Classic Poem

She whom above myself I do prize
Does me above all men despise;
My faithful passion is so great,
Nothing exceeds it, but her hate.

Ye gods, must I for ever love?
Must she for ever cruel prove?
Must my torment, grief and pain
Meet with nothing but disdain?

Turn, Ah, turn those eyes on me!
Look with pity on your swain;
Either give me liberty,
Or forbear to give me pain.