Classic Poem

From all her fair loquacious kind,
So different is my Rosalind,
That not one accent can I gain
To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain.

Ye lovers, who can construe sighs,
And are the interpreters of eyes,
To language all her looks translate,
And in her gestures read my fate.

And if in them you chance to find
Ought that is gentle, ought that's kind,
Adieu mean hopes of being great,
And all the littleness of state.

All thoughts of grandeur I'll despise,
Which from dependence take their rise;
To serve her shall be my employ,
And love's sweet agony my joy.