Classic Poem

I WOULD like better in the grace to be
Of the dear mistress whom I bear in mind
(As once I was) than I should like to find
A stream that washed up gold continually:
Because no language could report of me
The joys that round my heart would then be twin'd,
Who now, without her love, do seem resign'd
To death that bends my life to its decree.
And one thing makes the matter still more sad:
For all the while I know the fault 's my own,
That on her husband I take no revenge,
Who 's worse to her than is to me my dad.
God send grief has not pulled my courage down,
That hearing this I laugh; for it seems strange.