Classic Poem

Poor silly fool! thou striv'st in vain to know,
If I enjoy, or love whom thou lov'st so;
Since my affection ever secret tried
Blooms like the fern, and seeds still unespied.

And as the subtle flames of Heaven, that wound
The inward part, yet leave the outward sound:
My love wars on my heart, kills that within,
When merry are my looks, and fresh my skin.

Of yellow jaundice lovers as you be,
Whose faces straight proclaim their malady,
Think not to find me one; who know full well,
That none but French and fools love now and tell.

His griefs are sweet, his joys (O) heavenly move,
Who from the world conceals his honest love;
Nay, lets his mistress know his passion's source
Rather by reason than by his discourse.

This is my way, and in this language new
Showing my merit, it demands my due;
And hold this maxim, spite of all dispute,
He asks enough that serves well and is mute.