Classic Poem

The thoughts of those I cannot but disproue,
Who basely lost their thraldome must bemone:
I scorne to yeeld my selfe to such a one,
Whose birth and vertue is not worth my loue.
No, since it is my fortune to be thrall,
I must be fettred with a golden band;
And if I die, I'le die by Hector's hand:
So may the victor's fame excuse my fall;
And if by any meanes I must be blind,
Then it shall be by gazing on the sunne;
Oft by those meanes the greatest haue bene wonne,
Who must like best of such a generous mind:
At least by this I haue allow'd of fame,
Much honour if I winne, if lose, no shame.