Classic Poem

VIII.
And would you faine the reason know
why my sad eies so often flow?
My heart ebs joy when they doe so,
and loves the moone by whom they go.

And will you aske why pale I looke?
tis not with poring on my booke:
My Mistris cheeke my bloud hath tooke,
for her mine owne hath me forsooke.

Doe not demaund why I am mute:
loves silence doth all speech confute.
They set the noat, then tune the Lute,
harts frame their thoughts, then toongs their suit.

Doe not admire why I admire:
my fever is no others fire;
Each severall heart hath his desire,
els proofe is false, and truth a lier.

If why I love you should see cause:
love should have forme like other lawes;
But fancie pleads not by the clawes,
tis as the sea, still vext with flawes.

No fault upon my love espie,
for you perceive not with my eie;
My pallate to your tast may lie,
yet please it selfe deliciously.

Then let my sufferance be mine owne:
sufficeth it these reasons showne;
Reason and love are ever knowne
to fight till both be overthrowne.