Classic Poem

O goodly hand
Wherein doth stand
My heart distract in pain!
Fair hand, alas!
In little space
My life that doth restrain.

O fingers slight
Departed right,
So long, so small, so round;
Goodly begone,
And yet alone
Most cruel in my wound!

With lilies white
And roses bright
Doth strive thy color fair;
Nature did lend
Each finger's end
A pearl for to repair.

Consent at last,
Since that thou hast
My heart in thy demesne,
For service true
On me to rue
And reach me love again.

And if not so,
Then with more woe
Enforce thyself to strain
This simple heart
That suffereth smart,
And rid it out of pain.