Classic Poem

Show mee not lockes of gold,
Nor blushing roses of that virgine face,
Nor of thy well-made legge and foot the grace;
Let me no more behold
Soule-charming smyles, nor lightnings of thyne eye,
For they, deare life, but serue to make me dye.
Yes, show them all, and more; vnpine the brest,
Let me see liuing snow
Where strawberries doe grow;
Show that delicious feild
Which lillies still doth yeeld,
Of Venus' babe the nest:
Smyle, blush, sigh, chide, vse thousand other charmes;
Mee kill, so that I fall between thyne armes.