Classic Poem

My heart exhale in grief,
With a perpetual groan—
And never cease to sigh and sob
Till life or love be gone.
Thy life is crost with love,
Thy love with loathed breath,
Thou hat'st thyself to live,
A life ev'n such as death.

Resolve then one of two
And patiently agree,
Either to live a loveless life,
Or else to love and die.
But this thou canst not do,
And that doth thee aggrieve,
Thou can'st not live unless thou love,
Nor love unless thou live.

So thou must live and love—
Live wretched—love-disgrac'd,
Disgrac'd by her in whom thy life,
In whom thy love was plac'd.
O thrice unhappy heart!
Of life and love forlorn—
In what strange postures were the stars
The hour that thou wert born?

Since then their bad aspects,
Did all conspire in one,
To make a man, whose luck should be
To be belov'd of none.
And when they fram'd thy saint
They did decree above,
That e'en her shadow should infect
A world of hearts with love.

Of these—ah! thou wast one—
O that thou had not been—
But either had been void of sense,
Or else depriv'd of een.
And yet I would not so:
No, no, I wish that thou
Had lov'd her many years ago,
Had seen her long ere now.

For this I must confess,
Although I live in strife—
I count the first day of my love
The first day of my life.
If I had made a choice,
Of some unworthy dame,
I might perchance have curst the Sun,
That shin'd to see the same.

But since in thee, my dear,
Such rare perfections lie,
As might make Cupid die for love,
If he had eyes as I,
I must confess the truth,
Thy love brings life to me,
And I esteem him as stark dead
That lives not loving thee.

I never was mine own,
But since I thought me thine—
And I would think I had no heart,
If that my heart were mine.
I sacrificed it once
Unto thy sacred eyes—
And aye since then I think it lives,
Because for thee it dies.

Now this too by perchance
A paradox doth prove,
Yet none mistrusts such mysteries
But heretics in love.
Lov'd thou as well as I,
Thou would confess the same,
But thou art not well purified
With Love's refining flame.

Thou tak'st a great delight,
To murder with disdain,
As others take delight to save,
An innocent unslain.
Tho' thou disdain me still,
My soul shall still abide,
Content to sail the seas of love,
Against both wind and tide.

And ever will thy grace,
Some kind of succour send,
My sorrow shall be like my love
Were it begun its end.
So shall I thee oblige,
That thou shalt either be,
The most ingrate that ever lived,
Or thou shalt pity me.

For so resolv'd a love,
And so despis'd a pain
May oblige stocks, may oblige stones,
To pity me again.
Behold, when I did weep,
The clouds did melt in tears,
The whisp'ring winds to hear me mourn,
Did change their mouths to ears.

Yea, even Apollo's self
O'er-vailed his face for woe,
And thought it horror to behold
A man tormented so.
Whilst thou aye like thyself,
Still cruel and unkind,
Did'st think it was thy beauty's praise
To see thy patient pin'd.

But pity, pity now,
Not mine, but thy disgrace,
And suffer not a tiger's heart,
To wrong an angel's face.
Behold, thou'rt fair, thou'rt wise,
Thou'rt good, thou'rt all, what then?
If cruelty convert those gifts
In tigers unto men?

Were thy perfections more,
As more they cannot be,
Since their infinities disdain
Both number and degree.
But if they were not all
At clemency's command,
They were but like a naked sword,
Put in a madman's hand.

For this is out of doubt,
That whoe'er should you see,
Would straightway love, and loving straight,
Would thy poor martyr be.
I wish not to be one,
That those adventures prove,
I wish not to be canonized,
In kalendars of love.

Though my affection's wings,
Might so ambitious be,
Yet I believe there is no blank
Left in that book for me.
I rather wish to live
To testify my truth,
And by good service to deserve
The recompence of Ruth.

Yet if there be no way,
To reconcile this strife,
But either th' ruin of my love,
Or shipwreck of my life,
Content I am, sweet Nymph,
E'en with my dearest blood
To seal th' indenture of my death
If that can do thee good.

Meanwhile I live like one,
That waits for death's decree,
And think that I shall gain my life
When I shall lose 't for thee.
For I attest the orbs
That run about above,
I'd rather die for love of thee—
Than live for others' love.

Though my mishap in love
Might cause me to despair,
Yet hope assures me thou art meek—
As well as thou art fair.
Methought that in thine eyes,
There shone some beams of grace;
And may not love lodge in thy heart,
As well as in thy face?

I will believe the best,
And think that thou art mine,
As well as thou may'st safely say
That I am only thine.