Classic Poem

If this be loue, to draw a wearie breath,
To paint on floods, till the shore crie to th'aire:
With downeward lookes, still reading on the earth,
These sad memorials of my loues dispaire:
If this be loue, to warre against my soule,
Lie downe to waile, rise vp to sigh and grieue,
The neuer-resting stone of Care to roule,
Still to complaine my griefes, whilst none relieue.
If this be loue, to cloathe me with darke thoughts,
Haunting vntrodden paths to waile apart;
My pleasures horror, Musicke tragicke notes,
Teares in mine eyes, and sorrow at my hart.
If this be loue, to liue a liuing death,
Then doe I loue and draw this wearie breath.