Classic Poem

I could Love thee 'till I dye,
Wouldst Thou Love mee Modestly;
And ne're presse, whilst I love,
For more than willingly I would give;
Which should sufficient be to prove
I'de understand the Arte of Love.

I hate the Thing is call'd Injoyment,
Besydes it is a dull imployment,
It cutts off all that's Life and fier,
From that which may be term'd Desire.
Just (like the Be) whose sting is gon,
Converts the owner to a Droane.

I love a youth, will give mee leave
His Body in my arms to wreath;
To presse him Gently and to kisse,
To sigh and looke with Eyes that wish.
For what if I could once Obtaine,
I would neglect with flatt disdaine.

I'de give him Liberty to toye,
And play with mee and count it Joye.
Our freedom should be full compleate,
And nothing wanting but the feate:
Let's practice then, and we shall prove,
These are the only sweets of Love —