wou'd it were more my Grief,
To make it, as more my Pain, more my Relief:

II.

For, its Troubles, or Cares,
But its Pleasures increase;
So that but for our Fears,
Our Joys in it were less;
Then more may my Troubles, Pains, Fears be, that so,
As they grow more, more may my Pleasures be too;

III.

Since Love's Pains, and Fears still,
But augment more our Joy;
Which, when gain'd with Ease, will,
More our Pleasures destroy;
Our Joy's less then, as it with more Ease we gain
Possest with less Pleasure, as had with less Pain.