Classic Poem

Shall I because my Love is gone,
Accuse those golden darts
Which to a blessed union
Struck our two loving hearts,
Since Fortune, and not Love hath caused my moan?

No, her pure image I shall prize,
Imprinted in my breast,
More than the fairest Mistress eyes
That ever swain possest,
Which in eternal bonds my fancy ties.

Come then your sharpest griefs, and try
If you can pierce my heart,
But use, if you would have me die,
The best you can of Art,
To wound a breast so arm'd with constancy.