Classic Poem

Let Fate, my Fortune, and my Stars conspire,
Jointly to pour on me their worst disgrace;
So I be gracious in your heavenly face,
I weigh not Fates, nor Stars, nor Fortune's ire.
'Tis not the influence of heaven's fire
Hath power to make me blessed in my race;
Nor in my happiness hath Fortune place,
Nor yet can Fate my poor life's date expire.
'Tis your fair eyes, my Stars, all bliss do give;
'Tis your disdain, my Fate, hath power to kill;
'Tis you, my Fortune, make me happy live,
Though Fortune, Fate, and Stars conspire mine ill.
Then, blessed Saint, into your favour take me;
Fortune, nor Fate, nor Stars can wretched make me.