Classic Poem

Poore Soule, in covert joy, thy Care sauns rest,
Weare Willow in thy Hat, Baies in thy Hart,
Gold when it bubleth least, then boyles it best,
Water runs smoothest in the deepest part.
By thy great warines let it be seene,
Not what thou now art, but what thou hast beene.

The greatest comfort (as a Lovers dew)
Is, of his Mistris Secrets, much to know,
Yet no lesse labor for him (being Trew)
Then naught to say, nor ought thereof to show,
Of men we learne to speake, things to reveale,
Of Gods, silent to be, and to conceale.

Yet sweete's the Beautie of mine ALBA faire:
What blabst thou it? yea blab it willinglie,
Bees that doe die with honey, buried are,
With dulcet notes, and heavenly Harmonie;
And they that dying, doe Beautie still commend,
Shall be with kindenes honoured in the end.

Then hope thou well, and have well (as they say)
Long have I hopte, but Hoping is in vaine,
Hope with Allusions, dallying doth me pay,
Yet but for Hope, the Hart would breake in twaine.
Ah MELT my Hart, would Melted once thou were,
Thou shouldst not then have cause so much to feare.