Classic Poem

If I should count the spending of my time,
Since Her I lost, with whom I left my life;
How I in Griefe without reliefe doe pine,
My seldome Pleasures, and my Corsies rife,
If I should take upon me, these to tell,
It were in vaine, for t'were impossibell.

Yet still the more I suffer for her sake,
The more my Hart doth studie to endure,
The world shall know the Pennance he doth make,
And how his Thoughts are loyall, chaste, and pure.
So small account he maketh for to die,
As his owne Death he seeketh wilfully.

Of Her he still doth buzze me in the eare,
And wils me make a Journie to that place,
To have a sight of Her, (to him so deare)
Whose beautious shape all Beauties doth disgrace.
Alas I would full faine, Her selfe doth know,
But Danger to offend, doth still say No.

Then since poore Hart, thou canst not have thy will,
But longst for what thou never shalt obtaine,
Consume thy selfe with thy recureles ill,
As Women, that with Longing breede their bane.
And as thou diest, let this thy Comfort be,
Thy LOVE was VERTUE, hers was CHASTITIE.