Classic Poem

Like to the hand, that hath been used to play
One lesson long, still runs the self-same way,
And waits not what the heavens bid it strike,
But doth presume by Custom ‘this will like:’
So run my thoughts, which are so perfect grown,
So well acquainted with my passion,
That now they dare prevent me with their haste,
And ere I think to sigh, my sigh is past:
It's past and flown to you, for you alone
Are all the object that I think upon:
And did you not supply my soul with thought,
For want of action it to none were brought.
What though, our absent arms may not enfold
Real embraces, yet we firmly hold
Each other in possession; thus we see
The lord enjoys his land, where'er he be.
If kings possess'd no more than where they sate,
What were they greater than a mean estate?
This makes me firmly yours, you firmly mine,
That something more than bodies us combine.