Classic Poem

V.

Where shee her sacred bowre adornes,
The Rivers clearely flow:
The groves and medowes swell with flowres,
The windes all gently blow:
Her Sunne-like beauty shines so fayre,
Her Spring can never fade:
Who then can blame the life that strives
To harbour in her shade?

Her grace I sought, her love I wooed;
Her love though I obtaine,
No time, no toyle, no vow, no faith
Her wished grace can gaine.
Yet truth can tell my heart is hers,
And her will I adore:
And from that love when I depart,
Let heav'n view me no more.

Her roses with my prayer shall spring;
And when her trees I praise,
Their boughs shall blossome, mellow fruit
Shall straw her pleasant wayes.
The words of harty zeale have powre
High wonders to effect;
O why should then her Princely eare
My words, or zeale neglect?

If shee my faith misdeemes, or worth,
Woe-worth my haplesse fate:
For, though time can my truth reveale,
That time will come too late.
And who can glory in the worth
That cannot yeeld him grace?
Content in ev'ry thing is not,
Nor joy in ev'ry place.

But, from her bowre of Joy since I
Must now excluded be,
And shee will not relieve my cares,
Which none can helpe but shee:
My comfort in her love shall dwell,
Her love lodge in my brest;
And though not in her bowre, yet I
Shall in her temple rest.