Classic Poem

Why do I draw my trusty blade
As though its edge to prove?
'Tis not in sooth to hurt, dear maid,
Or vex the Queen of Love.

But rather that I may reveal
How Mars her power allows
And though he be of stubborn steel
A slave to Venus bows.

My confidant, in him I see
As in a glass my face,
He knows my thoughts and has for me
All a beloved's grace.

But thou, my sweet, art dearer yet,
No sword our love shall part,
And if thou dost thy troth forget
This blade shall pierce my heart.