Classic Poem

Blame me not dearest, though grieved for your sake,
Love mild to you, on me triumphing sits,
Sifting the choysest ashes of my wits,
Burnt like a Phoenix, change but such could shake.

And a new heat, given by your eyes did make
Embers dead cold, call Spirits from the pits
Of darke despaire, to favour new felt fits,
And as from death to this new choice to wake.

Love thus crownes you with power, scorne not the flames,
Though not the first, yet which as purely rise
As the best light, which sets unto our eyes,
And then againe ascends free from all blames.

Purenesse is not alone in one fix'd place,
Who dies to live, finds change a happy grace.