Classic Poem

That intercourse with thee I have in dreams
But serves to whet my anguish to be reft,
Not of thy sight which visits me in gleams,
But of my consciousness of thy sweet theft.

Thou wert the thief of me, and I, the thiev'd,
Felt such great riches viewing thee in act
To rob me daily, nothing less I griev'd
Than being accessory to thy fact

Now by a forced decree love to the lover
Is render'd back, iThath no further use
Than stare reproach at him who gave it over,
And lookt to gain by so much he did lose.

O my blest thief, come rifle all my treasure;
I cannot love but only out of measure!