Classic Poem

Now Love, if thou wilt prove a Conqueror,
Subdue thys Tyrant ever martyring mee,
And but appoint me for her Tormentor,
Then for a Monarch will I honour thee.

My hart shall be the prison for my fayre,
Ile fetter her in chaines of purest love,
My sighes shall stop the passage of the ayre:
This punishment the pittilesse may move.

With teares out of the Channels of mine eyes,
She'st quench her thirst as duly as they fall:
Kinde words unkindest meate I can devise,
My sweet, my faire, my good, my best of all.

Ile binde her then with my torne-tressed haire,
And racke her with a thousand holy wishes,
Then on a place prepared for her there,
Ile execute her with a thousand kisses.
Thus will I crucifie my cruell shee,
Thus Ile plague her which so hath plagued mee.