Classic Poem

Whither, O whither didst thou fly
When I did grieve thine holy eye,
When thou dist mourn to see me lost,
And all thy care and counsels crossed?
O do not grieve where'er thou art!
Thy grief is an undoing smart,
Which doth not only pain, but break
My heart, and makes me blush to speak.
Thy anger I could kiss, and will:
But O! thy grief, thy grief doth kill.