Classic Poem

O! how my thoughts do beat me,
Which by deep sighs entreat thee.
Hey ho, fie, what a thing is this,
Thus to lie still when we might kiss,
And play and fool
Here in the cool
Of the stillest, clearest, sweetest evening
Philomel did ever choose for singing.

See how my lips complain them;
Thy lips should just detain them.
Ay me! hark how the nightingales
In the dark each to other calls;
Whilst thou, O! thou
Darest not avow
The enjoying of the truest pleasure
Love did ever hoard up in his treasure.