Classic Poem

Fire that must flame is with apt fuell fed,
Flowers that wil thrive in sunny soyle are bred;
How can a hart feele heate that no hope findes?
Or can hee love on whom no comfort shines?

Fayre, I confesse there's pleasure in your sight:
Sweet, you have powre, I grant, of all delight:
But what is all to mee, if I have none?
Churle that you are, t' injoy such wealth alone.

Prayers move the heav'ns, but finde no grace with you;
Yet in your lookes a heavenly forme I view:
Then will I pray againe, hoping to finde,
As well as in your lookes, heav'n in your minde.

Saint of my heart, Queene of my life, and love,
O let my vowes thy loving spirit move:
Let me no longer mourne through thy disdaine,
But with one touch of grace cure all my paine.