Classic Poem

My Lord, a diamond to me you sent
And I to you a blackamoor present.
Gifts speak their givers. For as those refractions,
Shining and sharp, point out your rare perfections;
So by the other, you may read in me
(Whom scholar's habit and obscurity
Hath ere soiled with black) the colour of my state,
Till your bright gift my darkness did abate.
Only, most noble Lord, shut not the door
Against this mean and humble blackamoor.
Perhaps some other subject I had tried
But that my ink was factious for this side.