Classic Poem

When whiles thy daintie hand doth crosse my light,
It seemes an yuorie table for loue's storie,
On which th' impearled pillars, beautie's glorie,
Are rear'd betwixt the sunne and my weake sight.
Though this would great humanitie appeare,
Which for a little while my flame allayes,
And saues me vnconsum'd with beautie's rayes,
I rather die, then buy my life so deare.
Oft haue I wish'd whil'st in this state I was,
That th' alablaster bulwarke might transpare,
And that the pillars rarer then they are,
Might whiles permit some hapning rayes to passe:
But if eclipsed thy beautie's sunne must stand,
Then be it with the moone of thine owne hand.