Classic Poem

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart
The merit of true passion,
Pretending that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion.

Sure if my plaint come not to prove
The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,
But from excess of duty.

For knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection.

I'd rather choose to want relief
Than venture the revealing:
Where glory recommends the grief,
Despair distrusts the healing.

Thus those desires, which aim too high
For any mortal lover —
When reason cannot make them die,
Discretion doth them cover.

Yet when discretion bids them leave
The plaints which they should utter;
Then thy discretion may perceive
That silence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe,
Than words, tho' ne'er so witty,
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
Doth merit double pity.

Then wrong not, dear heart of my heart,
My true, tho' secret passion,
He merits most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.