Classic Poem

When as shee smiles I finde
More light before mine eyes,
Nor when the sunne from Inde
Brings to our world a flowrie Paradise:
But when shee gently weepes,
And powres foorth pearlie showres
On cheekes' faire blushing flowres,
A sweet melancholie my senses keepes.
Both feede so my disease,
So much both doe me please,
That oft I doubt, which more my heart doth burne,
Like loue to see her smile, or pitie mourne.