Classic Poem

With me, Dear Celia , do not thou find fau't,
For Jealousie, by which, I've only thought
Worse of my self, as better still of thee,
Who think thee but too great a Good, to be
Engross'd still, by so mean a Wretch as me;
Who, but less shou'd, my Value for you prove,
To think I were the sole, who thee cou'd Love,
Or th' only, who cou'd thee, to Liking move;
Since my Love, more sure, wou'd wrong thine, and thee,
To think, none else cou'd Love thee well, but me;
And if that others Love you, as I do,
Unjust, Ungrateful, must I think you too,
Not to return them, your Love, and Esteem,
Which, since they paid you theirs, is due to them;
Forgive then, for my Love, my Jealousie,
That it may be, but its own Remedy;
Since its own Cure, my Jealousie wou'd prove;
For, cou'd I think, you cou'd another Love,
My Passion, but of Rage then, wou'd it move;
So wou'd my Thoughts of your damn'd Treachery,
Cure me of my Love, Faith, and Jealousie;
Then take my Jealousie not ill of me,
Because, thou say'st, it does Dishonour thee;
Which, I say, does but more thy Honour prove,
As it does more, for thee too, my true Love;
My Fear for you, my Love for you does show,
Who love you best, as worse I think of you;
Who think there are none, who your Beauty see,
But must your Lovers and Admirers be,
And must be worthier of you, than me;
For as my Love, and Admiration too,
Is much more for your Virtues, Charms, and You.
Than any other Lover's that I know;
And does my Value for you more increase,
It makes mine, in my own Opinion, less;
I right your Fame so, by my Jealousie,
To that, or you so, do not Injury;
But by that, rather Justice to you do,
To your Love, Beauty, Sense, and Virtue too,
As of you, them, I still more jealous grow;
Who show thee, by my Jealousie of thee,
I think thee no Bad Woman sure to be,
Only to be but too, too Good for me;
For cou'd I all Good Thoughts of thee give o'er,
Of thee then shou'd I not think any more;
But if (my Dear) my Kind Distrust of you,
Be my Fault, 'tis sure its own Penance too;
For, as Intoxication 'tis of Love,
Like Drunkeness, 'twill its own Penance prove;
Let me be jealous, for my Jealousie,
By which you can't be plagu'd or sham'd, but I;
Which does my Good, not Bad Thoughts of you show,
That you too Good are for me, does avow,
So rather credits, than dishonours you;
I, but from more Love, am more jealous still,
For thinking of you well, of my self ill;
Who, did I now not think thus ill of you,
Cou'd now not love you, so well as I do;
But by my Bad Thoughts of you, cou'd not prove,
So much, my Good Will to you, or True Love;
Then I, to think worse of you, but appear,
As you, but more my Best Thoughts always are;
Since, hadst thou not been ill thought of by me,
I never more, sure, shou'd have thought of thee.