Classic Poem

Admire not, Shepherd's Boy,
Why I my pipe forbear,
My sorrows and my joy
Beyond expression are.
Though others may
In songs display
Their passions while they woo,
Yet mine do fly
A pitch too high
For words to reach unto.

If such weak thoughts as those
With others fancy move,
Or if my breast did close
But common strains of love,
Or passion's store
Learned me no more
To feel than others do,
I'd paint my cares
As black as theirs
And teach my lines to woo.

But oh, thrice happy ye
Whose mean conceit is dull!
You from those thoughts are free
That stuff my breast so full:
My love's excess
Lets to express
What songs are used to,
And my delights
Take such high flights
My joys will me undo.

I have a Love that's fair,
Rich, wise, and nobly born;
She's true Perfection's heir,
Holds nought but Vice in scorn.
A heart to find
More chaste, more kind,
Our plains afford no moe;
Of her degree
No blab I'll be,
For doubt some Prince should woo.

And yet I dare not fear,
Though she my meanness knows,
The willow branch to wear,
No, nor the yellow hose.
For if great Jove
Should sue for love
She would not me forego:
Resort I may
By night or day,
Which braver dare not do.

You gallants born to pelf,
To lands, to title's store,
I'm born but to myself,
Nor do I care for more.
Add to your earth,
Wealth, honours, birth,
And all you can thereto,
You cannot prove
The height of love
Which I in meanness do.

Great men have helps to gain
Those favours they implore,
Which though I win with pain,
I find my joys the more.
Each clown may rise
And climb the skies
When he hath found a stair;
But joy to him
That dares to climb
And hath no help but air.

Some say that Love repents
Where fortunes disagree,
I know the high'st contents
From low beginnings be.
My love's unfeigned
To her that deigned
From greatness stoop thereto.
She loves 'cause I,
So mean, dared try
Her better worth to woo.

And yet although much joy
My fortune seems to bless,
'Tis mixed with more annoy
Than I shall e'er express:
For with much pain
Did I obtain
The gem I'll ne'er forego:
Which yet I dare
Nor show, nor wear;
And that breeds all my woe.

But fie, my foolish tongue,
How loosely now it goes!
First let my knell be rung
Ere I do more disclose.
Mount thoughts on high!
Cease words! for why,
My meaning to divine
To those I leave
That can conceive
So brave a love as mine.

And now, no more I'll sing
Among my fellow swains;
Nor groves nor hills shall ring
With echoes of my plains.
My measures be
Confused, you see,
And will not suit thereto;
'Cause I have more
Brave thoughts in store
Than words can reach unto.