Classic Poem

VIII.
O deare, that I with thee might live,
From humane trace removed:
Where jealous care might neither grieve,
Yet each dote on their loved.
While fond feare may colour finde, Love's seldome pleased;
But much like a sicke mans rest, it's soone diseased.

Why should our mindes not mingle so,
When love and faith is plighted,
That eyther might the others know,
Alike in all delighted?
Why should frailtie breed suspect, when hearts are fixed?
Must all humane joyes of force with griefe be mixed?

How oft have wee ev'n smilde in teares,
Our fond mistrust repenting?
As snow when heav'nly fire appeares,
So melts loves hate relenting.
Vexed kindnesse soone fals off, and soone returneth:
Such a flame the more you quench, the more it burneth.