Classic Poem

Some in their harts their Mistris colours bears,
Some hath hir gloves, some other hath hir garters,
Some in a bracelet wears hir golden hears,
And some with kisses seale their loving charters.
But I which never favor reaped yet,
Nor hath one pleasant looke from hir faire brow,
Content my selfe in silent shade to sit
In hope at length my cares to overplow.
Meane while mine eies shall feede on hir faire face,
My sighs shall tell to hir my sad designes,
My paineful pen shall ever sue for grace
To helpe my hart, which languishing now pines.
And I will triumph still amidst my woe
Till mercy shall my sorrowes overflowe.