Classic Poem

Away, away, vex me no more
With thy too late complaining;
The treasure of thine eye grows poor,
Nor avails their show'ry raining
To ripe my faith; O, had thy youth
But tasted my sad story,
I had not cast away my truth,
Nor had'st thou lost thy glory.

Away, away, hold thy disdain,
Which erst thy brow did cover;
I am too cold now to complain,
And you too late a Lover
To catch my Heart; O, had thy fire
Been equal good as cruel,
Then quenchless had been my desire,
And thine ne're wanted fuel.