Classic Poem

Alas! alas! thou turn'st in vain
Thy beauteous face away,
Which, like young sorcerers, rais'd a pain
Above its power to lay.

Love moves not as thou turn'st thy look,
But here doth firmly rest:
He long ago thine eyes forsook
To revel in my breast.

Thy power on him why hop'st thou more
Than his on me should be?
The claim thou lay'st to him is poor
To that he owns from me.

His substance in my heart excels,
His shadow, in thy sight;
Fire where it burns more truly dwells
Than where it scatters light.