Classic Poem

What wouldst thou have unquiet breast?
What is it thus disturbs thy rest?
Say not thou lov'st, it cannot be,
Who never didst deserve or see.
Love, where the mind out-strips the eye,
Is onely Curiositie.

But thou wilt say, why dost pursue
Thine owne disquiet then? 'tis true;
And though this onely care expresse
Of an imagin'd happinesse,
Desire to see doth ever prove
A sure preparative to love.

An object so divine I frame
Within my breast, as doth inflame
My captiv'd mind: I love, subdue,
Desire, oblige, hope, and pursue,
Resigne my liberty, bestow
My soule on one I do not know.
And thus can Master be of none,
For I no longer am mine owne.