Classic Poem

Here take my Picture; though I bid farewell,
Thine, in my heart, where my soule dwells, shall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more
When wee are shadowes both, than 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come backe; my hand,
Perhaps with rude oares torne, or Sun-beams tann'd,
My face and brest of haircloth, and my head
With cares rash sodaine hoarinesse o'erspread,
My body'a sack of bones, broken within,
And powders blew staines scatter'd on my skinne;
If rivall fooles taxe thee to'have lov'd a man,
So foule, and coarse, as, Oh, I may seeme than,
This shall say what I was: and thou shalt say,
Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decay?
Or doe they reach his judging minde, that hee
Should now love lesse, what hee did love to see?
That which in him was faire and delicate,
Was but the milke, which in loves childish state
Did nurse it: who now'is growne strong enough
To feed on that, which to disused tastes seemes tough.