Classic Poem

The love which is imprinted in my soul
With beauty's seal, and virtue fair disguised,
With inward cries puts up a bitter roll
Of huge complaints that now it is despised.

Thus, thus, the more I love, the wrong the more
Monstrous appears, long truth received late;
Wrong stirs remorsed grief, grief's deadly sore
Unkindness breeds, unkindness fost'reth hate.

But ah! the more I hate, the more I think
Whom I do hate; the more I think on him,
The more his matchless gifts do deeply sink
Into my breast, and loves renewed swim.
What medicine, then, can such disease remove
Where love draws hate, and hate engend'reth love?