Classic Poem

Though dire my martyrdom because I wear
Your image in a breast too fond and true,
Without a murmur every pang I bear,
Blessing whate'er it be that comes from you!
Yet I confess it grieves me to percieve [ sic ]
In spite of all my pains, do what I will,
That you refuse my passion to believe,
Scorning all proofs, a stubborn skeptic still.
If words persuade you not — nor tears — nor sighs —
And if you will not hear or heed my strain,
Nor trust my acts, no nor believe your eyes,
What is there left but death to prove my pain?
And then alas! it were too late to prize
The truth that never could be shewn again!