Classic Poem

Were my hart as some mens are, thy errours would not move me:
But thy faults I curious finde, and speake because I love thee;
Patience is a thing divine and farre, I grant, above mee.

Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deedes objecting,
Then th' obsequious bosome guest, with false respect affecting:
Friendship is the glasse of Truth, our hidden staines detecting.

While I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason,
Thy observer will I be, and censor, but in season:
Hidden mischiefe to conceale in State and Love is treason.