Classic Poem

Deare Love, alas, how have I wronged thee,
That ceaselesly thou still dost follow me?
My heart of Diamond cleare, and hard I find,
May yet be pierc'd with one of the same kind,
Which hath in it ingraven a love more pure,
Then spotlesse white, and deepe still to endure,
Wrought in with teares of never resting paine,
Carv'd with the sharpest point of curs'd disdaine.
Raine oft doth wash away a slender marke,
Teares make mine firmer, and as one small sparke
In straw may make a fire: so sparkes of love
Kindles incessantly in me to move;
While cruelst you, doe onely pleasure take,
To make me faster ty'd to scornes sharpe stake;
Tis harder, and more strength must used be
To shake a tree, then boughes we bending see:
So to move me it was alone your power
None else could ere have found a yeelding hower.
Curs'd be subjection, yet blest in this sort,
That 'gainst all but one choice, my heart a fort
Hath ever lasted: though beseig'd, not mov'd,
But by their misse my strength the stronger prov'd
Resisting with that constant might, that win
They scarce could parly, much lesse foes get in.
Yet worse then foes your slightings prove to be,
When careles you no pitie take on me.
Make good my dreames, wherein you kind appeare,
Be to mine eyes, as to my soule, most deare.
From your accustomed strangenesse, at last turne;
An ancient house once fir'd, will quickly burne,
And wast unhelp'd, my long love claimes a time
To have aid granted to this height I clime.
A Diamond pure, and hard, an unshak't tree
A burning house find helpe, and prize in mee.