Classic Poem

Lovely apostate! what was my offence?
Or am I punish'd for obedience?
Must thy strange rigours find as strange a time?
The act and season are an equall crime
Of what thy most ingenious scorns could doe,
Must I be subject and Spectatour too?
Or were the sufferings and sins too few
To be sustain'd by me, perform'd by you?
Unless (with Nero) your uncurb'd desire
Be to survey the Rome you set on fire
While wounded for and by your power, I
At once your martyr and your prospect dy.
This is my doome, and such a riddling fate
As all impossibles doth complicate:
For obligation here is injury,
Constancy crime, friendship a haeresy;
And you appeare so much on ruine bent,
Your own destruction gives you now content:
For our twin-spirits did so long agree,
You must undoe your self to ruine me
And, like some frantique Goddess, you'r inclin'd
To raze the Temple where you were enshrin'd;
And (what's the miracle of Cruelty!)
Kill that which gave you imortallity
Whiles Glorious Friendship, whence your honour springs,
Ly's gasping in the croud of common things;
And I me so odious, that for being kind
Doubled and study'd murders are design'd.
Thy sin's all paradox! for shouldst thou be
Thy self again, 'twould be severe to me;
For thy repentance, comming now so late,
Would onely change, and not relieve the fate
So dangerous is the consequence of ill,
Thy least of crimes is to be Cruell Still;
For of thy smiles I should yet more complain,
If I should live to be betray'd again
Live then (faire tyrant) in Security,
From both my kindness and revenge be free;
While I, who to the Swains had sung your fame,
And taught each Eccho to repeat your name,
Will now my private sorrows entertain,
To Rocks and Rivers (not to you) complain
And though before our Union cherish'd me,
Tis now my pleasure that we disagree;
For from my passion your last rigours grew,
And you kill me, because I worshipp'd you.
But my worst vows shall be your happiness,
And nere to be disturb'd by my distress.
And though it would my sacred flames pollute,
To make my Heart a scorned prostitute;
Yet I'le adore the Authour of my death,
And kiss the hand that robbs me of my breath.