Classic Poem

As she is fair, so faithful I;
My service she, her grace I merit;
Her beauty doth my love inherit,
But grace she doth deny.
Oh, knows she not how much I love?
Or doth knowledge in her move
No small remorse?
For the guilt thereof must lie
Upon one of these of force,
Her ignorance, or cruelty.

As she is fair, so cruel she:
I sow true love, but reap disdaining;
Her pleasure springeth from my paining,
Which Pity's source should be.
Too well she knows how much I love,
Yet doth knowledge in her move
No small remorse.
Then the guilt thereof must lie
Upon this alone of force,
Her undeserved cruelty.

As she is fair, so were she kind,
Or being cruel, could I waver,
Soon should I either win her favour,
Or a new mistress find.
But neither out, alas, may be;
Scorn in her, and love in me,
So fixed are.
Yet in whom most blame doth lie,
Judge she may, if she compare
My love unto her cruelty.