Classic Poem

The loue which is imprinted in my soule
With Beautie's seale and Vertue faire disguis'de,
With inward cries puts vp a bitter role
Of huge complaints, that now it is despis'de.
Thus, thus the more I loue, the wrong the more
Monstrous appeares, — long truth receiued late;
Wrong sturres remorsed griefe, griefe's deadly sore
Vnkindnesse breeds, vnkindnesse fostereth hate.
But, ah, the more I hate, the more I thinke
Whom I doe hate; the more I thinke on him
The more his matchlesse giftes doe deepely sinke
Into my breast, and loues renewed swimme.
What medicine, then, can such disease remoue,
Where loue drawes hate, and hate engendreth loue?