Classic Poem

Unbare that Ivorie hand, hide it no more,
For though it death brings to my tender hart,
To see it naked, where is beauties store,
And where moyst Pearle with Azure doth impart:
Yet feare I not to dye in this sweet wise,
My fancie so to see't, is set on fire:
Then leave that Glove, most hatefull to mine eyes,
And let me surfet with this kinde Desire;
So that my lookes may have of them their fill,
Though hart decay, Ile take it for none ill.