Classic Poem

O that I might my Griefes set downe at large,
And to the world make knowne mine Injurie:
But I not dare, the Cruell gives in charge
Them to keepe close, and this beare patientlie:
 Being so grievous, as but part to know,
 Would make the flintiest Hart to split for woe.

Besides, if I my Crosses should reveale,
They would renew my sorrowes fresh againe:
Therefore I vowed have them to conceale,
The more to feele the depth of lasting Paine:
 Reaping not only discontent hereby,
 But all Despayre of future remedie.

How secret have I bin, this seven whole yeare,
That scarce I have not yet, nor yet scarce dare
To tell her Name, I so much still do feare,
To purchase th'anger of this sdainfull FAIRE?
 How Faithfull, that have offred her to please,
 To dye for her? so ought I might her ease.

But what availes all this? for all my griefe,
I cannot hope she ever will be kinde:
When she was present I nere found reliefe,
And (in her absence) think you she'le me minde?
 O no, as likelie tis, she'le pitie mee,
 As I am like (unlikely) her to see.