Classic Poem

Your Coldness to me, by your Cold, is now
Repay'd you, which has justly silenc'd you;
Makes it as tedious to me, thee to hear,
As to thee 'twas, to lend to me your Ear;
Dumb are you made, for making me so too,
When Love I wou'd have made, or sung to you,
Your Shame, as mine now, your Denials grow;
For speaking to me then, so roughly still,
Your Voice is now grown Harsh, against your Will;
And you now, full as glad, as I wou'd be,
That you cou'd speak more tenderly to me;
Yet, 'tis but just, for thy late Crying-out,
That thy Cold now, shou'd stop thy Screaming Throat;
But you shou'd, now sure, not cry out for Shame,
Since 'tis most Shame, to the Good Voice to Scream;
Then for your Honour, you shou'd hear me now,
Since your Discredit less sure, wou'd it grow,
To hear me now, than to be heard by me,
Which, much more now, your Shame sure ought to be;
Thy Screaming Throat, let me stop with my Tongue,
(Which wou'd, but less, thy Fame, or Honour wrong,)
Thy Voice shall have more Honour, by my Song;
For, since thy Screaming Tongue, thy Shame is grown,
Which cannot in thy Mouth, lie still alone,
It, in thy Mouth, I, for thy Honour, will
Stop, till it gives more Pleasure, lying still;
To make thy Tongue, with Silence, charm me more,
Than e'er it did, by Singing, yet afore;
Let me, with my Tongue in thy Mouth, hold thine,
Elsewhere hereafter, I will hold still mine;
Your Honour, by my Tongue, you wou'd not lose,
Which wou'd not let you it, by yours expose;
Then holding both our Tongues still, yours may prove
Much more your Wit, as mine too more my Love,
Both lying still, both to more Pleasure move.