Classic Poem

I saw my loue like Cupid's mother,
Her tresses sporting with her face,
Which being proud of such a grace,
Whiles kist th' one cheeke, and whiles the other:
Her eyes glad such a meanes t' embrace,
Whereby they might haue me betraid,
Themselues they in ambushment laid,
Behind the treasures of her haire,
And wounded me so deadly there,
That doubtlesse I had dead remain'd,
Were not the treason she disdain'd;
And with her lippes' sweet balme my health procur'd:
I would be wounded oft to be so cur'd.